"By George!" he said one morning, when Sir Magnus had just left the outer office, which he had entered with the object of giving some instruction as to the day's ride, "take her altogether, I never saw a girl so fit as Miss Mountjoy." There was something very remarkable in this speech, as, according to his usual habit of life, Anderson would certainly have called her Florence, whereas his present appellation6 showed an unwonted respect.
"What do you mean when you say that a young lady is fit?" said Mr. Blow.
"I mean that she is right all round, which is a great deal more than can be said of most of them."
"The divine Florence—" began Mr. Montgomery Arbuthnot, struggling to say something funny.
"Young man, you had better hold your tongue, and not talk of young ladies in that language."
"I do believe that he is going to fall in love," said Mr. Blow.
"I say that Miss Mountjoy is the fittest girl I have seen for many a day; and when a young puppy calls her the divine Florence, he does not know what he is about."
"Why didn't you blow Mr. Blow up when he called her a Bird of Paradise?" said Montgomery Arbuthnot. "Divine Florence is not half so disrespectful of a young lady as Bird of Paradise. Divine Florence means divine Florence, but Bird of Paradise is chaff7."
"Mr. Blow, as a married man," said Anderson, "has a certain freedom allowed him. If he uses it in bad taste, the evil falls back upon his own head. Now, if you please, we'll change the conversation." From this it will be seen that Mr. Anderson had really fallen in love with Miss Mountjoy.
But though the week had passed in a harmless way to Sir Magnus and Lady Mountjoy,—in a harmless way to them as regarded their niece and their attaché,—a certain amount of annoyance8 had, no doubt, been felt by Florence herself. Though Mr. Anderson's expressions of admiration9 had been more subdued10 than usual, though he had endeavored to whisper his love rather than to talk it out loud, still the admiration had been both visible and audible, and especially so to Florence herself. It was nothing to Sir Magnus with whom his attaché flirted11. Anderson was the younger son of a baronet who had a sickly elder brother, and some fortune of his own. If he chose to marry the girl, that would be well for her; and if not, it would be quite well that the young people should amuse themselves. He expected Anderson to help to put him on his horse, and to ride with him at the appointed hour. He, in return, gave Anderson his dinner and as much wine as he chose to drink. They were both satisfied with each other, and Sir Magnus did not choose to interfere12 with the young man's amusements. But Florence did not like being the subject of a young man's love-making, and complained to her mother.
Now, it had come to pass that not a word had been said as to Harry13 Annesley since the mother and daughter had reached Brussels. Mrs. Mountjoy had declared that she would consult her brother-in-law in that difficulty, but no such consultation14 had as yet taken place. Indeed, Florence would not have found her sojourn15 at Brussels to be unpleasant were it not for Mr. Anderson's unpalatable little whispers. She had taken them as jokes as long as she had been able to do so, but was now at last driven to perceive that other people would not do so. "Mamma," she said, "don't you think that that Mr. Anderson is an odious16 young man?"
"No, my dear, by no means. What is there odious about him? He is very lively; he is the second son of Sir Gregory Anderson, and has very comfortable means of his own."
"Oh, mamma, what does that signify?"
"Well, my dear, it does signify. In the first place, he is a gentleman, and in the next, has a right to make himself attentive17 to any young lady in your position. I don't say anything more. I am not particularly wedded18 to Mr. Anderson. If he were to come to me and ask for my permission to address you, I should simply refer him to yourself, by which I should mean to imply that if he could contrive19 to recommend himself to you I should not refuse my sanction."
Then the subject for that moment dropped, but Florence was astonished to find that her mother could talk about it, not only without reference to Harry Annesley, but also without an apparent thought of Mountjoy Scarborough; and it was distressing20 to her to think that her mother should pretend to feel that she, her own daughter, should be free to receive the advances of another suitor. As she reflected it came across her mind that Harry was so odious that her mother would have been willing to accept on her behalf any suitor who presented himself, even though her daughter, in accepting him, should have proved herself to be heartless. Any alternative would have been better to her mother than that choice to which Florence had determined21 to devote her whole life.
"Mamma," she said, going back to the subject on the next day, "if I am to stay here for three weeks longer—"
"Yes, my dear, you are to stay here for three weeks longer."
"Then somebody must say something to Mr. Anderson."
"I do not see who can say it but you yourself. As far as I can see, he has not misbehaved."
"I wish you would speak to my uncle."
"What am I to tell him?"
"That I am engaged."
