THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.
We reached home after the expedition a little before seven o'clock, and
then sat down to a regular breakfast, under the influence of which our
spirits rose somewhat, and we recovered a little from our
disappointment. Polly and I agreed that it was settled that we were not
to be heiresses, and that it was no use our repining. We talked a good
deal of Sophy, and we agreed that the loss was a matter of far more
serious importance to her than it was to us. We feared she had a
terrible life before her, and we wondered what she and her husband would
do.
For some time while we were talking, Mr. Petersfield ate his breakfast
in silence, and was evidently not attending to what we were saying, but
was lost in his own contemplations.
"What are you thinking of?" papa asked him, at last.
"I am thinking, doctor--that is, I am wondering how Herbert Harmer came
to know of that secret hiding-place. Of course his sisters may have told
him of it, but I should doubt if they did. I am wondering if he found it
described in any old family documents, and if so, where they are now.
There are no longer any papers in my possession, as at Miss Harmer's
request I gave them all up a week after the funeral to their new
solicitor."
"I should think," I said, "that Mr. Harmer was shown this secret
hiding-place at the time when he first knew of the chamber itself; that
is, when he went into it as a boy with his father."
"No doubt," papa said,--"no doubt he was. Don't say any more about it,
Petersfield; let us make up our minds to the inevitable. We have done
our best, and now let us give it up. There is not, I believe, the
slightest chance in the world of our ever hearing any more about it, and
it is far better to give it up, than to go on hoping against hope, and
keeping ourselves in a fever about what will never take place. Let us
give the matter up altogether, and turn over a fresh page of our lives.
We are no worse off than other people. Let us look forward as if it had
never been, and give up the past altogether."
And so it was settled, and the will henceforth ceased to be a subject of
conversation among us.
After breakfast, Mr. Petersfield took his leave and returned to London;
and when papa had gone out on his round of visits, and sister Polly had
sat down for her usual hour's practice on the piano, I went up into my
own room, shut and locked the door, and prepared for the task I had
before me. For it was clear to me that I must now face my position. I
could no longer play at ships with myself. I knew that my last hope had
fled. The last anchor, to which I had so fondly trusted, was gone now,
and my bark of happiness was destined to certain and irretrievable
wreck. I knew that my engagement with Percy must come to an end, and
that this letter which I must write would be the means of making it do
so.
How long I sat there on that dreary March morning I do not know, with
the paper lying open and untouched before me, its black edge a fitting
symbol of the dead hopes, whose tale I had to write upon it. Not that I
think I looked at that; my eyes were fixed blankly on the wall before
me; but not one word did I write, although all the time my hand held the
pen ready to set down what my heart and brain should dictate. But
nothing came; my heart seemed cold and dead, as if it could feel no
motion, while my brain was in a strange whirl of thought, and yet no
thought framed itself into any tangible shape. I hardly know what
current they took, the past or the future; I cannot recall one single
thought; indeed, I question if one stood out prominently enough among
the others to have been seized, even at the time.
How long I sat there I do not know. But at last I was recalled to myself
by a loud, continued knocking at my door. I think I heard it some time
before I answered; it did not seem to me to be connected at all with me,
but to be some noise a long way off. Even when I was sure that it was at
my door, and that it was a loud, urgent knocking it was some little time
before I could rouse myself sufficiently to answer. At last I said,
"What is it?" But the knocking was so loud that my voice was not heard,
and I now distinguished Polly's voice calling to me. I tried to rise,
but I found that my limbs were stiff and numbed. However, with a great
effort, for I was really frightened at the noise, I got up, and with
great difficulty moved to the door and opened it. I was about to repeat
my question, "What is it?" when Polly burst in, pale and
terror-stricken, the tears rolling fast down her cheeks. She fell upon
my neck, and sobbed out, "Oh, Agnes, Agnes, how you have frightened me!"
"Frightened you!" I said. "How? What is the matter?"
"What have you been doing? and why did you not answer my knocking?"
"I answered directly I heard it."
"Then what have you been doing, Agnes? I have been knocking for ten
minutes. How pale you are, and your hands are as cold as ice, and so is
your face; you are nearly frozen. There don't say anything now, but come
down to the dining-room."
