A DETERMINED YOUNG LADY.
When this offer had been made to Harry Annesley he found it to be
absolutely necessary that he should write a farther letter to Florence.
He was quite aware that he had been forbidden to write. He had written
one letter since that order had been given to him, and no reply had come
to him. He had not expected a reply; but still her silence had been
grievous to him. It might be that she was angry with him, really angry.
But let that be as it might, he could not go to America, and be absent
for so long a period, without telling her. She and her mother were still
at Brussels when January came. Mrs. Mountjoy had gone there, as he had
understood, for a month, and was still at the embassy when three months
had passed. "I think I shall stay here the winter," Mrs. Mountjoy had
said to Sir Magnus, "but we will take lodgings. I see that very nice
sets of apartments are to be let." But Sir Magnus would not hear of
this. He said, and said truly, that the ministerial house was large; and
at last he declared the honest truth. His sister-in-law had been very
kind to him about money, and had said not a word on that troubled
subject since her arrival. Mrs. Mountjoy, with that delicacy which still
belongs to some English ladies, would have suffered extreme poverty
rather than have spoken on such a matter. In truth she suffered nothing,
and hardly thought about it. But Sir Magnus was grateful, and told her
that if she went to look for lodgings he should go to the lodgings and
say that they were not wanted. Therefore Mrs. Mountjoy remained where
she was, entertaining a feeling of increased good-will toward Sir
Magnus.
Life went on rather sadly with Florence. Anderson was as good as his
word. He pleaded his own cause no farther, telling both Sir Magnus and
Lady Mountjoy of the pledge he had made. He did in fact tell two or
three other persons, regarding himself as a martyr to chivalry. All this
time he went about his business looking very wretched. But though he did
not speak for himself, he could not hinder others from speaking for him.
Sir Magnus took occasion to say a word on the subject once daily to his
niece. Her mother was constant in her attacks. But Lady Mountjoy was the
severest of the three, and was accounted by Florence as her bitterest
enemy. The words which passed between them were not the most
affectionate in the world. Lady Mountjoy would call her 'miss,' to which
Florence would reply by addressing her aunt as 'my lady.' "Why do you
call me 'my lady?' It isn't usual in common conversation." "Why do you
call me 'miss?' If you cease to call me 'miss,' I'll cease to call you
'my lady.'" But no reverence was paid by the girl to the wife of the
British Minister. It was this that Lady Mountjoy specially felt,--as she
complained to her companion, Miss Abbott. Then another cause for trouble
sprang up during the winter, of which mention must be made farther on.
The result was that Florence was instant with her mother to take her
back to England.
We will return, however, to Harry Annesley, and give the letter,
verbatim, which he wrote to Florence:
"DEAR FLORENCE,--I wonder whether you ever think of me or ever remember
that I exist? I know you do. I cannot have been forgotten like that. And
you yourself are the truest girl that ever owned to loving a man. But
there comes a chill across my heart when I think how long it is since I
wrote to you, and that I have not had a line even to acknowledge my
letter. You bade me not to write, and you have not even forgiven me for
disobeying your order. I cannot but get stupid ideas into my mind, which
one word from you would dissipate.
"Now, however, I must write again, order or no order. Between a man and
a woman circumstanced as you and I, things will arise which make it
incumbent on one or the other to write. It is absolutely necessary that
you should now know what are my intentions, and understand the reasons
which have actuated me. I have found myself left in a most unfortunate
condition by my uncle's folly. He is going on with a stupid marriage for
the purpose of disinheriting me, and has in the mean time stopped the
allowance which he had made me since I left college. Of course I have no
absolute claim on him. But I cannot understand how he can reconcile
himself to do so, when he himself prevented my going to the Bar, saying
that it would be unnecessary.
"But so it is, I am driven to look about for myself. It is very hard at
my time of life to find an opening in any profession. I think I told you
before that I had ideas of going to Cambridge and endeavoring to get
pupils, trusting to my fellowship rather than to my acquirements. But
this I have always looked upon with great dislike, and would only have
taken to it if nothing else was to be had. Now there has come forward
an old college acquaintance, a man who is three or four years my senior,
who has offered to take me to America as his private secretary. He
proposes to remain there for three years. I of course shall not bind
myself to stay as long; but I may not improbably do so. He is to pay my
expenses and to give me a salary of three hundred a year. This will,
perhaps, lead to nothing else, but will for the present be better than
nothing. I am to start in just a month from the present time.
"Now you know it all except that the man's name is Sir William Crook. He
is a decent sort of a fellow, and has got a wife who is to go with him.
He is the hardest working man I know, but, between you and me, will
never set the Thames on fire. If the Thames is to be illumined at all, I
rather think that I shall be expected to do it.
"Now, my own one, what am I to say about you, and of myself, as your
husband that is to be? Will you wait, at any rate, for three years with
the conviction that the three years will too probably end in your having
to wait again?
"I do feel that in my altered position I ought to give you back your
troth, and tell you that things shall be as they used to be before that
happy night at Mrs. Armitage's party. I do not know but that it is
clearly my duty. I almost think that it is. But I am sure of this,--that
it is the one thing in the world that I cannot do. I don't think that a
man ought to be asked to tear himself altogether in pieces because some
one has ill-treated him. At any rate I cannot. If you say that it must
be so, you shall say it. I don't suppose it will kill me, but it will go
a long way.
