The General escaped for this time, but his recovery was slow. He was
weak, and both his arms and legs seemed as if they were paralyzed. I
allowed myself to be easily persuaded to prolong my stay at the Werve,
and I was able to render Francis many little services. One of us two
had to be constantly at the side of the convalescent, for Rolf had
better intentions than judgment. He let the General have just what
he asked for, and would soon have brought on a relapse if we had not
watched them both. Francis was very thankful to have me with her; and
yet she could not be satisfied that it was possible for me to spare
so much time from all my business. She little suspected that my most
pressing and agreeable occupation was to remain at her side and win
her affections. Her devotion to her grandfather was sublime; she forgot
all the wrongs he had done her, and only reproached herself for having
caused him pain by her plain speaking. Notwithstanding, as the old
man gradually grew better, she was soon again convinced that a certain
amount of firmness was absolutely necessary to manage him. During his
illness he had requested me, in his first lucid moments, to receive
and open all his letters. And in this way I became aware that he
was engaged in "risky" speculations, and that he was making debts
unknown to Francis. When he was well enough to talk on such a subject,
I ventured to remonstrate with him, and to point out the consequences
of persisting in such a course, both for himself and for Francis. He
promised me he would give up all such speculations, and excused the
past on the grounds that he wished to leave Francis something when he
died. I was to make the best conditions I could for him in the sale
of the Werve. It was time. Overberg consented to wait; but Van Beek,
the executor of the will, a man as inflexible as the law itself, had
lost all patience. And I was not yet sure of Francis. Weakness on my
part, you will say; but no, it was delicacy--it was the fear of having
to cut short my stay. I was afraid of the obstinacy of Francis--that
she would not consent to a marriage even though I might have won
her heart. I was constantly calling to mind that terrible sentence
she had uttered in the garden: "You will not use such language to me
again." I shuddered at the very idea that a new attempt on my part
might draw from her lips a definite and decided No.
The old General had discovered my intentions--of that I was
convinced. He was continually insisting upon a reconciliation with my
uncle the minister, and that I should prepare Francis for the sale of
the Werve. On this latter point, I assured him Francis would listen to
reason, and, armed with his power of attorney, I went over to Zutphen
to arrange the preliminaries with Overberg. Van Beek was growing
less and less manageable; he had sent in reams of stamped paper to
Overberg, and the interest on several of the mortgages was six months
over due; in fact the situation of affairs had become desperate. I
charged Overberg to write to Van Beek that the Werve would be sold,
in all probability, at the same time as my marriage with Francis took
place; and I thought this would be enough to keep the lawyers quiet
for a few days longer. I brought back some little presents for the
General and Rolf, who were both highly pleased; and a plain set of
earrings and a brooch for Francis, as the time had not yet arrived
when I could offer her the diamonds I intended for my bride.
On my return, to my great surprise, I found Francis sadder and more
anxious than I had left her in the morning. She accepted my present,
but seemed to be little interested in it. She retired early, and I
followed her example, as I did not find Rolf's company particularly
interesting. Most of the night I spent in reflection and conjectures as
to this change in Francis; for I had observed tears in her eyes when
she bade me good-night. Once more I made up my mind that the coming
day should put an end to all my doubts. At breakfast, Francis, less
depressed than the night before, told us she had received a letter
from Dr. D., of Utrecht, who gave her very encouraging news of the
invalid in whom she was so much interested. I wished to propose to
her a long walk in the wood; but when I came downstairs from my room,
where I had gone after breakfast to make a change in my dress, I met
Francis in the hall, arrayed in her riding-habit. This time she had
put on an elegant hat and blue veil, and was waiting for her beautiful
horse Tancredo, which the son of the farmer led up to the door saddled.
"Give up your ride this morning, to oblige me," I said to her, with
a certain tone of impatience in my voice that could not escape her.
She looked at me in surprise and silence as she played with her
riding-whip.
"You can take your ride an hour later," I insisted.
"I have a long ride before me, and I must be back before dinner."
"Then put it off until to-morrow. This is the first opportunity we
have had to take a long walk since your grandfather fell ill. Don't
refuse me this pleasure."
"You always like to disarrange my plans, Leo."
"To-day I have good reasons for doing so, Francis; believe me,
to-morrow it will be too late."
