In the mean time Florence Mountjoy was not passing her time pleasantly at Brussels. Various troubles there attended her. All her friends around her were opposed to her marriage with Harry Annesley. Harry Annesley had become a very unsavory word in the mouths of Sir Magnus and the British Embassy generally. Mrs. Mountjoy told her grief to her brother-in-law, who thoroughly took her part, as did also, very strongly, Lady Mountjoy. It got to be generally understood that Harry was amauvais sujet. Such was the name that was attached to him, and the belief so conveyed was thoroughly entertained by them all. Sir Magnus had written to friends in London, and the friends in London bore out the reports that were so conveyed. The story of the midnight quarrel was told in a manner very prejudicial to poor Harry, and both Sir Magnus and his wife saw the necessity of preserving their niece from anything so evil as such a marriage. But Florence was very firm, and was considered to be very obstinate. To her mother she was obstinate but affectionate To Sir Magnus she was obstinate and in some degree respectful. But to Lady Mountjoy she was neither affectionate nor respectful. She took a great dislike to Lady Mountjoy, who endeavored to domineer; and who, by the assistance of the two others, was in fact tyrannical. It was her opinion that the girl should be compelled to abandon the man, and Mrs. Mountjoy found herself constrained to follow this advice. She did love her daughter, who was her only child. The main interest of her life was centred in her daughter. Her only remaining ambition rested on her daughter's marriage. She had long revelled in the anticipation of being the mother-in-law of the owner of Tretton Park. She had been very proud of her daughter's beauty.
Then had come the first blow, when Harry Annesley had come to Montpelier Place and had been welcomed by Florence. Mrs. Mountjoy had seen it all long before Florence had been aware of it. And the first coming of Harry had been long before the absolute disgrace of Captain Scarborough,—at any rate, before the tidings of that disgrace had reached Cheltenham. Mrs. Mountjoy had been still able to dream of Tretton Park, after the Jews had got their fingers on it,—even after the Jews had been forced to relinquish their hold. It can hardly be said that up to this very time Mrs. Mountjoy had lost all hope in her nephew, thinking that as the property had been entailed some portion of it must ultimately belong to him. She had heard that Augustus was to have it, and her desires had vacillated between the two. Then Harry had positively declared himself, and Augustus had given her to understand how wretched, how mean, how wicked had been Harry's conduct. And he fully explained to her that Harry would be penniless. She had indeed been aware that Buston,—quite a trifling thing compared to Tretton,—was to belong to him. But entails were nothing nowadays. It was part of the radical abomination to which England was being subjected. Not even Buston was now to belong to Harry Annesley. The small income which he had received from his uncle was stopped. He was reduced to live upon his fellowship,—which would be stopped also if he married. She even despised him because he was the fellow of a college;—she had looked for a husband for her daughter so much higher than any college could produce. It was not from any lack of motherly love that she was opposed to Florence, or from any innate cruelty that she handed her daughter over to the tender mercies of Lady Mountjoy.
And since she had been at Brussels there had come up farther hopes. Another mode had shown itself of escaping Harry Annesley, who was of all catastrophes the most dreaded and hated. Mr. Anderson, the second secretary of legation,—he whose business it was to ride about the boulevard with Sir Magnus,—had now declared himself in form. "Never saw a fellow so bowled over," Sir Magnus had declared, by which he had intended to signify that Mr. Anderson was now truly in love. "I've seen him spooney a dozen times," Sir Magnus had said, confidentially, to his sister-in-law, "but he has never gone to this length. He has asked a lot of girls to have him, but he has always been off it again before the week was over. He has written to his mother now."
And Mr. Anderson showed his love by very unmistakable signs. Sir Magnus too, and Lady Mountjoy, were evidently on the same side as Mr. Anderson. Sir Magnus thought there was no longer any good in waiting for his nephew, the captain, and of that other nephew, Augustus, he did not entertain any very high idea. Sir Magnus had corresponded lately with Augustus, and was certainly not on his side. But he so painted Mr. Anderson's prospects in life, as did also Lady Mountjoy, as to make it appear that if Florence could put up with young Anderson she would do very well with herself.
"He's sure to be a baronet some of these days, you know," said Sir Magnus.
"I don't think that would go very far with Florence," said her mother.
"But it ought. Look about in the world and you'll see that it does go a long way. He'd be the fifth baronet."
"But his elder brother is alive."
"The queerest fellow you ever saw in your born days, and his life is not worth a year's purchase. He's got some infernal disease,—nostalgia, or what 'd'ye call it?—which never leaves him a moment's peace, and then he drinks nothing but milk. Sure to go off;—cock sure."
"I shouldn't like Florence to count upon that."
"And then Hugh Anderson, the fellow here, is very well off as it is. He has four hundred pounds here, and another five hundred pounds of his own. Florence has, or will have, four hundred pounds of her own. I should call them deuced rich. I should, indeed, as beginners. She could have her pair of ponies here, and what more would she want?"
These arguments did go very far with Mrs. Mountjoy, the farther because in her estimation Sir Magnus was a great man. He was the greatest Englishman, at any rate, in Brussels, and where should she go for advice but to an Englishman? And she did not know that Sir Magnus had succeeded in borrowing a considerable sum of money from his second secretary of legation.
"Leave her to me for a little;—just leave her to me," said Lady Mountjoy.
"I would not say anything hard to her," said the mother, pleading for her naughty child.
"Not too hard, but she must be made to understand. You see there have been misfortunes. As to Mountjoy Scarborough, he's past hoping for."
"You think so?"
"Altogether. When a man has disappeared there's an end of him. There was Lord Baltiboy's younger son disappeared, and he turned out to be a Zouave corporal in a French regiment. They did get him out, of course, but then he went preaching in America. You may take it for granted, that when a man has absolutely vanished from the clubs, he'll never be any good again as a marrying man."
"But there's his brother, who, they say, is to have the property."
"A very cold-blooded sort of young man, who doesn't care a straw for his own family." He had received very sternly the overtures for a loan from Sir Magnus. "And he, as I understand, has never declared himself in Florence's favor. You can't count upon Augustus Scarborough."