"In writing so far I have not said a word of love, because, as far as I
understand you, that is a subject on which you expect me to be silent.
When you order me not to write, I suppose you intend that I am to write
no love-letters. This, therefore, you will take simply as a matter of
business, and as such, I suppose, you will acknowledge it. In this way I
shall at any rate see your handwriting.
"Yours affectionately,
"HARRY ANNESLEY."
Harry, when he had written this letter, considered that it had been
cold, calm, and philosophical. He could not go to America for three
years without telling her of his purpose; nor could he mention that
purpose, as he thought, in any language less glowing. But Florence, when
she received it, did not regard it in the same light.
To her thinking the letter was full of love, and of love expressed in
the warmest possible language. "Sir William Crook!" she said to herself.
"What can he want of Harry in America for three years? I am sure he is a
stupid man. Will I wait? Of course I will wait. What are three years?
And why should I not wait? But, for the matter of that--" Then thoughts
came into her mind which even to herself she could not express in words.
Sir William Crook had got a wife, and why should not Harry take a wife
also? She did not see why a private secretary should not be a married
man; and as for money, there would be plenty for such a style of life as
they would live. She could not exactly propose this, but she thought
that if she were to see Harry just for one short interview before he
started, that he might probably then propose it himself.
"Things be as they used to be!" she exclaimed to herself. "Never! Things
cannot be as they used to be. I know what is his duty. It is his duty
not to think of anything of the kind. Remember that he exists," she
said, turning back to the earlier words of the letter. "That of course
is his joke. I wonder whether he knows that every moment of my life is
devoted to him. Of course I bade him not to write. But I can tell him
now that I have never gone to bed without his letter beneath my pillow."
This and much more of the same kind was uttered in soliloquies, but need
not be repeated at length to the reader.
But she had to think what steps she must first take. She must tell her
mother of Harry's intention. She had never for an instant allowed her
mother to think that her affection had dwindled, or her purpose failed
her. She was engaged to marry Harry Annesley, and marry him some day she
would. That her mother should be sure of that was the immediate purpose
of her life. And in carrying out that purpose she must acquaint her
mother with the news which this letter had brought to her. "Mamma, I
have got something to tell you."
"Well, my dear?"
"Harry Annesley is going to America!" There was something pleasing to
Mrs. Mountjoy in the sound of these words. If Harry Annesley went to
America he might be drowned, or it might more probably be that he would
never come back. America was, to her imagination, a long way off. Lovers
did not go to America except with the intention of deserting their
ladyloves. Such were her ideas. She felt at the moment that Florence
would be more easily approached in reference either to her cousin
Mountjoy or to Mr. Anderson. Another lover had sprung up, too, in
Brussels, of whom a word shall be said by-and-by. If her Harry, the
pernicious Harry, should have taken himself to America, the chances of
all these three gentlemen would be improved. Any one of them would now
be accepted by Mrs. Mountjoy as a bar fatal to Harry Annesley. Mountjoy
was again the favorite with her. She had heard that he had returned to
Tretton, and was living amicably with his father. She knew, even, of the
income allotted to him for the present,--of the six hundred pounds a
year,--and had told Florence that as a preliminary income it was more
than double that two hundred and fifty pounds which had been taken away
from Harry,--taken away never to be restored. There was not much in this
argument, but still she thought well to use it. The captain was living
with his father, and she did not believe a word about the entail having
been done away with. It was certain that Harry's uncle had quarrelled
with him, and she did understand that a baby at Buston would altogether
rob Harry of his chance. And then look at the difference in the
properties! It was thus that she argued the matter. But in truth her
word had been pledged to Mountjoy Scarborough, and Mountjoy Scarborough
had ever been a favorite with her. Though she could talk about the
money, it was not the money that touched her feelings. "Well;--he may go
to America. It is a dreadful destiny for a young man, but in his case it
may be the best thing that he can do."
"Of course he intends to come back again."
"That is as it may be."
"I do not understand what you mean by a dreadful destiny, mamma. I don't
see that it is a destiny at all. He is getting a very good offer for a
year or two, and thinks it best to take it. I might go with him, for
that matter."
A thunder-bolt had fallen at Mrs. Mountjoy's feet! Florence go with him
to America! Among all the trials which had come upon her with reference
to this young man there had been nothing so bad as this proposal. Go
with him! The young man was to start in a month! Then she began to think
whether it would be within her power to stop her daughter. What would
all the world be to her with one daughter, and she in America, married
to Harry Annesley? Her quarrel with Florence was not at all as was the
quarrel of Lady Mountjoy. Lady Mountjoy would be glad to get rid of the
girl, whom she thought to be impertinent and believed to be false. But
to her mother Florence was the very apple of her eye. It was because she
thought that Mountjoy Scarborough was a grand fellow, and because she
thought all manner of evil of Harry Annesley, that she wished Florence
to marry her cousin, and to separate herself forever from the other.
