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 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."
"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.
M. Grascour was a Belgian, about forty years old, who looked as though he were no more than thirty, except that his hair was in patches beginning to be a little gray. He was in the government service of his country, well educated, and thoroughly a gentleman. As is the case with many Belgians, he would have been taken to be an Englishman were his country not known. He had dressed himself in English mirrors, living mostly with the English. He spoke English so well that he would only be known to be a foreigner by the correctness of his language. He was a man of singularly good temper, and there was running through all that he did somewhat of a chivalric spirit, which came from study rather than nature. He had looked into things and seen whether they were good, or at any rate popular, and endeavored to grasp and to make his own whatever he found to be so. He was hitherto unmarried, and was regarded generally by his friends as a non-marrying man. But Florence Mountjoy was powerful over him, and he set to work to make her his wife. He was intimate at the house of Sir Magnus, and saw, no doubt, that Anderson was doing the same thing. But he saw also that Anderson did not succeed. He had told himself from the first that if Anderson did succeed he would not wish to do so. The girl who would be satisfied with Anderson would hardly content him. He remained therefore quiet till he saw that Anderson had failed. The young man at once took to an altered mode of life which was sufficiently marked. He went, like Sir Proteus, ungartered. Everything about him had of late "demonstrated a careless desolation." All this M. Grascour observed, and when he saw it he felt that his own time had come.
He took occasion at first to wait upon Lady Mountjoy. He believed that to be the proper way of going to work. He was very intimate with the Mountjoys, and was aware that his circumstances were known to them. There was no reason, on the score of money, why he should not marry the niece of Sir Magnus. He had already shown some attention to Florence, which, though it had excited no suspicion in her mind, had been seen and understood by her aunt; and it had been understood also by Mr. Anderson. "That accursed Belgian! If, after all, she should take up with him! I shall tell her a bit of my mind if anything of that kind should occur."
"My niece, M. Grascour!"
"Yes, my lady." M. Grascour had not quite got over the way of calling Lady Mountjoy "my lady." "It is presumption, I know."
"Not at all."
"I have not spoken to her. Nor would I do so till I had first addressed myself to you or to her mother. May I speak to Mrs. Mountjoy?"
"Oh, certainly. I do not in the least know what the young lady's ideas are. She has been much admired here and elsewhere, and that may have turned her head."
"I think not."
"You may be the better judge, M. Grascour."
"I think that Miss Mountjoy's head has not been turned by any admiration. She does not appear to be a young lady whose head would easily be turned. It is her heart of which I am thinking." The interview ended by Lady Mountjoy passing the Belgian lover on to Mrs. Mountjoy.
"Florence!" said Mrs. Mountjoy.
"Yes, Mrs. Mountjoy;—I have the great honor of asking your permission. I am well known to Sir Magnus and Lady Mountjoy, and they can tell what are my circumstances. I am forty years of age."
"Oh yes; everything is, I am sure, quite as it should be. But my daughter thinks about these things for herself." Then there was a pause, and M. Grascour was about to leave the room, having obtained the permission he desired, when Mrs. Mountjoy thought it well to acquaint him with something of her daughter's condition. "I ought to tell you that my daughter has been engaged."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; and I hardly know how to explain the circumstances. I should say that she had been promised to her cousin, Captain Scarborough; but to this she will not give her assent. She has since met a gentleman, Mr. Annesley, for whom she professes an attachment. Neither can I, nor can her uncle and aunt, hear of Mr. Annesley as a husband for Florence. She is therefore at present disengaged. If you can gain her affections, you have my leave." With this permission M. Grascour departed, professing himself to be contented.
He did not see Florence for two or three days, no doubt leaving the matter to be discussed with her by her mother and her aunt. To him it was quite indifferent what might be the fate of Captain Scarborough, or of Mr. Annesley, or indeed of Mr. Anderson. And, to tell the truth, he was not under any violent fear or hope as to his own fate. He admired Miss Mountjoy, and thought it would be well to secure for a wife such a girl, with such a fortune as would belong to her. But he did not intend to go "ungartered," nor yet to assume an air of "desolation." If she would come to him, it would be well; if she would not, why, it would still be well. The only outward difference made by his love was that he brushed his clothes and his hair a little more carefully, and had his boots brought to a higher state of polish than was usual.
Her mother spoke to her first. "My dear, M. Grascour is a most excellent man."
"I am sure he is, mamma."
"And he is a great friend to your uncle and Lady Mountjoy."
"Why do you say this, mamma? What can it matter to me?"
"My dear, M. Grascour wishes you to—to—to become his wife."
"Oh, mamma, why didn't you tell him that it is impossible?"
"How was I to know, my dear?"