"Not just count upon him."
"Whereas there's young Anderson, who is the most gentleman-like young man I know, all ready. It will have been such a turn of luck your coming here and catching him up."
"I don't know that it can be called a turn of luck. Florence has a very nice fortune of her own—"
"And she wants to give it to this penniless reprobate. It is just one of those cases in which you must deal roundly with a girl. She has to be frightened, and that's about the truth of it."
After this, Lady Mountjoy did succeed in getting Florence alone with herself into her morning-room. When her mother told her that her aunt wished to see her, she answered first that she had no special wish to see her aunt. Her mother declared that in her aunt's house she was bound to go when her aunt sent for her. To this Florence demurred. She was, she thought, her aunt's guest, but by no means at her aunt's disposal. But at last she obeyed her mother. She had resolved that she would obey her mother in all things but one, and therefore she went one morning to her aunt's chamber.
But as she went she was, on the first instance, caught by her uncle, and taken by him into a little private sanctum behind his official room. "My dear," he said, "just come in here for two minutes."
"I am on my way up to my aunt."
"I know it, my dear. Lady Mountjoy has been talking it all over with me. Upon my word you can't do anything better than take young Anderson."
"I can't do that, Uncle Magnus."
"Why not? There's poor Mountjoy Scarborough, he has gone astray."
"There is no question of my cousin."
"And Augustus is no better."
"There is no question of Augustus either."
"As to that other chap, he isn't any good;—he isn't indeed."
"You mean Mr. Annesley?"
"Yes; Harry Annesley, as you call him. He hasn't got a shilling to bless himself with, or wouldn't have if he was to marry you."
"But I have got something."
"Not enough for both of you, I'm afraid. That uncle of his has disinherited him."
"His uncle can't disinherit him."
"He's quite young enough to marry and have a family, and then Annesley will be disinherited. He has stopped his allowance, anyway, and you mustn't think of him. He did something uncommonly unhandsome the other day, though I don't quite know what."
"He did nothing unhandsome, Uncle Magnus."
"Of course a young lady will stand up for her lover, but you will really have to drop him. I'm not a hard sort of man, but this was something that the world will not stand. When he thought the man had been murdered he didn't say anything about it for fear they should tax him with it. And then he swore he had never seen him. It was something of that sort."
"He never feared that any one would suspect him."
"And now young Anderson has proposed. I should not have spoken else, but it's my duty to tell you about young Anderson. He's a gentleman all round."
"So is Mr. Annesley."
"And Anderson has got into no trouble at all. He does his duty here uncommonly well. I never had less trouble with any young fellow than I have had with him. No licking him into shape,—or next to none,—and he has a very nice private income. You together would have plenty, and could live here till you had settled on apartments. A pair of ponies would be just the thing for you to drive about and support the British interests. You think of it, my dear, and you'll find that I'm right." Then Florence escaped from that room and went up to receive the much more severe lecture which she was to have from her aunt.
"Come in, my dear," said Lady Mountjoy, in her most austere voice. She had a voice which could assume austerity when she knew her power to be in the ascendant. As Florence entered the room Miss Abbott left it by a door on the other side. "Take that chair, Florence. I want to have a few minutes' conversation with you." Then Florence sat down. "When a young lady is thinking of being married, a great many things have to be taken into consideration." This seemed to be so much a matter of fact that Florence did not feel it necessary to make any reply. "Of course I am aware you are thinking of being married."
"Oh yes," said Florence.
"But to whom?"
"To Harry Annesley," said Florence, intending to imply that all the world knew that.
"I hope not; I hope not. Indeed, I may say that it is quite out of the question. In the first place, he is a beggar."
"He has begged from none," said Florence.
"He is what the world calls a beggar, when a young man without a penny thinks of being married."
"I'm not a beggar, and what I've got will be his."
"My dear, you're talking about what you don't understand. A young lady cannot give her money away in that manner; it will not be allowed. Neither your mother, nor Sir Magnus, nor will I permit it." Here Florence restrained herself, but drew herself up in her chair as though prepared to speak out her mind if she should be driven. Lady Mountjoy would not permit it! She thought that she would feel herself quite able to tell Lady Mountjoy that she had neither power nor influence in the matter, but she determined to be silent a little longer. "In the first place, a gentleman who is a gentleman never attempts to marry a lady for her money."
"But when a lady has the money she can express herself much more clearly than she could otherwise."
"I don't quite understand what you mean by that, my dear."
"When Mr. Annesley proposed to me he was the acknowledged heir to his uncle's property."
"A trumpery affair at the best of it."
"It would have sufficed for me. Then I accepted him."
"That goes for nothing from a lady. Of course your acceptance was contingent on circumstances."
"It was so;—on my regard. Having accepted him, and as my regard remains just as warm as ever, I certainly shall not go back because of anything his uncle may do. I only say this to explain that he was quite justified in his offer. It was not for my small fortune that he came to me."
"I'm not so sure of that."
"But if my money can be of any use to him, he's quite welcome to it. Sir Magnus spoke to me about a pair of ponies. I'd rather have him than a pair of ponies."
"I'm coming to that just now. Here is Mr. Anderson."
"Oh yes; he's here."
There was certainly a touch of impatience in the tone in which this was uttered. It was as though she had said that Mr. Anderson had so contrived that she could have no doubt whatever about his continued presence. Mr. Anderson had made himself so conspicuous as to be visible to her constantly. Lady Mountjoy, who intended at present to sing Mr. Anderson's praises, felt this to be impertinent.
"I don't know what you mean by that. Mr. Anderson has behaved himself quite like a gentleman, and you ought to be very proud of any token you may receive of his regard and affection."
"But I'm not bound to return to it."
"You are bound to think of it when those who are responsible for your actions tell you to do so."
"Mamma, you mean?"
"I mean your uncle, Sir Magnus Mountjoy." She did not quite dare to say that she had meant herself. "I suppose you will admit that Sir Magnus is a competent judge of young men's characters?"
"He may be a judge of Mr. Anderson, because Mr. Anderson is his clerk."
