FLORENCE BIDS FAREWELL TO HER LOVERS.
"Mamma, had you not better take me back to Cheltenham at once?"
"Has that unfortunate young man written to you?"
"Yes. The young man whom you call unfortunate has written. Of course I
cannot agree to have him so called. And, to tell the truth, I don't
think he is so very unfortunate. He has got a girl who really loves him,
and that, I think, is a step to happiness."
Every word of this was said by Florence as though with the purpose of
provoking her mother; and so did Mrs. Mountjoy feel it. But behind this
purpose there was that other fixed resolution to get Harry at last
accepted as her husband, and perhaps the means taken were the best. Mrs
Mountjoy was already beginning to feel that there would be nothing for
her but to give up the battle, and to open her motherly arms to Harry
Annesley. Sir Magnus had told her that M. Grascour would probably
prevail. M. Grascour was said to be exactly the man likely to be
effective with such a girl as Florence. That had been the last opinion
expressed by Sir Magnus. But Mrs. Mountjoy had found no comfort in it.
Florence was going to have her own way. Her mother knew that it was so,
and was very unhappy. But she was still anxious to continue a weak,
ineffective battle. "It was very impertinent of him writing," she said.
"When he was going to America for years! Dear mamma, do put yourself in
my place. How was it possible that he should not write?"
"A young man has no business to come and insinuate himself into a family
in that way; and then, when he knows he is not welcome, to open a
correspondence."
"But, mamma, he knows that he is welcome. If he had gone to America
without writing to me--Oh, it would have been impossible! I should have
gone after him."
"No,--no;--never!"
"I am quite in earnest, mamma. But it is no good talking about what
could not have taken place."
"We ought to have prevented you from receiving or sending letters." Here
Mrs. Mountjoy touched on a subject on which the practice of the English
world has been much altered during the last thirty or forty
years;--perhaps we may say fifty or sixty years. Fifty years ago young
ladies were certainly not allowed to receive letters as they chose, and
to write them, and to demand that this practice should be carried on
without any supervision from their elder friends. It is now usually the
case that they do so. A young lady, before she falls into a
correspondence with a young man, is expected to let it be understood
that she does so. But she does not expect that his letters, either
coming or going, shall be subject to any espial, and she generally feels
that the option of obeying or disobeying the instructions given to her
rests with herself. Practically the use of the post-office is in her own
hands. And, as this spirit of self-conduct has grown up, the morals and
habits of our young ladies have certainly not deteriorated. In America
they carry latch-keys, and walk about with young gentlemen as young
gentlemen walk about with each other. In America the young ladies are as
well-behaved as with us,--as well-behaved as they are in some Continental
countries in which they are still watched close till they are given up
as brides to husbands with whom they have had no means of becoming
acquainted. Whether the latch-key system, or that of free
correspondence, may not rob the flowers of some of that delicate aroma
which we used to appreciate, may be a question; but then it is also a
question whether there does not come something in place of it which in
the long-run is found to be more valuable. Florence, when this remark
was made as to her own power of sending and receiving letters, remained
silent, but looked very firm. She thought that it would have been
difficult to silence her after this fashion. "Sir Magnus could have done
it, at any rate, if I had not been able."
"Sir Magnus could have done nothing, I think, which would not have been
within your power. But it is useless talking of this. Will you not take
me back to England, so as to prevent the necessity of Harry coming
here?"
"Why should he come?"
"Because, mamma, I intend to see my future husband before he goes from
me for so great a distance, and for so long a time. Don't you feel any
pity for me, mamma?"
"Do you feel pity for me?"
"Because one day you wish me to marry my cousin Scarborough, and the
next Mr. Anderson, and then the next M. Grascour? How can I pity you for
that? It is all done because you have taken it in your head to think ill
of one whom I believe to be especially worthy. You began by disliking
him, because he interfered with your plans about Mountjoy. I never would
have married my cousin Mountjoy. He is not to my taste, and he is a
gambler. But you have thought that you could do what you liked with me."
"It has always been for your own happiness."
"But I must be the judge of that. How could I be happy with any of these
men, seeing that I do not care for them in the least? It would be
utterly impossible for me to have myself married to either of them. To
Harry Annesley I have given myself altogether; but you, because you are
my mother, are able to keep us apart. Do you not pity me for the sorrow
and trouble which I must suffer?"
"I suppose a mother always pities the sufferings of a child."
"And removes them when she can do so. But now, mamma, is he to come
here, or will you take me back to England?"
This was a question which Mrs. Mountjoy found it very difficult to
answer. On the spur of the moment she could not answer it, as it would
be necessary that she should first consult Sir Magnus. Could Sir Magnus
undertake to confine her daughter within the precincts of the Embassy,
and to exclude the lover during such time as Harry Annesley night remain
in Brussels?