"Mamma, I am engaged to marry Harry Annesley, and no word shall ever turn me from that purpose, unless it be spoken by himself. The crier may say that all round the town if he wishes. You must know that it is so. What can be the use of sending M. Grascour or any other gentleman to me? It is only giving me pain and him too. I wish, mamma, you could be got to understand this." But Mrs. Mountjoy could not altogether be got as yet to understand the obstinacy of her daughter's character.
There was one point on which Florence received information from these two suitors who had come to her at Brussels. They were both favored, one after the other, by her mother; and would not have been so favored had her mother absolutely believed in Captain Mountjoy. It seemed to her as though her mother would be willing that she should marry any one, so long as it was not Harry Annesley. "It is a pity that there should be such a difference," she said to herself. "But we will see what firmness can do."
Then Lady Mountjoy spoke to her. "You have heard of M. Grascour, my dear?"
"Yes; I have heard of him, aunt."
"He intends to do you the honor of asking you to be his wife."
"So mamma tells me."
"I have only to say that he is a man most highly esteemed here. He is well known at the court, and is at the royal parties. Should you become his wife, you would have all the society of Brussels at your feet."
"All the society of Brussels would do no good."
"Perhaps not."
"Nor the court and the royal parties."
"If you choose to be impertinent when I tell you what are his advantages and condition in life, I cannot help it."
"I do not mean to be impertinent."
"What you say about the royal parties and the court is intended for impertinence, knowing as you do know your uncle's position."
"Not at all. You know my position. I am engaged to marry another man, and cannot therefore marry M. Grascour. Why should he be sent to me, except that you won't believe me when I tell you that I am engaged?" Then she marched out of the room, and considered within her own bosom what answer she would give to this new Belgian suitor.
She was made perfectly aware when the Belgian suitor was about to arrive. On the day but one after the interview with her aunt she was left alone when the other ladies went out, and suspected that even the footmen knew what was to happen, when M. Grascour was shown into the drawing-room. There was a simple mode of dealing with the matter on his part,—very different from that state of agitation into which Harry had been thrown when he had made his proposition. She was quite prepared to admit that M. Grascour's plan might be the wisest; but Harry's manner had been full of real love, and had charmed her. M. Grascour was not in the least flustered, whereas poor Harry had been hardly able to speak his mind. But it had not mattered much whether Harry spoke his mind or not, whereas all the eloquence in the world could have done no good for M. Grascour. Florence had known that Harry did love her, whereas of M. Grascour she only knew that he wanted to make her his wife.
"Miss Mountjoy," he said, "I am charmed to find you here. Allow me to add that I am charmed to find you alone." Florence, who knew all about it, only bowed. She had to go through it, and thought that she would be able to do so with equanimity. "I do not know whether your aunt or your mother have done me the honor of mentioning my name to you."
"They have both spoken to me."
"I thought it best that they should have the opportunity of doing so. In our country these things are arranged chiefly by the lady's friends. With your people I know it is different. Perhaps it is much better that it should be so in a matter in which the heart has to be concerned."
"It would come to the same thing with me. I must decide for myself."
"I am sure of it. May I venture to feel a hope that ultimately that decision may not go against me?" M. Grascour, as he said this, did throw some look of passion into his face. "But I have spoken nothing as yet of my own feelings."
"It is unnecessary."
This might be taken in either one of two senses; but the gentleman was not sufficiently vain to think that the lady had intended to signify to him that she would accept his love as a thing of which she could have no doubt. "Ah, Miss Mountjoy," he continued, "if you would allow me to say that since you have been at Brussels not a day has passed in which mingled love and respect have not grown within my bosom. I have sat by and watched while my excellent young friend Mr. Anderson has endeavored to express his feelings. I have said to myself that I would bide my time. If you could give yourself to him, why then the aspiration should be quenched within my own breast. But you have not done so, though, as I am aware, he has been assisted by my friend Sir Magnus. I have seen, and have heard, and have said to myself at last, 'Now, too, my turn may come.' I have loved much, but I have been very patient. Can it be that my turn should have come at last?" Though he had spoken of Mr. Anderson, he had not thought it expedient to say a word either of Captain Scarborough or of Mr. Annesley. He knew quite as much of them as he did of Mr. Anderson. He was clever, and had put together with absolute correctness what Mrs. Mountjoy had told him, with other little facts which had reached his ears.