I had some difficulty in getting downstairs; I had sat so long
motionless in the cold, that I was, as Polly said, nearly frozen, and it
required all the assistance she could give me, before I was able to get
down at all. Once in the dining-room, Polly wheeled the sofa up in front
of the fire, and then ran off and got some boiling water from the
kitchen, and made me a glass of hot port wine and water, which she
insisted on my drinking scalding hot,--all the time scolding and petting
me; then when I began to get warm again, she told me that when she had
done practising, not finding me anywhere, she asked the housemaid if she
had seen me, and the girl told her that I had gone into my room more
than an hour before, and that she had not seen me since. Polly went back
to the dining-room, but finding that time went on, and I did not come
down, she came up to my room to scold me for staying up in the cold so
long, and to suggest that if I had not finished writing, I should go
into papa's consulting-room, where I should be quite secure from
interruption. She had knocked, but receiving no answer, had at first
gone away again, thinking that perhaps I had lain down, and gone to
sleep, having had such a short night; but after she had gone down stairs
again, she came to the conclusion that I should not have done that
without telling her of my intention; so she had come up to my door
again, and finding that her first gentle knocking had produced no
effect, she had continued, getting louder and louder, and becoming more
and more terrified, until at last, just as I had opened the door, she
had worked herself into such an agony of terror, that she was on the
point of running down into the kitchen to send out for some one to come
in to force the door.
I told Polly that I was very sorry that I had frightened her so much,
but that I really did not know what had come over me; that I had sat
there thinking, and that I supposed I had got regularly numbed, and had
not noticed her knocking until I got up and opened the door. When I was
thoroughly warmed again, I proposed going into the library to write my
letters, but Polly would not let me, as she said that I had had more
than enough excitement for one day. So I yielded to her entreaties, not
sorry indeed to put off the painful task, if only for one day.
On the following morning, however, I went into papa's study to write my
letters, and got through them more easily than I had expected. Polly
came in from time to time to see that I was not agitating myself too
much, only staying just for a minute or two to kiss me, and say some
little word of consolation and love. My first letter was to Percy. I
told him what had happened, and that all hope which I might previously
have entertained of finding the will, was now entirely extinguished. I
told him that I knew he loved me for my own sake; and no unworthy doubt
that this would make any difference in him had ever entered my mind; but
I frankly said that I feared Lady Desborough would no longer give her
approval and consent, and that I foresaw painful times in store for us,
for it was of course out of the question that we could marry in the face
of her determined opposition. Putting aside pecuniary considerations,
which even lovers could not entirely ignore, I could not consent to
marry into a family where my presence would be the cause of dissension
and division between mother and son. I said this was my fixed
determination, and begged him to acquiesce in it, and not pain me by
solicitations--to which I could not yield--to do otherwise than what I
felt to be right, in the event of his mother's insisting on his breaking
off his engagement with me.
My letter to Percy finished, I had the other and more difficult one
before me, and I was some considerable time before I could make up my
mind respecting it. In the first place, should it be to Lady Desborough
or Ada? and then, how should I put it? Of course I must say that all
hope of finding the will was gone; but should I add that in consequence
I considered my engagement with Percy to be at an end, or should I leave
her to do so? At one time I resolved upon the former, and wrote the
beginnings of two or three letters to that effect. But then I said to
myself, why should I do this? Why should I assume that she would stop
the allowance of 300l. a year, which Percy has, when he thinks that with
that and the staff pay he expects to get in India, there is no reason
why we could not manage very well? I accordingly came to the conclusion
to write to Ada. I told her all that we had done, and that the will was
now unquestionably lost for ever; I said that this was of course a
grievous disappointment to me, and then after a little chit-chat upon
ordinary matters, I wound up by asking her to show to Lady Desborough
the part relating to the loss of the will.
Although I wrote these letters at the same time, I did not send off the
one to Ada until the following day. I delayed it in this way in order
that Lady Desborough might get a letter from Percy within a few hours of
receiving mine; so that she might not answer me until she had heard
Percy's arguments and entreaties that she would not withdraw her
approval of the engagement.
The second letter sent off, I had nothing to do but to wait patiently,
but oh, how anxiously, for the result.
Percy's letter came by return of post; it was just what I knew it would
be, a repetition of the one he had written when the will was first found
missing,--full of passionate protestations of love, and assurances that
my fortune had only value in his eyes on my account, and that therefore
to him its loss could make no difference. He said that it was quite
impossible that his mother could withdraw her consent, previously so
warmly given, merely from a matter of money; and he affirmed that
indeed, at the age he was, he did not consider that under any
circumstances she had any right to dictate his choice to him. He told me
that he was that day writing to her, to inform her that of course what
had happened had not made the slightest change in his intentions, and
that he felt assured she would be entirely of his opinion. The next day
passed without any letter from Lady Desborough; the next and the next--a
week passed. How my heart ached. I knew what the delay meant, and could
guess at the angry correspondence which must be passing between mother
and son. I knew what the result must be, and yet I hoped against hope
until the eighth day, when the long-expected letter arrived; it was as
follows:--
"My dear Miss Ashleigh,
"You may imagine how extremely sorry we all were to hear that
the will under which you ought to come into possession of the
fortune to which I always understood that you were entitled, is
missing, and I fear from what you say in your letter to Ada
irretrievably lost. This is a terrible event for you, and the
more so, since it of course alters your position with respect
to my son Percy. You will I am sure be sorry to hear that it
has caused a very serious misunderstanding between him and me.