As she thought of the matter in her own room she conceived that there
would be a great difficulty. All the world of Brussels would become
aware of what was going on. The young lady would endeavor to get out,
and could only be constrained by the co-operation of the servants; and
the young gentleman, in his endeavors to get in, could only be prevented
by the assistance of the police. Dim ideas presented themselves to her
mind of farther travel. But wherever she went there would be a
post-office, and she was aware that the young man could pursue her much
quicker than she could fly. How good it would be that in such an
emergency she might have the privilege of locking her daughter up in
some convent! And yet it must be a Protestant convent, as all things
savoring of the Roman Catholic religion were abhorrent to her.
Altogether, as she thought of her own condition and that of her
daughter, she felt that the world was sadly out of joint.
"Coming here, is he?" said Sir Magnus. "Then he will just have to go
back again as wise as he came."
"But can you shut your doors against him?"
"Shut my doors! Of course I can. He'll never be able to get his nose in
here if once an order has been given for his exclusion. Who's Mr.
Annesley? I don't suppose he knows an Englishman in Brussels."
"But she will go out to meet him."
"What! in the streets?" said Sir Magnus, in horror.
"I fear she would."
"By George! she must be a stiff-necked one if she'll do that." Then Mrs.
Mountjoy, with tears in her eyes, began to explain with very many
epithets that her daughter was the best girl in all the world. She was
entirely worthy of confidence. Those who knew her were aware that no
better behaved young woman could exist. She was conscientious,
religious, and high-principled. "But she'll go out in the streets and
walk with a young man when all her friends tell her not. Is that her
idea of religion?" Then Mrs. Mountjoy, with some touch of anger in the
tone of her voice, said that she would return to England, and carry her
daughter with her. "What the deuce can I do, Sarah, when the young lady
is so unruly? I can give orders to have him shut out, and can take care
that they are obeyed; but I cannot give orders to have her shut in. I
should be making her a prisoner, and everybody would talk about it. In
that matter you must give her the orders;--only you say that she would
not comply with them."
On the following day Mrs. Mountjoy informed her daughter that they would
go back to Cheltenham. She did not name an immediate day, because it
would be well, she thought, to stave off the evil hour. Nor did she name
a distant day, because, were she to do so, the terrible evil of Harry
Annesley's arrival in Brussels would not be prevented. At first she
wished to name no day, thinking that it would be a good thing to cross
Harry on the road. But here Florence was too strong for her, and at last
a day was fixed. In a week's time they would take their departure and go
home by slow stages. With this arrangement Florence expressed herself
well pleased, and of course made Harry acquainted with the probable time
of their arrival.
M. Grascour, when he heard that the day had been suddenly fixed for the
departure of Mrs. Mountjoy and her daughter, not unnaturally conceived
that he himself was the cause of the ladies' departure. Nor did he on
that account resign all hope. The young lady's mother was certainly on
his side, and he thought it quite possible that were he to appear in
England he might be successful. But when he had heard of her coming
departure of course it was necessary that he should say some special
farewell. He dined one evening at the British Embassy, and took an
opportunity during the evening of finding himself alone with Florence.
"And so, Miss Florence," he said, "you and your estimable mamma are
about to return to England?"
"We have been here a very long time, and are going home at last."
"It seems to me but the other day when you came." said M. Grascour, with
all a lover's eagerness.
"It was in autumn, and the weather was quite mild and soft. Now we are
in the middle of January."
"I suppose so. But still the time has gone only too rapidly. The heart
can hardly take account of days and weeks." As this was decidedly
lover's talk, and was made in terms which even a young lady cannot
pretend to misunderstand, Florence was obliged to answer it in some
manner equally direct. And now she was angry with him. She had informed
him that she was in love with another man. In doing so she had done much
more than the necessity of the case demanded, and had told him, as the
best way of silencing him, that which she might have been expected to
keep as her own secret. And yet here he was talking to her about his
heart! She made him no immediate answer, but frowned at him and looked
stern. It was clear to her intelligence that he had no right to talk to
her about his heart after the information she had given him. "I hope,
Miss Mountjoy, that I may look forward to the pleasure of seeing you
when I go over to England."
"But we don't live in London, or near it. We live down in the
country--at Cheltenham."
"Distance would be nothing."
This was very bad, and must be stopped, thought Florence. "I suppose I
shall be married by that time. I don't know where we may live, but I
shall be happy to see you if you call."
She had here made a bold assertion, and one which M. Grascour did not at
all believe. He was speaking of a visit which he might make, perhaps, in
a month or six weeks, and the young lady told him that he would find her
married! And yet, as he knew very well, her mother and her uncle and her
aunt were all opposed to this marriage. And she spoke of it without a
blush,--without any reticence! Young ladies were much emancipated, but he
did not think that they generally carried their emancipation so far as
this. "I hope not that," he said.
"I don't know why you should be so ill-natured as to hope it. The fact
is, M. Grascour, you don't believe what I told you the other day.
Perhaps as a young lady I ought not to have alluded to it, but I did so
in order to set the matter at rest altogether. Of course I can't tell
when you may come. If you come quite at once I shall not be married."
"No;--not married."