There was something of an intention to depreciate in the word "clerk." Florence had not thought much of Mr. Anderson's worth, nor, as far as she had seen them, of the duties generally performed at the British Embassy. She was ignorant of the peculiar little niceties and intricacies which required the residence at Brussels of a gentleman with all the tact possessed by Sir Magnus. She did not know that while the mere international work of the office might be safely intrusted to Mr. Blow and Mr. Bunderdown, all those little niceties, that smiling and that frowning, that taking off of hats and only half taking them off, that genial, easy manner, and that stiff hauteur, formed the peculiar branch of Sir Magnus himself,—and, under Sir Magnus, of Mr. Anderson. She did not understand that even to that pair of ponies which was promised to her were to be attached certain important functions, which she was to control as the deputy of the great man's deputy And now she had called the great man's deputy a clerk!
"Mr. Anderson is no such thing," said Lady Mountjoy.
"His young man, then,—or private secretary;—only somebody else is that."
"You are very impertinent and very ungrateful. Mr. Anderson is second secretary of legation. There is no officer attached to our establishment of more importance. I believe you say it on purpose to anger me. And then you compare this gentleman to Mr. Annesley, a man to whom no one will speak."
"I will speak to him." Had Harry heard her say that, he ought to have been a happy man in spite of his trouble.
"You! What good can you do him?" Florence nodded her head, almost imperceptibly, but still there was a nod, signifying more than she could possibly say. She thought that she could do him a world of good if she were near him, and some good, too, though she were far away. If she were with him she could hang on to his arm,—or perhaps at some future time round his neck,—and tell him that she would be true to him though all others might turn away. And she could be just as true where she was, though she could not comfort him by telling him so with her own words. Then it was that she resolved upon writing that letter. He should already have what little comfort she might administer in his absence. "Now, listen to me, Florence. He is a thorough reprobate."
"I will not hear him so called. He is no reprobate."
"He has behaved in such a way that all England is crying out about him. He has done that which will never allow any gentleman to speak to him again."
"Then there will be more need that a lady should do so. But it is not true."
"You put your knowledge of character against that of Sir Magnus."
"Sir Magnus does not know the gentleman; I do. What's the good of talking of it, aunt? Harry Annesley has my word, and nothing on earth shall induce me to go back from it. Even were he what you say I would be true to him."
"You would?"
"Certainly I would. I could not willingly begin to love a man whom I knew to be base; but when I had loved him I would not turn because of his baseness;—I couldn't do it. It would be a great—a terrible misfortune; but it would have to be borne. But here—I know all the story to which you allude."
"I know it too."
"I am quite sure that the baseness has not been on his part. In defence of my name he has been silent. He might have spoken out, if he had known all the truth then. I was as much his own then as I am now. One of these days I suppose I shall be more so."
"You mean to marry him, then?"
"Most certainly I do, or I will never be married; and as he is poor now, and I must have my own money when I am twenty-four, I suppose I shall have to wait till then."
"Will your mother's word go for nothing with you?"
"Poor mamma! I do believe that mamma is very unhappy, because she makes me unhappy. What may take place between me and mamma I am not bound, I think, to tell you. We shall be away soon, and I shall be left to mamma alone."
And mamma would be left alone to her daughter, Lady Mountjoy thought. The visit must be prolonged so that at last Mr. Anderson might be enabled to prevail.
The visit had been originally intended for a month, but was now prolonged indefinitely. After that conversation between Lady Mountjoy and her niece two or three things happened, all bearing upon our story. Florence at once wrote her letter. If things were going badly in England with Harry Annesley, Harry should at any rate have the comfort of knowing what were her feelings,—if there might be comfort to him in that. "Perhaps, after all, he won't mind what I may say," she thought to herself; but only pretended to think it, and at once flatly contradicted her own "perhaps." Then she told him most emphatically not to reply. It was very important that she should write. He was to receive her letter, and there must be an end of it. She was quite sure that he would understand her. He would not subject her to the trouble of having to tell her own people that she was maintaining a correspondence, for it would amount to that. But still when the time came for the answer she had counted it up to the hour. And when Sir Magnus sent for her and handed to her the letter,—having discussed that question with her mother,—she fully expected it, and felt properly grateful to her uncle. She wanted a little comfort, too, and when she had read the letter she knew that she had received it.
There had been a few words spoken between the two elder ladies after the interview between Florence and Lady Mountjoy. "She is a most self-willed young woman," said Lady Mountjoy.
"Of course she loves her lover," said Mrs. Mountjoy, desirous of making some excuse for her own daughter. The girl was very troublesome, but not the less her daughter. "I don't know any of them that don't who are worth anything."
"If you regard it in that light, Sarah, she'll get the better of you. If she marries him she will be lost; that is the way you have got to look at it. It is her future happiness you must think of—and respectability. She is a headstrong young woman, and has to be treated accordingly."
"What would you do?"
"I would be very severe."
"But what am I to do? I can't beat her; I can't lock her up in her room."
"Then you mean to give it up?"
"No, I don't. You shouldn't be so cross to me," said poor Mrs. Mountjoy. When it had reached this the two ladies had become intimate. "I don't mean to give it up at all; but what am I to do?"
"Remain here for the next month, and—and worry her; let Mr. Anderson have his chance with her. When she finds that everything will smile with her if she accepts him, and that her life will be made a burden to her if she still sticks to her Harry Annesley, she'll come round, if she be like other girls. Of course a girl can't be made to marry a man, but there are ways and means." By this Lady Mountjoy meant that the utmost cruelty should be used which would be compatible with a good breakfast, dinner, and bedroom. Now, Mrs. Mountjoy knew herself to be incapable of this, and knew also, or thought that she knew, that it would not be efficacious.
"You stay here,—up to Christmas, if you like it," said Sir Magnus to his sister-in-law. "She can't but see Anderson every day, and that goes a long way. She, of course, puts on a resolute air as well as she can. They all know how to do that. Do you be resolute in return. The deuce is in it if we can't have our way with her among us. When you talk of ill usage nobody wants you to put her in chains. There are different ways of killing a cat. You get friends to write to you from England about young Annesley, and I'll do the same. The truth, of course, I mean."
