HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED HER LOVER.
Miss Gregory was certainly surprised when, on the entrance of the young
man, Bessy jumped from her chair and rushed into his arms. She knew that
Bessy had no brother, and her instinct rather than her experience told
her that the greeting which she saw was more than fraternal,--more than
cousinly. She did not doubt but that the young man was Philip Launay,
and knowing what she knew she was not disposed to make spoken
complaints. But when Bessy lifted her face to be kissed, Miss Gregory
became red and very uneasy. It is probable that she herself had never
progressed as far as this with the young man who afterwards became the
major-general.
Bessy herself, had a minute been allowed to her for reflection, would
have been less affectionate. She knew nothing of the cause which had
brought Philip to Avranches. She only knew that her dear friend at
Launay had declared her to be an enemy, and that she had determined that
she could not, for years, become the wife of Philip Launay, without the
consent of her who had used that cruel word. And at the moment of
Philip’s entering the room her heart had been sore with reproaches
against him. “He ought at any rate to write.” The words had been on her
lips as the door had been opened, and the words had been spoken in the
soreness of heart coming from a fear that she was to be abandoned.
Then he was there. In the moment that sufficed for the glance of his eye
to meet hers she knew that she was not abandoned. With whatever tidings
he had come that was not to be the burden of his news. No man desirous
of being released from his vows ever looked like that. So up she jumped
and flew to him, not quite knowing what she intended, but filled with
delight when she found herself pressed to his bosom. Then she had to
remember herself, and to escape from his arms. “Philip,” she said, “this
is Miss Gregory. Miss Gregory, I do not think you ever met Mr. Launay.”
Then Miss Gregory had to endeavour to look as though nothing particular
had taken place,--which was a trial. But Bessy bore her part, if not
without a struggle, at least without showing it. “And now, Philip,” she
said, “how is my aunt?”
“A great deal stronger than when you left her.”
“Quite well?”
“Yes; for her, I think I may say quite well.”
“She goes out every day?”
“Every day,--after the old plan. The carriage toddles round to the door
at three, and then toddles about the parish at the rate of four miles an
hour, and toddles home exactly at five. The people at Launay, Miss
Gregory, don’t want clocks to tell them the hour in the afternoon.”
“I do love punctuality,” said Miss Gregory.
“I wish I were with her,” said Bessy.
“I have come to take you,” said Philip.
“Have you?” Then Bessy blushed,--for the first time. She blushed as a
hundred various thoughts rushed across her mind. If he had been sent to
take her back, sent by her aunt, instead of Mrs. Knowl, what a revulsion
of circumstances must there not have been at Launay! How could it all
have come to pass? Even to have been sent for at all, to be allowed to
go back even in disgrace, would have been an inexpressible joy. Had
Knowl come for her, with a grim look and an assurance that she was to be
brought back because a prison at Launay was thought to be more secure
than a prison at Avranches, the prospect of a return would have been
hailed with joy. But now,--to be taken back by Philip to Launay! There
was a whole heaven of delight in the thought of the very journey.
Miss Gregory endeavoured to look pleased, but in truth the prospect to
her was not so pleasant as to Bessy. She was to be left alone again. She
was to lose her pensioner. After so short a fruition of the double bliss
of society and pay, she was to be deserted without a thought. But to be
deserted without many thoughts had been her lot in life, and now she
bore her misfortune like a heroine. “You will be glad to go back to
your aunt, Bessy; will you not?”
“Glad!” The ecstacy was almost unkind, but poor Miss Gregory bore it,
and maintained that pretty smile of gratified serenity as though
everything were well with all of them.
But Bessy felt that she had as yet heard nothing of the real news, and
that the real news could not be told in the presence of Miss Gregory. It
had not even yet occurred to her that Mrs. Miles had actually given her
sanction to the marriage. “This is a very pretty place,” said Philip.
“What, Avranches?” said Miss Gregory, mindful of future possible
pensioners. “Oh, delightful. It is the prettiest place in Normandy, and
I think the most healthy town in all France.”
“It seemed nice as I came up from the hotel. Suppose we go out for a
walk, Bessy. We have to start back to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” ejaculated Bessy. She would have been ready to go in half
an hour had he demanded it.
“If you can manage it. I promised my mother to be as quick as I could;
and, when I arranged to come, I had ever so many engagements.”
“If she must go to-morrow, she won’t have much time for walking,” said
Miss Gregory, with almost a touch of anger in her voice. But Bessy was
determined to have her walk. All her fate in life was to be disclosed to
her within the next few minutes. She was already exultant, but she was
beginning to think that there was a heaven, indeed, opening for her. So
she ran away for her hat and gloves, leaving her lover and Miss Gregory
together.
