"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 fixed1 resolution to get Harry2 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 insinuate3 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 supervision4 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 deteriorated5. 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 Continental6 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 aroma7 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 worthy8. You began by disliking him, because he interfered9 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 utterly10 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 constrained11 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 savoring12 of the Roman Catholic religion were abhorrent13 to her. Altogether, as she thought of her own condition and that of her daughter, she felt that the world was sadly out of joint14.
"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 exclusion15. 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 epithets16 that her daughter was the best girl in all the world. She was entirely17 worthy of confidence. Those who knew her were aware that no better behaved young woman could exist. She was conscientious18, 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 immediate19 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 unnaturally20 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 spoke21 of it without a blush,—without any reticence22! Young ladies were much emancipated23, but he did not think that they generally carried their emancipation24 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 alluded25 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."
"Solely26 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 professed27 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 folly28 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 abstained29, and she could not go without paying the debt by some expression of gratitude30. That she would have done so had he kept aloof31 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 lugubrious32 voice, during her last evening.
He had kept his promise to the very letter, mooning about in his desolate33 manner very conspicuously34. 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 chamber35, 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 blighted36 being, because the word had, he thought, become ridiculous; but he would have used it had he dared, as expressing most accurately37 his condition.
"A cloud has passed over me, and its darkness will never be effaced38. 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 disconsolate39, miserable40 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 fidelity41 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 bind42 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 contrive43 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.
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1
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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2
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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3
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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4
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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5
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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7
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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8
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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9
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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10
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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11
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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12
savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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13
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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14
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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15
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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16
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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17
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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18
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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19
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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22
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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23
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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25
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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27
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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28
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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29
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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30
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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31
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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32
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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33
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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34
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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35
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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36
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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37
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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38
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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39
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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40
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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41
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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42
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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43
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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