"Nothing can be worse than the truth," said Mrs. Mountjoy, shaking her head, sorrowfully.
"Just so," said Sir Magnus, who was not at all sorrowful to hear so bad an account of the favored suitor. "Then we'll read her the letters. She can't help hearing them. Just the true facts, you know. That's fair; nobody can call that cruel. And then, when she breaks down and comes to our call, we'll all be as soft as mother's milk to her. I shall see her going about the boulevards with a pair of ponies yet." Mrs. Mountjoy felt that when Sir Magnus spoke of Florence coming to his call he did not know her daughter. But she had nothing better to do than to obey Sir Magnus. Therefore she resolved to stay at Brussels another period of six weeks and told Florence that she had so resolved. Just at present Brussels and Cheltenham would be all the same to Florence.
"It will be a dreadful bore having them so long," said poor Lady Mountjoy, piteously, to her husband. For in the presence of Sir Magnus she was by no means the valiant woman that she was with some of her friends.
"You find everything a bore. What's the trouble?"
"What am I to do with them?"
"Take 'em about in the carriage. Lord bless my soul! what have you got a carriage for?"
"Then, with Miss Abbott, there's never room for any one else."
"Leave Miss Abbott at home, then. What's the good of talking to me about Miss Abbott? I suppose it doesn't matter to you whom my brother's daughter marries?" Lady Mountjoy did not think that it did matter much; but she declared that she had already evinced the most tender solicitude. "Then stick to it. The girl doesn't want to go out every day. Leave her alone, where Anderson can get at her."
"He's always out riding with you."
"No, he's not; not always. And leave Miss Abbott at home. Then there'll be room for two others. Don't make difficulties. Anderson will expect that I shall do something for him, of course."
"Because of the money," said Lady Mountjoy, whispering.
"And I've got to do something for her too." Now, there was a spice of honesty about Sir Magnus. He knew that as he could not at once pay back these sums, he was bound to make it up in some other way. The debts would be left the same. But that would remain with Providence.
Then came Harry's letter, and there was a deep consultation. It was known to have come from Harry by the Buntingford post-mark. Mrs. Mountjoy proposed to consult Lady Mountjoy; but to that Sir Magnus would not agree. "She'd take her skin off her if she could, now that she's angered," said the lady's husband, who no doubt knew the lady well. "Of course she'll learn that the letter has been written, and then she'll throw it in our teeth. She wouldn't believe that it had gone astray in coming here. We should give her a sort of a whip-hand over us." So it was decided that Florence should have her letter.
Thus it was arranged that Florence should be left in Mr. Anderson's way. Mr. Anderson, as Sir Magnus had said, was not always out riding. There were moments in which even he was off duty. And Sir Magnus contrived to ride a little earlier than usual so that he should get back while the carriage was still out on its rounds. Lady Mountjoy certainly did her duty, taking Mrs. Mountjoy with her daily, and generally Miss Abbott, so that Florence was, as it were, left to the mercies of Mr. Anderson. She could, of course, shut herself up in her bedroom, but things had not as yet become so bad as that. Mr. Anderson had not made himself terrible to her. She did not, in truth, fear Mr. Anderson at all, who was courteous in his manner and complimentary in his language, and she came at this time to the conclusion that if Mr. Anderson continued his pursuit of her she would tell him the exact truth of the case. As a gentleman, and as a young man, she thought that he would sympathize with her. The one enemy whom she did dread was Lady Mountjoy. She too had felt that her aunt could "take her skin off her," as Sir Magnus had said. She had not heard the words, but she knew that it was so, and her dislike to Lady Mountjoy was in proportion. It cannot be said that she was afraid. She did not intend to leave her skin in her aunt's hands. For every inch of skin taken she resolved to have an inch in return. She was not acquainted with the expressive mode of language which Sir Magnus had adopted, but she was prepared for all such attacks. For Sir Magnus himself, since he had given up the letter to her, she did feel some regard.
Behind the British minister's house, which, though entitled to no such name, was generally called the Embassy, there was a large garden, which, though not much used by Sir Magnus or Lady Mountjoy, was regarded as a valuable adjunct to the establishment. Here Florence betook herself for exercise, and here Mr. Anderson, having put off the muddy marks of his riding, found her one afternoon. It must be understood that no young man was ever more in earnest than Mr. Anderson. He, too, looking through the glass which had been prepared for him by Sir Magnus, thought that he saw in the not very far distant future a Mrs. Hugh Anderson driving a pair of gray ponies along the boulevard and he was much pleased with the sight. It reached to the top of his ambition. Florence was to his eyes really the sort of a girl whom a man in his position ought to marry. A secretary of legation in a small foreign capital cannot do with a dowdy wife, as may a clerk, for instance, in the Foreign Office. A secretary of legation,—the second secretary, he told himself,—was bound, if he married at all, to have a pretty anddistinguéewife. He knew all about the intricacies which had fallen in a peculiar way into his own hand. Mr. Blow might have married a South Sea Islander, and would have been none the worse as regarded his official duties. Mr. Blow did not want the services of a wife in discovering and reporting all the secrets of the Belgium iron trade. There was no intricacy in that, no nicety. There was much of what, in his lighter moments, Mr. Anderson called "sweat." He did not pretend to much capacity for such duties; but in his own peculiar walk he thought that he was great. But it was very fatiguing, and he was sure that a wife was necessary to him. There were little niceties which none but a wife could perform. He had a great esteem for Sir Magnus. Sir Magnus was well thought of by all the court, and by the foreign minister at Brussels. But Lady Mountjoy was really of no use. The beginning and the end of it all with her was to show herself in a carriage. It was incumbent upon him, Anderson, to marry.