“It is very sudden,” said the poor old lady with a gasp.
“My mother felt that, and bade me tell you that, of course, the full
twelvemonth----”
“I was not thinking about that,” said Miss Gregory. “I did not mean to
allude to such a thing. Mrs. Miles has always been so kind to my
brother, and anything I could have done I should have been so happy,
without thinking of money. But----” Philip sat with the air of an
attentive listener, so that Miss Gregory could get no answer to her
question without absolutely asking it. “But there seems to be a change.”
“Yes, there is a change, Miss Gregory.”
“We were afraid that Mrs. Miles had been offended.”
“It is the old story, Miss Gregory. Young people and old people very
often will not think alike: but it is the young people who generally
have their way.”
She had not had her way. She remembered that at the moment. But then,
perhaps, the major-general had had his. When a period of life has come
too late for success, when all has been failure, the expanding triumphs
of the glorious young, grate upon the feelings even of those who are
generous and self-denying. Miss Gregory was generous by nature and
self-denying by practice, but Philip’s pæan and Bessy’s wondrous
prosperity were for a moment a little hard upon her. There had been a
comfort to her in the conviction that Philip was no better than the
major-general. “I suppose it is so,” she said. “That is, if one of them
has means.”
“Exactly.”
“But if they are both poor, I don’t see how their being young can enable
them to live upon nothing.” She intended to imply that Philip probably
would have been another major-general, but that he was heir to Launay.
Philip, who had never heard of the major-general, was a little puzzled;
nevertheless, he acceded to the proposition, not caring, however, to say
anything as to his own circumstances on so very short an acquaintance.
Then Bessy came down with her hat, and they started for their walk. “Now
tell me all about it,” she said, in a fever of expectation, as soon as
the front door was closed behind them.
“There is nothing more to tell,” said he.
“Nothing more?”
“Unless you want me to say that I love you.”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then,--I love you. There!”
“Philip, you are not half nice to me.”
“Not after coming all the way from Launay to say that?”
“There must be so much to tell me? Why has my aunt sent for me?”
“Because she wants you.”
“And why has she sent you?”
“Because I want you too.”
“But does she want me?”
“Certainly she does.”
“For you?” If he could say this, then everything would have been said.
If he could say this truly, then everything would have been done
necessary for the perfection of her happiness. “Oh, Philip, do tell me.
It is so strange that she should send for me! Do you know what she said
to me in her last letter? It was not a letter. It was only a word. She
said that I was her enemy.”
“All that is changed.”
“She will be glad to have me again?”
“Very glad. I fancy that she has been miserable without you.”
“I shall be as glad to be with her again, Philip. You do not know how I
love her. Think of all she has done for me!”
“She has done something now that I hope will beat everything else.”
“What has she done?”
“She has consented that you and I shall be man and wife. Isn’t that more
than all the rest?”
“But has she? Oh, Philip, has she really done that?”
Then at last he told his whole story. Yes; his mother had yielded. From
the moment in which she had walked out of the room, having said that he
might “go and tell her,” she had never endeavoured to renew the fight.
When he had spoken to her, endeavouring to draw from her some warmth of
assent, she had generally been very silent. She had never brought
herself absolutely to wish him joy. She had not as yet so crucified her
own spirit in the matter as to be able to tell him that he had chosen
his wife well; but she had shown him in a hundred ways that her anger
was at an end, and that if any feeling was left opposed to his own
happiness, it was simply one of sorrow. And there were signs which made
him think that even that was not deep-seated. She would pat him,
stroking his hair, and leaning on his shoulder, administering to his
comforts with a nervous accuracy as to little things which was peculiar
to her. And then she gave him an infinity of directions as to the way in
which it would be proper that Bessy should travel, being anxious at
first to send over a maid for her behoof,--not Mrs. Knowl, but a younger
woman, who would have been at Bessy’s command. Philip, however, objected
to the maid. And when Mrs. Miles remarked that if it was Bessy’s fate to
become mistress of Launay, Bessy ought to have a maid to attend her,
Philip said that that would be very well a month or two hence, when
Bessy would have become,--not mistress of Launay, which was a place
which he trusted might not be vacant for many a long day,--but first
lieutenant to the mistress, by right of marriage. He refused altogether
to take the maid with him, as he explained to Bessy with much laughter.
And so they came to understand each other thoroughly, and Bessy knew
that the great trouble of her life, which had been as a mountain in her
way, had disappeared suddenly, as might some visionary mountain. And
then, when they thoroughly understood each other, they started back to
England and to Launay together.