"M. Grascour, I suppose I am very much obliged to you. I ought to be." Here he bowed his head. "But my only way of being grateful is to tell you the truth." Again he bowed his head. "I am in love with another man. That's the truth." Here he shook his head with the smallest possible shake, as though deprecating her love, but not doing so with any harshness. "I engaged to marry him, too." There was another shake of the head, somewhat more powerful. "And I intend to marry him." This she said with much bold assurance. "All my old friends know that it is so, and ought not to have sent you to me. I have given a promise to Harry Annesley, and Harry Annesley alone can make me depart from it." This she said in a low voice, but almost with violence, because there had come another shake of the head in reply to her assurance that she meant to marry Annesley. "And though he were to make me depart from it,—which he will never do,—I should be just the same as regards anybody else. Can't you understand that when a girl has given herself, heart and soul, to a man, she won't change?"
"Girls do change—sometimes."
"You may know them; I don't,—not girls that are worth anything."
"But when all your friends are hostile?"
"What can they do? They can't make me marry another person. They may hinder my happiness; but they can't hand me over, like a parcel of goods, to any one else. Do you mean to say that you would accept such a parcel?"
"Oh yes—such a parcel!"
"You would accept a girl who would come to you telling you that she loved another man? I don't believe it of you."
"I should know that my tenderness would beget tenderness in you."
"It wouldn't do anything of the kind. It would be all horror,—horror. I should kill myself, or else you, or perhaps both."
"Is your aversion so strong?"
"No, not at all;—not at present. I like you very much. I do indeed. I'd do anything for you—in the way of friendship. I believe you to be a real gentleman."
"But you would kill me!"
"You make me talk of a condition of things which is quite, quite impossible. When I say that I like you, I am talking of the present condition of things. I have not the least desire to kill you, or myself, or anybody. I want to be taken back to England, and there to be allowed to marry Mr. Henry Annesley. That's what I want. But I intend to remain engaged to him. That's my purpose, and no man and no woman shall stir me from it." He smiled, and again shook his head, and she began to doubt whether she did like him so much. "Now I've told you all about myself," she said, rising to her feet. "You may believe me or not, as you please; but, as I have believed you, I have told you all." Then she walked out of the room.
M. Grascour, as soon as he was alone, left the room and the house, and, making his way into the park, walked round it twice, turning in his mind his success and his want of success. For, in truth, he was not at all dispirited by what had occurred. With her other Belgian lover,—that is, with Mr. Anderson,—Florence had at any rate succeeded in making the truth appear to be the truth. He did believe that she had taken such a fancy to that "fellow Harry Annesley" that there would be no overcoming it. He had got a glimpse into the firmness of her character which was denied to M. Grascour. M. Grascour, as he walked up and down the shady paths of the park, told himself that such events as this so-called love on the part of Florence were very common in the lives of English young ladies. "They are the best in the world," he said to himself, "and they make the most charming wives; but their education is such that there is no preventing these accidents." The passion displayed in the young lady's words he attributed solely to her power of expression. One girl would use language such as had been hers, and such a girl would be clever, eloquent, and brave; another girl would hum and haw, with half a "yes" and a quarter of a "no," and would mean just the same thing. He did not doubt but that she had engaged herself to Harry Annesley; nor did he doubt that she had been brought to Brussels to break off that engagement; and he thought it most probable that her friends would prevail. Under these circumstances, why should he despair?—or why, rather, as he was a man not given to despair, should he not think that there was for him a reasonable chance of success? He must show himself to be devoted, true, and not easily repressed.
She had used, he did not doubt, the same sort of language in silencing Anderson. Mr. Anderson had accepted her words, but he knew too well the value of words coming from a young lady's mouth to take them at their true meaning. He had at this interview affected a certain amount of intimacy with Florence of which he thought that he appreciated the value. She had told him that she would kill him,—of course in joke; and a joke from a girl on such an occasion was worth much. No Belgian girl would have joked. But then he was anxious to marry Florence because Florence was English. Therefore, when he went back to his own home he directed that the system of the high polish should be continued with his boots.
"I don't suppose he will come again," Florence had said to her mother, misunderstanding the character of her latest lover quite as widely as he misunderstood hers. But M. Grascour, though he did not absolutely renew his offer at once, gave it to be understood that he did not at all withdraw from the contest. He obtained permission from Lady Mountjoy to be constantly at the Embassy, and succeeded even in obtaining a promise of support from Sir Magnus. "You're quite up a tree," Sir Magnus had said to his Secretary of Legation. "It's clear she won't look at you."
"I have pledged myself to abstain," said poor Anderson, in a tone which seemed to confess that all chance was over with him.
"I suppose she must marry some one, and I don't see why Grascour should not have as good a chance as another." Anderson had stalked away, brooding over the injustice of his position, and declaring to himself that this Belgian should never be allowed to marry Florence Mountjoy in peace.
But M. Grascour continued his attentions; and this it was which had induced Florence to tell her mother that the Belgian was "a great trouble," which ought to be avoided by a return to England.
"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.