"He would ask me to whom, and I cannot tell him. I should then be driven to put the whole case in his hands, and to ask his advice. You do not suppose that I am going to say that you are engaged to marry that odious young man? All the world knows how atrociously badly he has behaved to your own cousin. He left him lying for dead in the street by a blow from his own hand; and though from that day to this nothing has been heard of Mountjoy, nothing is known to the police of what may have been his fate;—even stranger, he may have perished under the usage which he received, yet Mr. Annesley has not thought it right to say a word of what had occurred. He has not dared even to tell an inspector22 of police the events of that night. And the young man was your own cousin, to whom you were known to have been promised for the last two years."
"No, no!" said Florence.
"I say that it was so. You were promised to your cousin, Mountjoy Scarborough."
"Not with my own consent."
"All your friends,—your natural friends,—knew that it was to be so. And now you expect me to take by the hand this young man who has almost been his murderer!"
"No, mamma, it is not true. You do not know the circumstances, and you assert things which are directly at variance23 with the truth."
"From whom do you get your information? From the young man himself. Is that likely to be true? What would Sir Magnus say as to that were I to tell him?"
"I do not know what he would say, but I do know what is the truth. And can you think it possible that I should now be willing to accept this foolish young man in order thus to put an end to my embarrassments24?"
Then she left her mother's room, and, retreating to her own, sat for a couple of hours thinking, partly in anger and partly in grief, of the troubles of her situation. Her mother had now, in truth, frightened her as to Harry's position. She did begin to see what men might say of him, and the way in which they might speak of his silence, though she was resolved to be as true to him in her faith as ever. Some exertion25 of spirit would, indeed, be necessary. She was beginning to understand in what way the outside world might talk of Harry Annesley, of the man to whom she had given herself and her whole heart. Then her mother was right. And as she thought of it she began to justify26 her mother. It was natural that her mother should believe the story which had been told to her, let it have come from where it might. There was in her mind some suspicion of the truth. She acknowledged a great animosity to her cousin Augustus, and regarded him as one of the causes of her unhappiness. But she knew nothing of the real facts; she did not even suspect that Augustus had seen his brother after Harry had dealt with him, or that he was responsible for his brother's absence. But she knew that she disliked him, and in some way she connected his name with Harry's misfortune.
Of one thing she was certain: let them,—the Mountjoys, and Prospers27, and the rest of the world,—think and say what they would of Harry, she would be true to him. She could understand that his character might be made to suffer, but it should not suffer in her estimation. Or rather, let it suffer ever so, that should not affect her love and her truth. She did not say this to herself. By saying it even to herself she would have committed some default of truth. She did not whisper it even to her own heart. But within her heart there was a feeling that, let Harry be right or wrong in what he had done, even let it be proved, to the satisfaction of all the world, that he had sinned grievously when he had left the man stunned28 and bleeding on the pavement,—for to such details her mother's story had gone,—still, to her he should be braver, more noble, more manly29, more worthy30 of being loved, than was any other man. She, perceiving the difficulties that were in store for her, and looking forward to the misfortune under which Harry might be placed, declared to herself that he should at least have one friend who would be true to him.
"Miss Mountjoy, I have come to you with a message from your aunt." This was said, three or four days after the conversation between Florence and her mother, by Mr. Anderson, who had contrived31 to follow the young lady into a small drawing-room after luncheon32. What was the nature of the message it is not necessary for us to know. We may be sure that it had been manufactured by Mr. Anderson for the occasion. He had looked about and spied, and had discovered that Miss Mountjoy was alone in the little room. And in thus spying we consider him to have been perfectly33 justified34. His business at the moment was that of making love, a business which is allowed to override35 all other considerations. Even the making an office copy of a report made by Mr. Blow for the signature of Sir Magnus might, according to our view of life, have been properly laid aside for such a purpose. When a young man has it in him to make love to a young lady, and is earnest in his intention, no duty, however paramount36, should be held as a restraint. Such was Mr. Anderson's intention at the present moment; and therefore we think that he was justified in concocting37 a message from Lady Mountjoy. The business of love-making warrants any concoction38 to which the lover may resort. "But oh, Miss Mountjoy, I am so glad to have a moment in which I can find you alone!" It must be understood that the amorous39 young gentleman had not yet been acquainted with the young lady for quite a fortnight.
"I was just about to go up-stairs to my mother," said Florence, rising to leave the room.
"Oh, bother your mother! I beg her pardon and yours;—I really didn't mean it. There is such a lot of chaff going on in that outer room, that a fellow falls into the way of it whether he likes it or no."
"My mother won't mind it at all; but I really must go."
"Oh no. I am sure you can wait for five minutes. I don't want to keep you for more than five minutes. But it is so hard for a fellow to get an opportunity to say a few words."