"Really? Your words sound threatening," she said, attempting to
smile. "Well, you shall have your way," and she threw aside her
riding-whip pettishly. "You'll have to wait until I change my dress;
I cannot walk in my riding-habit."
Tancredo was sent back to the stable, and in much less time
than I could have imagined my cousin reappeared in a very neat
walking-costume.
"And where shall we go?" she asked.
"Well, into the wood, I suppose."
"That's right, the weather is splendid: we can walk as far as the round
point, and rest there on the rustic bench which you perhaps remember."
And so we walked through the great lane towards the wood, silent, just
because we had so much to say to each other. I had resolved to speak;
but I could not decide in my own mind how to begin the subject. She
herself seemed to have a thousand other things to talk about beside
the one I wished to come to. At length I tried to change the subject
by saying it would be necessary for me to fix a day for my return to
the Hague.
"I was expecting it, Leopold."
"And are you sorry I am going away?"
"I ought to say 'No,' by way of opposition, which is the only suitable
answer to such a foolish question."
"But I--will come back, if you would like it."
"No, Leopold, I should not like it. And I still believe you would
have done better to go away the day I first advised you to do so."
"Have I been a burden to you, Francis?"
"You know better than that. You know I have much to thank you for: you
have stood by me in days of suffering, and borne my troubles with me;
you have been open, frank, and obliging with me; in a word, you have
spoilt me, and I shall feel my loneliness doubled when you are gone."
"Not for long, though, for I will come back soon--with--with a
trousseau!"
"And, in the name of goodness, for whom?"
"For whom, indeed, but my well-beloved cousin Francis Mordaunt!"
"That's a poor, very poor sort of jest, sir; you know very well that
your cousin Mordaunt has no intentions of ever marrying."
"Listen to me, Francis! When we first met on the heath, and you told
me your intentions on this point, I had no reasons for trying to
dissuade you from them; but to-day, as you yourself know, the case is
different. You will recollect the freedom with which I have pointed
out to you any defects which I considered a blemish on your noble
character. Do you think I should have taken such a liberty if I had
not conceived the idea, fostered the hope, of your one day consenting
to become--my wife?"
The word, the all-important word, was at last said.
"Well, indeed, Leo," she began with a profound sigh, "since you
force me to speak seriously, I must remind you of my last warning,
'not to use such language to me;' it cannot, it may not be."
"And why not, Francis? Did I deceive myself when I thought I was not
altogether indifferent to you?"
She turned aside her face in silence, but I was sure I heard something
like a suppressed sigh.
"Is it possible you are not disengaged?" I inquired, taking her
hand gently and placing myself before her so that I could look into
her eyes.
"Disengaged! Certainly I am disengaged," she answered bitterly. "I
have done my best to remain so; and I have all along told you I must
be independent. It is necessary."
"Ah, I comprehend, Francis!" I exclaimed, carried away by an absurd
jealousy; "you are still waiting for your Lord William."
"I?" she returned with passion; "I waiting for Lord William,
who never loved me, who caused me to commit a thousand follies,
who broke my heart, and who must now be nearly sixty! No, Leopold;
don't humiliate me by pretending to be jealous of Lord William. Could
I have told you the history of his stay with us if I still loved him?"
"Is it then only a whim of Major Frank, who will surrender to no man,
but prefers his savage kind of independence?"
"Don't torment me in this way, Leopold. You can break my heart,
but you cannot overcome my objections."
"Then I will discover this mysterious power which enthrals you,"
I cried, full of anger and pain.
"You already know the duties I have to fulfil, Leopold. Why should you
throw yourself into this abyss of misfortunes and miseries, in which I
am sinking? and I shall never be able to get out of it my whole life."
"I wish to know your miseries, my dear Francis, to share them with
you, and help you to bear them. We will overcome them together--be
assured of that, my adored----"
Passion was getting the mastery over me; I caught her in my arms and
pressed her to my breast. She made no resistance, but, as if wearied
with the struggle, she rested her head on my shoulder--her head so
charming in its luxuriancy of golden curls. Her eyes were closed and
her cheeks were crimson. I thought myself in the seventh heaven.
Suddenly a croaking voice broke the profound silence of the wood--
"Don't let me disturb you. Ah! Now Missy has a lover, it is not
surprising she neglects the little boy."
Such were the words we heard close to us, uttered by a hoarse voice
and in the coarsest of country dialects.