When she had heard that Harry was to go to America she had rejoiced, as
though he was to be transported to Botany Bay. Her ideas were
old-fashioned. But when it was hinted that Florence was to go with him
she nearly fell to the ground.
Florence certainly had behaved badly in making the suggestion. She had
not intended to make it,--had not, in truth, thought of it. But when her
mother talked of Harry's destiny, as though some terrible evil had come
upon him,--as though she were speaking of a poor wretch condemned to be
hanged, when all chances of a reprieve were over,--then her spirit rose
within her. She had not meant to say that she was going. Harry had never
asked her to go. "If you talk of his destiny I am quite prepared to
share it with him." That was her meaning. But her mother already saw her
only child in the hands of those American savages. She threw herself on
to a sofa, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.
"I don't say that I am going, mamma."
"My darling--my dearest--my child!"
"Only that there is no reason why I shouldn't, except that it would not
suit him. At least I suppose it would not."
"Has he said so?"
"He has said nothing about it."
"Thank Heaven for that! He does not intend to rob me of my child."
"But, mamma, I am to be his wife."
"No, no, no!"
"It is that that I want to make you understand. You know nothing of his
character;--nothing."
"I do know that he told a base falsehood."
"Nothing of the kind! I will not admit it. It is of no use going into
that again, but there was nothing base about it. He has got an
appointment in the United States, and is going out to do the work. He
has not asked me to go with him. The two things would probably not be
compatible." Here Mrs. Mountjoy rose from the sofa and embraced her
child, as though liberated from her deepest grief. "But, mamma, you must
remember this:--that I have given him my word, and will never be induced
to abandon it." Here her mother threw up her hands and again began to
weep. "Either to-day or to-morrow, or ten years hence,--if he will wait
as long, I will,--we shall be married. As far as I can see we need not
wait ten years, or perhaps more than one or two. My money will suffice
for us."
"He proposes to live upon you?"
"He proposes nothing of the kind. He is going to America because he will
not propose it. Nor am I proposing it,--just at present."
"At any rate I am glad of that."
"And now, mamma, you must take me back home as soon as possible."
"When he has started."
"No, mamma. I must be there before he starts. I cannot let him go
without seeing him. If I am to remain here, here he must come."
"Your uncle would never receive him."
"I should receive him."
This was dreadful--this flying into actual disobedience. Whatever did
she mean? Where was she to receive him? "How could you receive a young
man in opposition to the wishes, and indeed to the commands, of all your
friends?"
"I'm not going to be at all shamefaced about it, mamma. I am the woman
he has selected to be his wife, and he is the man I have selected to be
my husband. If he were coming I should go to my uncle and ask to have
him received."
"Think of your aunt."
"Yes; I do think of her. My aunt would make herself very disagreeable.
Upon the whole, mamma, I think it would be best that you should take me
back to England. There is this M. Grascour here, who is a great trouble,
and you may be sure of this, that I intend to see Harry Annesley before
he starts for America."
So the interview was ended; but Mrs. Mountjoy was left greatly in doubt
as to what she might best do. She felt sure that were Annesley to come
to Brussels, Florence would see him,--would see him in spite of all that
her uncle and aunt, and Mr. Anderson, and M. Grascour could do to
prevent it. That reprobate young man would force his way into the
embassy, or Florence would force her way out. In either case there would
be a terrible scene. But if she were to take Florence back to
Cheltenham, interviews to any extent would be arranged for her at the
house of Mrs. Armitage. As she thought of all this, the idea came across
her that when a young girl is determined to be married nothing can
prevent it.
Florence in the mean time wrote an immediate answer to her lover, as
follows:
"DEAR HARRY,--Of course you were entitled to write when there was
something to be said which it was necessary that I should know. When you
have simply to say that you love me, I know that well enough without any
farther telling.
"Go to America for three years! It is very, very serious. But of course
you must know best, and I shall not attempt to interfere. What are three
years to you and me? If we were rich people, of course we should not
wait; but as we are poor, of course we must act as do other people who
are poor. I have about four hundred a year; and it is for you to say how
far that may be sufficient. If you think so, you will not find that I
shall want more.
"But there is one thing necessary before you start. I must see you.
There is no reason on earth for our remaining here, except that mamma
has not made up her mind. If she will consent to go back before you
start, it will be best so. Otherwise, you must take the trouble to come
here,--where, I am afraid, you will not be received as a welcome guest. I
have told mamma that if I cannot see you here in a manner that is
becoming, I shall go out and meet you in the streets, in a manner that
is unbecoming.
"Your affectionate--wife that is to be,
"FLORENCE MOUNTJOY."
This letter she took to her mother, and read aloud to her in her own
room. Mrs. Mountjoy could only implore that it might not be sent, but
prevailed not at all. "There is not a word in it about love," said
Florence. "It is simply a matter of business, and as such I must send
it. I do not suppose my uncle will go to the length of attempting to
lock me up. He would, I think, find it difficult to do so." There was a
look in Florence's face as she said this which altogether silenced her
mother. She did not think that Sir Magnus would consent to lock Florence
up, and she did think that were he to attempt to do so he would find the
task very difficult.