He was loving enough, and very susceptible. He was too susceptible, and he knew his own fault, and he was always on guard against it,—as behooved a young man with such duties as his. He was always falling in love, and then using his diplomatic skill in avoiding the consequences. He had found out that though one girl had looked so well under waxlight she did not endure the wear and tear of the day. Another could not be always graceful, or, though she could talk well enough during a waltz, she had nothing to say for herself at three o'clock in the morning. And he was driven to calculate that he would be wrong to marry a girl without a shilling. "It is a kind of thing that a man cannot afford to do unless he's sure of his position," he had said on such an occasion to Montgomery Arbuthnot, alluding especially to his brother's state of health. When Mr. Anderson spoke of not being sure of his position he was always considered to allude to his brother's health. In this way he had nearly got his little boat on to the rocks more than once, and had given some trouble to Sir Magnus. But now he was quite sure. "It's all there all round," he had said to Arbuthnot more than once. Arbuthnot said that it was there—"all round, all round." Waxlight and daylight made no difference to her. She was always graceful. "Nobody with an eye in his head can doubt that," said Anderson. "I should think not, by Jove!" replied Arbuthnot. "And for talking,—you never catch her out; never." "I never did, certainly," said Arbuthnot, who, as third secretary, was obedient and kind-hearted. "And then look at her money. Of course a fellow wants something to help him on. My position is so uncertain that I cannot do without it." "Of course not." "Now, with some girls it's so deuced hard to find out. You hear that a girl has got money, but when the time comes it depends on the life of a father who doesn't think of dying;—damme, doesn't think of it."
"Those fellows never do," said Arbuthnot. "But here, you see, I know all about it. When she's twenty-four,—only twenty-four,—she'll have ten thousand pounds of her own. I hate a mercenary fellow." "Oh yes; that's beastly." "Nobody can say that of me. Circumstanced as I am, I want something to help to keep the pot boiling. She has got it,—quite as much as I want,—quite, and I know all about it without the slightest doubt in the world." For the small loan of fifteen hundred pounds Sir Magnus paid the full value of the interest and deficient security. "Sir Magnus tells me that if I'll only stick to her I shall be sure to win. There's some fellow in England has just touched her heart,—just touched it, you know." "I understand," said Arbuthnot, looking very wise. "He is not a fellow of very much account," said Anderson; "one of those handsome fellows without conduct and without courage." "I've known lots of 'em," said Arbuthnot. "His name is Annesley," said Anderson. "I never saw him in my life, but that's what Sir Magnus says. He has done something awfully disreputable. I don't quite understand what it is, but it's something which ought to make him unfit to be her husband. Nobody knows the world better than Sir Magnus, and he says that it is so." "Nobody does know the world better than Sir Magnus," said Arbuthnot. And so that conversation was brought to an end.
One day soon after this he caught her walking in the garden. Her mother and Miss Abbot were still out with Lady Mountjoy in the carriage, and Sir Magnus had retired after the fatigue of his ride to sleep for half an hour before dinner. "All alone, Miss Mountjoy?" he said.
"Yes, alone, Mr. Anderson. I'm never in better company."
"So I think; but then if I were here you wouldn't be all alone, would you?"
"Not if you were with me."
"That's what I mean. But yet two people may be alone, as regards the world at large. Mayn't they?"
"I don't understand the nicety of language well enough to say. We used to have a question among us when we were children whether a wild beast could howl in an empty cavern. It's the same sort of thing."
"Why shouldn't he?"
"Because the cavern would not be empty if the wild beast were in it. Did you ever see a girl bang an egg against a wall in a stocking, and then look awfully surprised because she had smashed it?"
"I don't understand the joke."
"She had been told she couldn't break an egg in an empty stocking. Then she was made to look in, and there was the broken egg for her pains. I don't know what made me tell you that story."
"It's a very good story. I'll get Miss Abbott to do it to-night. She believes everything."
"And everybody? Then she's a happy woman."
"I wish you'd believe everybody."
"So I do;—nearly everybody. There are some inveterate liars whom nobody can believe."
"I hope I am not regarded as one."
"You? certainly not. If anybody were to speak of you as such behind your back no one would take your part more loyally than I. But nobody would."
"That's something, at any rate. Then you do believe that I love you?"
"I believe that you think so."
"And that I don't know my own heart?"
"That's very common, Mr. Anderson. I wasn't quite sure of my own heart twelve months ago, but I know it now." He felt that his hopes ran very low when this was said. She had never before spoken to him of his rival, nor had he to her. He knew, or fancied that he knew, that "her heart had been touched," as he had said to Arbuthnot. But the "touch" must have been very deep if she felt herself constrained to speak to him on the subject. It had been his desire to pass over Mr. Annesley, and never to hear the name mentioned between them. "You were speaking of your own heart."
"Well I was, no doubt. It is a silly thing to talk of, I dare say."
"I'm going to tell you of my heart, and I hope you won't think it silly. I do so because I believe you to be a gentleman, and a man of honor." He blushed at the words and the tone in which they were spoken, but his heart fell still lower. "Mr. Anderson, I am engaged." Here she paused a moment, but he had nothing to say. "I am engaged to marry a gentleman whom I love with all my heart, and all my strength, and all my body. I love him so that nothing can ever separate me from him, or, at least, from the thoughts of him. As regards all the interests of life, I feel as though I were already his wife. If I ever marry any man I swear to you that it will be him." Then Mr. Anderson felt that all hope had utterly departed from him. She had said that she believed him to be a man of truth. He certainly believed her to be a true-speaking woman. He asked himself, and he found it to be quite impossible to doubt her word on this subject. "Now I will go on and tell you my troubles. My mother disapproves of the man. Sir Magnus has taken upon himself to disapprove, and Lady Mountjoy disapproves especially. I don't care two straws about Sir Magnus and Lady Mountjoy. As to Lady Mountjoy, it is simply an impertinence on her part, interfering with me." There was something in her face as she said this which made Mr. Anderson feel that if he could only succeed in having her and the pair of ponies he would be a prouder man than the ambassador at Paris. But he knew that it was hopeless. "As to my mother, that is indeed a sorrow. She has been to me the dearest mother, putting her only hopes of happiness in me. No mother was ever more devoted to a child, and of all children I should be the most ungrateful were I to turn against her. But from my early years she has wished me to marry a man whom I could not bring myself to love. You have heard of Captain Scarborough?"
"The man who disappeared?"
"He was and is my first cousin."
"He is in some way connected with Sir Magnus."