I gather from what he has let drop, that you yourself quite see
that it is out of the question that your engagement with him
can continue, and I know that you will regret with me that he
should not like ourselves submit to what is inevitable. Knowing
your good sense, I felt sure that you would, as a matter of
course, view the matter in the same light that I do, and it
gives me pleasure to know that I had so correctly judged your
character. I am sure, my dear Miss Ashleigh, that you would be
grieved that any serious estrangement should take place between
Percy and myself; but I am sorry to say his obstinate and
violent conduct at present renders this not only probable, but
imminent. I rely upon your aid to assist me in bringing him to
the same way of thinking as ourselves. Percy will, I am sure,
listen to your arguments with more politeness and deference
than he pays to mine. His allowance, as you are aware, depends
entirely upon me, and it is quite impossible, as he surely must
see, that he can support a wife, even in India, on a bare
lieutenant's pay. I rely upon your good sense to convince him
of this, and you will be doing a great service to us all by
your assistance in this matter. I need not say, in conclusion,
how much all this sad affair, and my son's headstrong folly,
have shaken and disturbed me, and how much I regret that
circumstances should have occurred to prevent an alliance on
which I had set my heart. And now, with my sincere condolence,
"Believe me, my dear Miss Ashleigh,
"Yours very faithfully,
"EVELINE DESBOROUGH."
I really could hardly help smiling, pained and heartsick as I felt, at
the quiet way in which Lady Desborough arranged the affair, and claimed
me as an ally against Percy. When I had finished the letter, I gave it
to Polly--who was watching my face most anxiously--to read, and I do
think that if Lady Desborough had been there my sister Polly would have
been very near committing a breach of the peace. She did not say
much--only the one word "infamous," as she threw the letter on to the
table, and then sat down by the fire, biting her lips with anger, with
her large eyes ablaze, and her fingers and feet twitching and quivering
with suppressed rage.
A letter arrived by the same post from Ada, which I will also copy from
the original, which has been so long laying in my desk:--
"My darling Agnes,
"This is a terrible affair, and I am quite ill with it all. My
eyes are red and swollen, and, altogether, I was never so
wretched in my life. I should have written to you at once to
tell you how sorry I was about it, and that I love you more
dearly than ever, but mamma positively ordered me not to do so
at first, so that I was obliged to wait; but as I know that she
has written to you to-day, I must do the same. We have had such
dreadful scenes here, Agnes, you can hardly imagine. On the
same morning your letter arrived, one came from Percy. It did
not come till the eleven o'clock post, and I had sent your
letter up to mamma in her room before that. Mamma wrote to
Percy the same day; what she said I do not know; but two days
afterwards Percy himself arrived, and for the last three days
there have been the most dreadful scenes here. That is, the
scenes have been all on Percy's side. He is half out of his
mind, while mamma is very cold, and----Well, you can guess what
she could be if she pleased. To-day she has not been out of her
room, and has sent word to Percy that as long as he remains in
the house she shall not leave it. So things are at a dead-lock.
What is to be done I have no idea. Of course I agree with
Percy, and think mamma very wrong. But what can I do? My head
is aching so, I can hardly write; and indeed, Agnes, I think I
am as wretched as you can be. I do not see what is to come of
it. Mamma and Percy are equally obstinate, and which will give
way I know not. Mamma holds the purse-strings, and therefore
she has a great advantage over him. I am afraid it will be a
permanent quarrel, which will be dreadful. My darling Agnes,
what can I say or do? I believe Percy will go down to see you,
although I have begged him not to do so for your sake; but he
only asked me if I was going to turn against him, too; so, of
course, I could do nothing but cry. How will it end? Oh, Agnes,
who would have thought it would ever come to this? I will write
again in a day or two. Goodbye, my own Agnes.
"Your most affectionate
"ADA."
