THE PROPOSAL.
On reaching Mrs. Bingham’s apartments, we found that she had just left
home to wait upon Mrs. O’Leary, and consequently, that Miss Bingham was
alone. Trevanion, therefore, having wished me a safe deliverance
through my trying mission, shook my hand warmly, and departed.
I stood for some minutes irresolutely, with my hand upon the lock of
the door. To think that the next few moments may decide the fortune of
one’s after life, is a sufficiently anxious thought; but that your fate
may be so decided, by compelling you to finish in sorrow what you have
begun in folly, is still more insupportable. Such, then, was my
condition. I had resolved within myself, if the result of this meeting
should prove that I had won Miss Bingham’s affections, to propose for
her at once in all form, and make her my wife. If, on the other hand, I
only found that she too had amused herself with a little passing
flirtation, why then, I was a free man once more: but, on catechising
myself a little closer, also, one somewhat disposed to make love de
novo.
With the speed of lightning, my mind ran over every passage of our
acquaintance—our first meeting—our solitary walks—our daily, hourly
associations—our travelling intimacy—the adventure at Chantraine.—There
was, it is true, nothing in all this which could establish the fact of
wooing, but every thing which should convince an old offender like
myself that the young lady was “en prise,” and that I myself—despite my
really strong attachment elsewhere—was not entirely scathless.
“Yes,” said I, half aloud, as I once more reviewed the past, “it is but
another chapter in my history in keeping with all the rest—one step has
ever led me to a second, and so on to a third; what with other men have
passed for mere trifles, have ever with me become serious difficulties,
and the false enthusiasm with which I ever follow any object in life,
blinds me for the time, and mistaking zeal for inclination, I never
feel how little my heart is interested in success, till the fever of
pursuit is over.”
These were pleasant thoughts for one about to throw himself at a pretty
girl’s feet, and pour out his “soul of love before her;” but that with
me was the least part of it. Curran, they say, usually picked up his
facts in a case from the opposite counsel’s statements; I always relied
for my conduct in carrying on any thing, to the chance circumstances of
the moment, and trusted to my animal spirits to give me an interest in
whatever for the time being engaged me.
I opened the door. Miss Bingham was sitting at a table, her head
leaning upon her hands—some open letters which lay before her,
evidently so occupying her attention, that my approach was unheard. On
my addressing her, she turned round suddenly, and became at first deep
scarlet, then pale as death: while, turning to the table, she hurriedly
threw her letters into a drawer, and motioned me to a place beside her.
After the first brief and common-place inquiry for my health, and hopes
for my speedy recovery, she became silent; and I too, primed with
topics innumerable to discuss—knowing how short my time might prove
before Mrs. Bingham’s return—could not say a word.
“I hope, Mr. Lorrequer,” said she, at length, “that you have incurred
no risque by leaving your room so early.”
“I have not,” I replied, “but, even were there a certainty of it, the
anxiety I laboured under to see and speak with you alone, would have
overcome all fears on this account. Since this unfortunate business has
confined me to my chamber, I have done nothing but think over
circumstances which have at length so entirely taken possession of me,
that I must, at any sacrifice, have sought an opportunity to explain to
you”—here Emily looked down, and I continued—“I need scarcely say what
my feelings must long since have betrayed, that to have enjoyed the
daily happiness of living in your society, of estimating your worth, of
feeling your fascinations, were not the means most in request for him,
who knew, too well, how little he deserved, either by fortune or
desert, to hope, to hope to make you his; and yet, how little has
prudence or caution to do with situations like this.” She did not guess
the animus of this speech. “I felt all I have described; and yet, and
yet, I lingered on, prizing too dearly the happiness of the present
hour, to risque it by any avowal of sentiments, which might have
banished me from your presence for ever. If the alteration of these
hopes and fears have proved too strong for my reason at last, I cannot
help it; and this it is which now leads me to make this avowal to you.”
Emily turned her head away from me; but her agitated manner showed how
deeply my words had affected her; and I too, now that I had finished,
felt that I had been “coming it rather strong.”
“I hoped, Mr. Lorrequer,” said she, at length, “I hoped, I confess, to
have had an opportunity of speaking with you.” Then, thought I, the
game is over, and Bishop Luscombe is richer by five pounds, than I wish
him.—“Something, I know not what, in your manner, led me to suspect
that your affections might lean towards me; hints you have dropped,
and, now and then, your chance allusions strengthened the belief, and I
determined, at length, that no feeling of maidenly shame on my part
should endanger the happiness of either of us, and I determined to see
you; this was so difficult, that I wrote a letter, and that letter,
which might have saved me all distressing explanation, I burned before
you this morning.”
“But, why, dearest girl,”—here was a plunge—“why, if the letter could
remove any misconstruction, or could be the means of dispelling any
doubt—why not let me see it?”
“Hear me out,” cried she, eagerly, and evidently not heeding my
interruption, “I determined if your affections were indeed”—a flood of
tears here broke forth, and drowned her words; her head sank between
her hands, and she sobbed bitterly.
“Corpo di Baccho!” said I to myself, “It is all over with me; the poor
girl is evidently jealous, and her heart will break.”
“Dearest, dearest Emily,” said I, passing my arm round her, and
approaching my head close to her’s, “if you think that any other love
than yours could ever beat within this heart—that I could see you
hourly before me—live beneath your smile, and gaze upon your
beauty—and, still more than all—pardon the boldness of the thought—feel
that I was not indifferent to you.”—
“Oh! spare me this at least,” said she, turning round her tearful eyes
upon me, and looking most bewitchingly beautiful. “Have I then showed
you this plainly?”
“Yes, dearest girl! That instinct which tells us we are loved has
spoken within me. And here in this beating heart”—
“Oh! say not more,” said she, “if I have, indeed, gained your
affections”—
“If—if you have,” said I, clasping her to my heart, while she continued
to sob still violently, and I felt half disposed to blow my brains out
for my success. However, there is something in love-making as in
fox-hunting, which carries you along in spite of yourself; and I
continued to pour forth whole rhapsodies of love that the Pastor Fido
could not equal.
“Enough,” said she, “it is enough that you love me and that I have
encouraged your so doing. But oh! tell me once more, and think how much
of future happiness may rest upon your answer—tell me, may not this be
some passing attachment, which circumstances have created, and others
may dispel? Say, might not absence, time, or another more worthy”—
This was certainly a very rigid cross-examination when I thought the
trial was over; and not being exactly prepared for it, I felt no other
mode of reply than pressing her taper fingers alternately to my lips,
and muttering something that might pass for a declaration of love
unalterable, but, to my own ears, resembled a lament on my folly.
“She is mine now,” thought I, “so we must e’en make the best of it; and
truly she is a very handsome girl, though not a Lady Jane Callonby. The
next step is the mamma; but I do not anticipate much difficulty in that
quarter.”
“Leave me now,” said she, in a low and broken voice; “but promise not
to speak of this meeting to any one before we meet again. I have my
reasons; believe me they are sufficient ones, so promise me this before
we part.”
Having readily given the pledge required, I again kissed her hand and
bade farewell, not a little puzzled the whole time at perceiving that
ever since my declaration and acceptance Emily seemed any thing but
happy, and evidently struggling against some secret feeling of which I
knew nothing. “Yes,” thought I, as I wended my way along the corridor,
“the poor girl is tremendously jealous, and I must have said may a
thing during our intimacy to hurt her. However, that is all past and
gone; and now comes a new character for me: my next appearance wil be
‘en bon mari.’”