"Through mamma. Mamma is aunt to Captain Scarborough, and she married the brother of Sir Magnus. Well, he has disappeared and been disinherited. I cannot explain all about it, for I don't understand it; but he has come to great trouble. It was not on that account that I would not marry him. It was partly because I did not like him, and partly because of Harry Annesley. I will tell you everything because I want you to know my story. But my mother has disliked Mr. Annesley, because she has thought that he has interfered with my cousin."
"I understand all that."
"And she has been taught to think that Mr. Annesley has behaved very badly. I cannot quite explain it, because there is a brother of Captain Scarborough who has interfered. I never loved Captain Scarborough, but that man I hate. He has spread those stories. Captain Scarborough has disappeared, but before he went he thought it well to revenge himself on Mr. Annesley. He attacked him in the street late at night, and endeavored to beat him."
"But why?"
"Why indeed. That such a trumpery cause as a girl's love should operate with such a man!"
"I can understand it; oh yes,—I can understand it."
"I believe he was tipsy, and he had been gambling, and had lost all his money—more than all his money. He was a ruined man, and reckless and wretched. I can forgive him, and so does Harry. But in the struggle Harry got the best of it, and left him there in the street. No weapons had been used, except that Captain Scarborough had a stick. There was no reason to suppose him hurt, nor was he much hurt. He had behaved very badly, and Harry left him. Had he gone for a policeman he could only have given him in charge. The man was not hurt, and seems to have walked away."
"The papers were full of it."
"Yes, the papers were full of it, because he was missing. I don't know yet what became of him, but I have my suspicions."
"They say that he has been seen at Monaco."
"Very likely. But I have nothing to do with that. Though he was my cousin, I am touched nearer in another place. Young Mr. Scarborough, who, I suspect, knows all about his brother, took upon himself to cross-question Mr. Annesley. Mr. Annesley did not care to tell anything of that struggle in the streets, and denied that he had seen him. In truth, he did not want to have my name mentioned. My belief is that Augustus Scarborough knew exactly what had taken place when he asked the question. It was he who really was false. But he is now the heir to Tretton and a great man in his way, and in order to injure Harry Annesley he has spread abroad the story which they all tell here."
"But why?"
"He does;—that is all I know. But I will not be a hypocrite. He chose to wish that I should not marry Harry Annesley. I cannot tell you farther than that. But he has persuaded mamma, and has told every one. He shall never persuade me."
"Everybody seems to believe him," said Mr. Anderson, not as intending to say that he believed him now, but that he had done so.
"Of course they do. He has simply ruined Harry. He too has been disinherited now. I don't know how they do these things, but it has been done. His uncle has been turned against him, and his whole income has been taken from him. But they will never persuade me. Nor, if they did, would I be untrue to him. It is a grand thing for a girl to have a perfect faith in the man she has to marry, as I have—as I have. I know my man, and will as soon disbelieve in Heaven as in him. But were he what they say he is, he would still have to become my husband. I should be broken-hearted, but I should still be true. Thank God, though,—thank God,—he has done nothing and will do nothing to make me ashamed of him. Now you know my story."
"Yes; now I know it." The tears came very near the poor man's eyes as he answered.
"And what will you do for me?"
"What shall I do?"
"Yes; what will you do? I have told you all my story, believing you to be a fine-tempered gentleman. You have entertained a fancy which has been encouraged by Sir Magnus. Will you promise me not to speak to me of it again? Will you relieve me of so much of my trouble? Will you;—will you?" Then, when he turned away, she followed him, and put both her hands upon his arm. "Will you do that little thing for me?"
"A little thing!"
"Is it not a little thing,—when I am so bound to that other man that nothing can move me? Whether it be little or whether it be much, will you not do it?" She still held him by the arm, but his face was turned from her so that she could not see it. The tears, absolute tears, were running down his cheeks. What did it behoove him as a man to do? Was he to believe her vows now and grant her request, and was she then to give herself to some third person and forget Harry Annesley altogether? How would it be with him then? A faint heart never won a fair lady. All is fair in love and war. You cannot catch cherries by holding your mouth open. A great amount of wisdom such as this came to him at the spur of the moment. But there was her hand upon his arm, and he could not elude her request. "Will you not do it for me?" she asked again.
"I will," he said, still keeping his face turned away.
"I knew it;—I knew you would. You are high-minded and honest, and cannot be cruel to a poor girl. And if in time to come, when I am Harry Annesley's wife, we shall chance to meet each other,—as we will,—he shall thank you."
"I shall not want that. What will his thanks do for me? You do not think that I shall be silent to oblige him?" Then he walked forth from out of the garden, and she had never seen his tears. But she knew well that he was weeping, and she sympathized with him.
When they went down to dinner that day it became known that Mr. Anderson did not intend to dine with them. "He's got a headache," said Sir Magnus. "He says he's got a headache. I never knew such a thing in my life before." It was quite clear that Sir Magnus did not think that his lieutenant ought to have such a headache as would prevent his coming to dinner, and that he did not quite believe in the headache. There was a dinner ready, a very good dinner, which it was his business to provide. He always did provide it, and took a great deal of trouble to see that it was good. "There isn't a table so well kept in all Brussels," he used to boast. But when he had done his share he expected that Anderson and Arbuthnot should do theirs, especially Anderson. There had been sometimes a few words,—not quite a quarrel but nearly so,—on the subject of dining out. Sir Magnus only dined out with royalty, cabinet ministers, and other diplomats. Even then he rarely got a good dinner—what he called a good dinner. He often took Anderson with him. He was thedoyenamong the diplomats in Brussels, and a little indulgence was shown to him. Therefore he thought that Anderson should be as true to him as was he to Anderson. It was not for Anderson's sake, indeed, who felt the bondage to be irksome;—and Sir Magnus knew that his subordinate sometimes groaned in spirit. But a good dinner is a good dinner,—especially the best dinner in Brussels,—and Sir Magnus felt that something ought to be given in return. He had not that perfect faith in mankind which is the surest evidence of a simple mind. Ideas crowded upon him. Had Anderson a snug little dinner-party, just two or three friends, in his own room? Sir Magnus would not have been very angry,—he was rarely very angry,—but he should like to show his cleverness by finding it out. Anderson had been quite well when he was out riding, and he did not remember him ever before to have had a headache. "Is he very bad, Arbuthnot?"