At twelve o'clock that day there was a knock at the door, and Percy
Desborough was ushered in. I was prepared for his coming, and therefore
received him with tolerable composure; and although I dreaded the
painful scene I knew I should have to go through, I was yet glad that he
had come, for I felt that it was better that all this should come to an
end. Percy was looking very pale and worn, and as he came up to me, much
as I had schooled myself, I could hardly keep my tears down. He came up,
took me in his arms, and kissed me. I suffered him to do so. I knew that
it was nearly the last kiss that I should ever have from him. Polly,
after the first salutation, would have left the room, but I said,--
"Stop here, please, Polly. She knows all about it, Percy; and it is
better for us both that she should be here. I have heard this morning
from Lady Desborough, and also from Ada, so I know what you have come
down for."
"I have come down, Agnes," Percy said, solemnly, "to renew and confirm
my engagement to you. I have come down, that you may hear me swear
before God that I will never marry any other woman but you."
"And I, Percy, will marry no other man; but you, even you, I will never
marry without your mother's consent. I will never divide mother and son.
Besides which, without her consent, it would be impossible."
"Impossible just at present, Agnes, I admit. My mother has refused to
allow me one farthing if I marry you, and I know I cannot ask you to go
out to India as a lieutenant's wife, on a lieutenant's pay; but in a
short time I am sure to get a staff appointment; and although it will
not be such a home as I had hoped to offer you, it will be at least a
home in which we could have every necessary comfort; and I know you too
well, not to feel sure that you would be content with it."
"Percy," I said, "why do you tempt me? You know well how gladly I would
go with you anywhere, that comfort or discomfort would make little
difference to me if they were shared by you. But you know Lady
Desborough, and you know well that she will not only refuse to assist
you now, but that she will utterly disown and cast you off if you act in
defiance of her will. You are choosing between wife and mother; if you
take the one, you lose the other. Has she not told you, Percy, that if
you marry me, you are no longer son of hers?"
Percy hesitated. "She has," he said, "she has; but, Agnes, although in
any just exercise of her authority, I, as a son, would yield to her; yet
at my age, I have a perfect right, in a matter of this sort, to choose
for myself; besides, she has already given her entire approval, and it
is not because circumstances have changed that she has any right to
withdraw that consent. It was you she approved of, and you are
unaltered."
"She is acting, as she believes, for your good, Percy. You think her
mistaken and cruel, but she will never change, and I will never marry
you without her consent. See, Percy, I have no false pride. I would have
come to you, had there been nothing to prevent it, as a penniless wife,
although I had hoped it would have been otherwise; but no true woman
will drag her husband down; no true woman will marry a man when, instead
of bringing him a fortune, she brings him ruin. You are now
comparatively well off; some day you will be much better; and I will not
be the means of your losing this--losing not only this, but your
mother."
"But my happiness, Agnes!--what is money to happiness?" Percy exclaimed,
impetuously.
"Nothing, Percy,--I know and feel that; but I also feel that my decision
is right, and not wrong. I know that I could not decide otherwise, and
that whatever unhappiness it may cause us both, yet that, without your
mother's consent, I can never be yours."
"You will make me wish my mother dead, Agnes," Percy said, passionately.
"No, no, Percy, do not say that; I know I am doing right. Do not make it
harder for me than I can bear."
Percy strode up and down the room. Once or twice he stopped before me,
as if he would speak, but he did not. I was crying freely now, and I
could not look up at him.
"Can you not say something for me?" he said to Polly, at last.
Polly got up when he spoke to her--before that she had been sitting on
the sofa by me, holding one of my hands in hers--now she went up to him.
She put one of her hands on his shoulder, took one of his hands in her
other, and looked up into his face.
"Percy, she is right--you know in your own heart she is so. Have pity
upon her; she will not do it--she cannot. I love her better than myself,
but I could not advise her to do, even for her happiness, what she
believes is not right;--she cannot come between you and your mother.
Wait, Percy, and be patient--time works wonders. You may be sure she
will be yours in heart to the end of her life. Have pity on her, Percy,
and go."
"Oh, Polly, have pity on me, too," Percy said, and his lips quivered
now; and although he kept the features of his face still rigid and under
control, the tears were starting from his eyes. "What shall I do!"
"Go, Percy," I said, getting up. "Go. Let us help each other;" and I
took his hands now, and looked up into his face. "Go. I do not say,
forget me; I do not say, goodbye for ever; I only say, go, now. I cannot
do what you ask me; let us wait--let us wait and hope."
"Agnes," Percy said, solemnly, "I go now; I leave you for a time, but
our engagement is not over, and again hear me swear never to marry any
woman but you."
"And I no other man, Percy; and now kiss me and go."
For a little while Percy held me strained to his heart, his tears rained
down upon my face, his lips pressed mine again and again, then one long,
long kiss--I felt it was the last; then he gave me to Polly, who was
standing near. I heard the door close behind him, and for a long time I
heard no other sound. I had fainted.