"But I shall be as much engaged as is possible for a girl to be. I have
given my word, and nothing will make me false to it. I don't suppose you
will come on my account."
"Solely on your account."
"Then stay at home. I am quite in earnest. And now I must say good-bye."
She departed, and left him seated alone on the sofa. He at first told
himself that she was unfeminine. There was a hard way with her of
talking about herself which he almost pronounced to be unladylike. An
unmarried girl should, he thought, under no circumstances speak of the
gentleman to whom her affections had been given as Miss Mountjoy spoke
of Mr. Annesley. But nevertheless he would sooner possess her as his own
wife than any other girl he had ever met. Something of the real passion
of unsatisfied love made him feel chill at his heart. Who was this Harry
Annesley, for whom she professed so warm a feeling? Her mother declared
Harry Annesley to be a scapegrace, and something of the story of a
discreditable midnight street quarrel between him and the young lady's
cousin had reached his ears. He did not suppose it to be possible that
the young lady could actually get married without her mother's
co-operation, and therefore he thought that he still would go to
England. In one respect he was altogether untouched. If he could
ultimately succeed in marrying the young lady, she would not be a bit
the worse as his wife because she had been attached to Harry Annesley.
That was a kind of folly which a girl could very quickly get over when
she had not been allowed to have her own way. Therefore, upon the whole,
he thought that he would go to England.
But the parting with Anderson had also to be endured, and must
necessarily be more difficult. She owed him a debt for having abstained,
and she could not go without paying the debt by some expression of
gratitude. That she would have done so had he kept aloof was a matter of
course; but equally a matter of course was it that he would not keep
aloof. "I shall want to see you for just five minutes to-morrow morning
before you take your departure," he said, in a lugubrious voice, during
her last evening.
He had kept his promise to the very letter, mooning about in his
desolate manner very conspicuously. The desolation had been notorious,
and very painful to Florence,--but the promise had been kept, and she was
grateful. "Oh, certainly, if you wish it," she said.
"I do wish it." Then he made an appointment and she promised to keep it.
It was in the ball-room, a huge chamber, very convenient for its
intended purpose, and always handsome at night-time, but looking as
desolate in the morning as did poor Anderson himself. He was stalking up
and down the long room when she entered it, and being at the farther
end, stalked up to her and addressed her with words which he had chosen
for the purpose. "Miss Mountjoy," he said, "you found me here a happy,
light-hearted young man."
"I hope I leave you soon to be the same, in spite of this little
accident."
He did not say that he was a blighted being, because the word had, he
thought, become ridiculous; but he would have used it had he dared, as
expressing most accurately his condition.
"A cloud has passed over me, and its darkness will never be effaced. It
has certainly been your doing."
"Oh, Mr. Anderson! what can I say?"
"I have loved before,--but never like this."
"And so you will again."
"Never! When I declare that, I expect my word to be respected," He
paused for an answer, but what could she say? She did not at all respect
his word on such a subject, but she did respect his conduct. "Yes; I
call upon you to believe me when I say that for me all that is over. But
it can be nothing to you."
"It will be very much to me."
"I shall go on in the same disconsolate, miserable way, I suppose I
shall stay here, because I shall be as well here as anywhere else. I
might move to Lisbon,--but what good would that do me? Your image would
follow me to whatever capital I might direct my steps. But there is one
thing you can do." Here he brightened up, putting on quite an altered
face.
"I will do anything, Mr. Anderson--in my power."
"If--if--if you should change--"
"I shall never change!" she said, with an angry look.
"If you should change, I think you should remember the promise you
exacted and the fidelity with which it has been kept."
"I do remember it."
"And then I should be allowed to come again and have my chance. Wherever
I may be, at the court of the Shah of Persia or at the Chinese capital,
I will instantly come. I promised you when you asked me. Will you not
now promise me?"
"I cannot promise anything--so impossible."
"It will bind you to nothing but to let me know that Mr. Annesley has
gone his way." But she had to explain to him that it was impossible she
should make any promise founded on the idea that Mr. Henry Annesley
should ever go any way in which she would not accompany him. With that
he had to be as well satisfied as the circumstances of the case would
admit, and he left her with an assurance, not intended to be quite
audible, that he was and ever should be a blighted individual.
When the carriage was at the door Sir Magnus came down into the hall,
full of smiles and good-humor; but at that moment Lady Mountjoy was
saying a last word of farewell to her relatives in her own chamber.
"Good-bye, my dear; I hope you will get well through all your troubles."
This was addressed to Mrs. Mountjoy. "And as for you, my dear," she
said, turning to Florence, "if you would only contrive to be a little
less stiff-necked, I think the world would go easier with you."
"I think my stiff neck, aunt, as you call it, is what I have chiefly to
depend upon,--I mean in reference to other advice than mamma's. Good-bye,
aunt."
"Good-bye, Florence." And the two parted, hating each other as only
female enemies can hate. But Florence, when she was in the carriage,
threw herself on to her mother's neck and kissed her.