"I haven't seen him, sir, since he was riding."
"Who has seen him?"
"He was in the garden with me," said Florence, boldly.
"I suppose that did not give him a headache."
"Not that I perceived."
"It is very singular that he should have a headache just when dinner is ready," continued Sir Magnus.
"You had better leave the young man alone," said Lady Mountjoy.
And one who knew the ways of living at the British Embassy would be sure that after this Sir Magnus would not leave the young man alone. His nature was not simple. It seemed to him again that there might be a little dinner-party, and that Lady Mountjoy knew all about it. "Richard," he said to the butler, "go into Mr. Anderson's room and see if he is very bad." Richard came back, and whispered to the great man that Anderson was not in his room. "This is very remarkable. A bad headache, and not in his room! Where is he? I insist on knowing where Mr. Anderson is!"
"You had better leave him alone," said Lady Mountjoy.
"Leave a man alone because he's ill! He might die."
"Shall I go and see?" said Arbuthnot.
"I wish you would, and bring him in here, if he's well enough to show. I don't approve of a young man going without his dinner. There's nothing so bad."
"He'll be sure to get something, Sir Magnus," said Lady Mountjoy. But Sir Magnus insisted that Mr. Arbuthnot should go and look after his friend.
It was now November, and at eight o'clock was quite dark, but the weather was fine, and something of the mildness of autumn remained. Arbuthnot was not long in discovering that Mr. Anderson was again walking in the garden. He had left Florence there and had gone to the house, but had found himself to be utterly desolate and miserable. She had exacted from him a promise which was not compatible with any kind of happiness to which he could now look forward. In the first place, all Brussels knew that he had been in love with Florence Mountjoy. He thought that all Brussels knew it. And they knew that he had been in earnest in this love. He did believe that all Brussels had given him credit for so much. And now they would know that he had suddenly ceased to make love. It might be that this should be attributed to gallantry on his part,—that it should be considered that the lady had been deserted. But he was conscious that he was not so good a hypocrite as not to show that he was broken-hearted. He was quite sure that it would be seen that he had got the worst of it. But when he asked himself questions as to his own condition he told himself that there was suffering in store for him more heavy to bear than these. There could be no ponies, with Florence driving them, and a boy in his own livery behind, seen upon the boulevards. That vision was gone, and forever. And then came upon him an idea that the absence of the girl from other portions of his life might touch him more nearly. He did feel something like actual love. And the more she had told him of her devotion to Harry Annesley, the more strongly he had felt the value of that devotion. Why should this man have it and not he? He had not been disinherited. He had not been knocked about in a street quarrel. He had not been driven to tell a lie as to his having not seen a man when he had, in truth, knocked him down. He had quite agreed with Florence that Harry was justified in the lie; but there was nothing in it to make the girl love him the better for it.
And then, looking forward, he could perceive the possibility of an event which, if it should occur, would cover him with confusion and disgrace. If, after all, Florence were to take, not Harry Annesley, but somebody else? How foolish, how credulous, how vain would he have been then to have made the promise! Girls did such things every day. He had promised, and he thought that he must keep his promise; but she would be bound by no promise! As he thought of it, he reflected that he might even yet exact such a promise from her.
But when the dinner-time came he really was sick with love,—or sick with disappointment. He felt that he could not eat his dinner under the battery of raillery which was always coming from Sir Magnus, and therefore he had told the servants that as the evening progressed he would have something to eat in his own room. And then he went out to wander in the dusk beneath the trees in the garden. Here he was encountered by Mr. Arbuthnot, with his dress boots and white cravat. "What the mischief are you doing here, old fellow?"
"I'm not very well. I have an awfully bilious headache."
"Sir Magnus is kicking up a deuce of a row because you're not there."
"Sir Magnus be blowed! How am I to be there if I've got a bilious headache? I'm not dressed. I could not have dressed myself for a five-pound note."
"Couldn't you, now? Shall I go back and tell him that? But you must have something to eat. I don't know what's up, but Sir Magnus is in a taking."
"He's always in a taking. I sometimes think he's the biggest fool out."
"And there's the place kept vacant next to Miss Mountjoy. Grascour wanted to sit there, but her ladyship wouldn't let him. And I sat next Miss Abbott because I didn't want to be in your way."
"Tell Grascour to go and sit there, or you may do so. It's all nothing to me." This he said in the bitterness of his heart, by no means intending to tell his secret, but unable to keep it within his own bosom.
"What's the matter, Anderson?" asked the other piteously.
"I am clean broken-hearted. I don't mind telling you. I know you're a good fellow, and I'll tell you everything. It's all over."
"All over—with Miss Mountjoy?" Then Anderson began to tell the whole story; but before he had got half through, or a quarter through, another message came from Sir Magnus. "Sir Magnus is becoming very angry indeed," whispered the butler. "He says that Mr. Arbuthnot is to go back."
"I'd better go, or I shall catch it."
"What's up with him, Richard?" asked Anderson.
"Well, if you ask me, Mr. Anderson, I think he's—a-suspecting of something."
"What does he suspect?"
"I think he's a-thinking that perhaps you are having a jolly time of it." Richard had known his master many years, and could almost read his inmost thoughts. "I don't say as it so, but that's what I am thinking."
"You tell him I ain't. You tell him I've a bad bilious headache, and that the air in the garden does it good. You tell him that I mean to have something to eat up-stairs when my head is better; and do you mind and let me have it, and a bottle of claret."
With this the butler went back, and so did Arbuthnot, after asking one other question: "I'm so sorry it isn't all serene with Miss Mountjoy?"
"It isn't then. Don't mind now, but it isn't serene. Don't say a word about her; but she has done me. I think I shall get leave of absence and go away for two months. You'll have to do all the riding, old fellow. I shall go,—but I don't know where I shall go. You return to them now, and tell them I've such a bilious headache I don't know which way to turn myself."