"What words can you want to say to me, Mr. Anderson?" This she said with a look of great surprise, as though utterly40 unable to imagine what was to follow.
"Well, I did hope that you might have some idea of what my feelings are."
"Not in the least."
"Haven't you, now? I suppose I am bound to believe you, though I doubt whether I quite do. Pray excuse me for saying this, but it is best to be open." Florence felt that he ought to be excused for doubting her, as she did know very well what was coming. "I—I—Come, then; I love you! If I were to go on beating about the bush for twelve months I could only come to the same conclusion."
"Perhaps you might then have considered it better."
"Not in the least. Fancy considering such a thing as that for twelve months before you speak of it! I couldn't do it,—not for twelve days."
"So I perceive, Mr. Anderson."
"Well, isn't it best to speak the truth when you're quite sure of it? If I were to remain dumb for three months, how should I know but what some one else might come in the way?"
"But you can't expect that I should be so sudden?"
"That's just where it is. Of course I don't. And yet girls have to be sudden too."
"Have they?"
"They're expected to be ready with their answer as soon as they're asked. I don't say this by way of impertinence, but merely to show that I have some justification41. Of course, if you like to say that you must take a week to think of it, I am prepared for that. Only let me tell my own story first."
"You shall tell your own story, Mr. Anderson; but I am afraid that it can be to no purpose."
"Don't say that,—pray, don't say that,—but do let me tell it." Then he paused; but, as she remained silent, after a moment he resumed the eloquence42 of his appeal. "By George! Miss Mountjoy, I have been so struck of a heap that I do not know whether I am standing43 on my head or my heels. You have knocked me so completely off my pins that I am not at all like the same person. Sir Magnus himself says that he never saw such a difference. I only say that to show that I am quite in earnest. Now I am not quite like a fellow that has no business to fall in love with a girl. I have four hundred a year besides my place in the Foreign Office. And then, of course, there are chances." In this he alluded45 to his brother's failing health, of which he could not explain the details to Miss Mountjoy on the present occasion. "I don't mean to say that this is very splendid, or that it is half what I should like to lay at your feet. But a competence46 is comfortable."
"Money has nothing to do with it, Mr. Anderson."
"What, then? Perhaps it is that you don't like a fellow. What girls generally do like is devotion, and, by George, you'd have that. The very ground that you tread upon is sweet to me. For beauty,—I don't know how it is, but to my taste there is no one I ever saw at all like you. You fit me—well, as though you were made for me. I know that another fellow might say it a deal better, but no one more truly. Miss Mountjoy, I love you with all my heart, and I want you to be my wife. Now you've got it!"
He had not pleaded his cause badly, and so Florence felt. That he had pleaded it hopelessly was a matter of course. But he had given rise to feelings of gentle regard rather than of anger. He had been honest, and had contrived to make her believe him. He did not come up to her ideal of what a lover should be, but he was nearer to it than Mountjoy Scarborough. He had touched her so closely that she determined at once to tell him the truth, thinking that she might best in this way put an end to his passion forever. "Mr. Anderson," she said, "though I have known it to be vain, I have thought it best to listen to you, because you asked it."
"I am sure I am awfully47 obliged to you."
"And I ought to thank you for the kind feeling you have expressed to me. Indeed, I do thank you. I believe every word you have said. It is better to show my confidence in your truth than to pretend to the humility48 of thinking you untrue."
"It is true; it is true,—every word of it."
"But I am engaged." Then it was sad to see the thorough change which came over the young man's face. "Of course a girl does not talk of her own little affairs to strangers, or I would let you have known this before, so as to have prevented it. But, in truth, I am engaged."
"Does Sir Magnus know it, or Lady Mountjoy?"
"I should think not."
"Does your mother?"
"Now you are taking advantage of my confidence, and pressing your questions too closely. But my mother does know of it. I will tell you more;—she does not approve of it. But it is fixed49 in Heaven itself. It may well be that I shall never be able to marry the gentleman to whom I allude44, but most certainly I shall marry no one else. I have told you this because it seems to be necessary to your welfare, so that you may get over this passing feeling."
"It is no passing feeling," said Anderson, with some tragic50 grandeur51.
"At any rate, you have now my story, and remember that it is trusted to you as a gentleman. I have told it you for a purpose." Then she walked out of the room, leaving the poor young man in temporary despair.
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1
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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10
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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14
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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16
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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prospers
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| v.成功，兴旺( prosper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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30
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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31
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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32
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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33
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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override
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| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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38
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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40
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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41
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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42
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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43
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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44
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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45
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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47
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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48
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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49
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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50
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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51
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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