Arbuthnot went back, and found Sir Magnus quarrelling grievously with the butler. "I don't think he's doing anything as he shouldn't," the butler whispered, having seen into his master's mind.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Do let the matter drop," said Lady Mountjoy, who had also seen into her husband's mind, and saw, moreover, that the butler had done so. "A young man's dinner isn't worth all this bother."
"I won't let the matter drop. What does he mean when he says that he isn't doing anything that he shouldn't? I've never said anything about what he was doing."
"He isn't dressed, Sir Magnus. He finds himself a little better now, and means to have something up-stairs." Then there came an awful silence, during which the dinner was eaten. Sir Magnus knew nothing of the truth, simply suspecting the headache to be a myth. Lady Mountjoy, with a woman's quickness, thought that there had been some words between Florence and her late lover, and, as she disliked Florence, was inclined to throw all the blame upon her. A word had been said to Mrs. Mountjoy,—"I don't think he'll trouble me any more, mamma,"—which Mrs. Mountjoy did not quite understand, but which she connected with the young man's absence. But Florence understood it all, and liked Mr. Anderson the better. Could it really be that for love of her he would lose his dinner? Could it be that he was so grievously afflicted at the loss of a girl's heart? There he was, walking out in the dark and the cold, half-famished, all because she loved Harry Annesley so well that there could be no chance for him! Girls believe so little in the truth of the love of men that any sign of its reality touches them to the core. Poor Hugh Anderson! A tear came into her eye as she thought that he was wandering there in the dark, and all for the love of her. The rest of the dinner passed away in silence, and Sir Magnus hardly became cordial and communicative with M. Grascour, even under the influence of his wine.
On the next morning just before lunch Florence was waylaid by Mr. Anderson as she was passing along one of the passages in the back part of the house. "Miss Mountjoy," he said, "I want to ask from your great goodness the indulgence of a few words."
"Certainly."
"Could you come into the garden?"
"If you will give me time to go and change my boots and get a shawl. We ladies are not ready to go out always, as are you gentlemen."
"Anywhere will do. Come in here," and he led the way into a small parlor which was not often used.
"I was so sorry to hear last night that you were unwell, Mr. Anderson."
"I was not very well, certainly, after what I had heard before dinner." He did not tell her that he so far recovered as to be able to drink a bottle of claret and to smoke a couple of cigars in his bedroom. "Of course you remember what took place yesterday."
"Remember! Oh yes. I shall not readily forget it."
"I made you a promise—"
"You did—very kindly."
"And I mean to keep it."
"I'm sure you do, because you're a gentleman."
"I don't think I ought to have made it."
"Oh, Mr. Anderson!"
"I don't think I ought. See what I am giving up."
"Nothing, except the privilege of troubling me."
"But if it should be something else? Do not be angry with me, but, loving you as I do, of course my mind is full of it. I have promised, and must be dumb."
"And I shall be spared great vexation."
"But suppose I were to hear that in six months' time you had married some one else?"
"Mr. Annesley, you mean. Not in six months."
"Somebody else. Not Mr. Annesley."
"There is nobody else."
"But there might be."
"It is impossible. After all that I told you, do not you understand?"
"But if there were?" The poor man, as he made the suggestion, looked very piteous. "If there were, I think you should promise me I shall be that somebody else. That would be no more than fair."
She paused a moment to think, frowning the while. "Certainly not."
"Certainly not?"
"I can make no such promise, nor should you ask it. I am to promise that under certain circumstances I would become your wife, when I know that under no circumstances I would do so."
"Under no circumstances?"
"Under none. What would you have me say, Mr. Anderson? Supposing yourself engaged to marry a girl—"
"I wish I were—to you."
"To a girl who loved you, and whom you loved?"
"There's no doubt about my loving her."
"You can follow my meaning, and I wish that you would do so. What would you think if you were to hear that she had promised to marry some one else in the event of your deserting her? It is out of the question. I mean to be the wife of Harry Annesley. Say that it is not to be so, and you will simply destroy me. Of one thing I may be sure,—that I will marry him or nobody. You promised me, not because your promise was necessary for that, but to spare me from trouble till that time shall come. And I am grateful,—very grateful." Then she left him suffering from another headache.
"Was there anything said between you and Mr. Anderson yesterday?" her aunt inquired, that afternoon.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because it is necessary that I should know."
"I do not see the necessity. Mr. Anderson has, at any rate, your permission to say what he likes to me, but I am not on that account bound to tell you all that he does say. But I will tell you. He has promised to trouble me no farther. I told him that I was engaged to Mr. Annesley, and he, like a gentleman, has assured me that he will desist."
"Just because you asked him?"
"Yes, aunt; just because I asked him."
"He will not be bound by such a promise for a moment. It is a thing not to be heard of. If that kind of thing is to go on, any young lady will be entitled to ask any young gentleman not to say a word of marriage, just at her request."
"Some of the young ladies would not care for that, perhaps."
"Don't be impertinent."
"I should not, for one, aunt; only that I am already engaged."
"And of course the young ladies would be bound to make such requests, which would go for nothing at all. I never heard of anything so monstrous. You are not only to have the liberty of refusing, but are to be allowed to bind a gentleman not to ask!"
"He has promised."
"Pshaw! It means nothing."
"It is between him and me. I asked him because I wished to save myself from being troubled."
"As for that other man, my dear, it is quite out of the question. From all that I hear, it is on the cards that he may be arrested and put into prison. I am quite sure that at any rate he deserves it. The letters which Sir Magnus gets about him are fearful. The things that he has done,—well, penal servitude for life would be the proper punishment. And it will come upon him sooner or later. I never knew a man of that kind escape. And you now to come and tell us that you intend to be his wife!"
"I do," said Florence, bobbing her head.
"And what your uncle says to you has no effect?"
"Not the least in the world; nor what my aunt says. I believe that neither the one nor the other know what they are talking about. You have been defaming a gentleman of the highest character, a Fellow of a college, a fine-hearted, noble, high-spirited man, simply because—because—because—" Then she burst into tears and rushed out of the room; but she did not break down before she had looked at her aunt, and spoken to her aunt with a fierce indignation which had altogether served to silence Lady Mountjoy for the moment.