Now at last in this chapter has to be told the fate of Florence Mountjoy, as far as it can be told in these pages. It was, at any rate, her peculiarity1 to attach to herself, by bonds which could not easily be severed2, those who had once thought that they might be able to win her love. An attempt has been made to show how firm and determined3 were the affections of Harry4 Annesley, and how absolutely he trusted in her word when once it had been given to him. He had seemed to think that when she had even nodded to him, in answer to his assertion that he desired her to be his wife, all his trouble as regarded her heart had been off his mind.
There might be infinite trouble as to time,—as to ten years, three years, or even one year; trouble in inducing her to promise that she would become his wife in opposition5 to her mother; but he had felt sure that she never would be the wife of any one else. How he had at last succeeded in mitigating6 the opposition of her mother, so as to make the three years, or even the one year, appear to himself an altogether impossible delay, the reader knows. How he at last contrived7 to have his own way altogether, so that, as Florence told him, she was merely a ball in his hand, the reader will have to know very shortly. But not a shade of doubt had ever clouded Harry's mind as to his eventual8 success since she had nodded to him at Mrs. Armitage's ball. Though this girl's love had been so grand a thing to have achieved, he was quite sure from that moment that it would be his forever.
With Mountjoy Scarborough there had never come such a moment, and never could; yet he had been very confident, so that he had lived on the assurance that such a moment would come. And the self-deportment natural to her had been such that he had shown his assurance. He never would have succeeded; but he should not the less love her sincerely. And when the time came for him to think what he should do with himself, those few days after his father's death, he turned to her as his one prospect9 of salvation10. If his cousin Florence would be good to him all might yet be well. He had come by that time to lose his assurance. He had recognized Harry Annesley as his enemy, as has been told often enough in these pages. Harry was to him a hateful stumbling-block. And he had not been quite as sure of her fidelity11 to another as Harry had been sure of it to himself. Tretton might prevail. Trettons do so often prevail. And the girl's mother was all on his side. So he had gone to Cheltenham, true as the needle to the pole, to try his luck yet once again. He had gone to Cheltenham, and there he found Harry Annesley. All hopes for him were then over and he started at once for Monaco; or, as he himself told himself, for the devil.
Among the lovers of Florence some memory may attach itself to poor Hugh Anderson. He too had been absolutely true to Florence. From the hour in which he had first conceived the idea that she would make him happy as his wife, it had gone on growing upon him with all the weight of love, He did not quite understand why he should have loved her so dearly, but thus it was. Such a Mrs. Hugh Anderson, with a pair of horses on the boulevards, was to his imagination the most lovely sight which could be painted. Then Florence took the mode of disabusing12 him which has been told, and Hugh Anderson gave the required promise. Alas13, in what an unfortunate moment had he done so! Such was his own thought. For though he was sure of his own attachment14 to her, he could not mount high enough to be as sure of her to somebody else. It was a "sort of thing a man oughtn't to have been asked to promise," he said to the third secretary. And having so determined, he made up his mind to follow her to England and to try his fortune once again.
Florence had just wished Harry good-bye for the day, or rather for the week. She cared for nothing now in the way of protestations of affection. "Come Harry—there now—don't be so unreasonable15. Am not I just as impatient as you are? This day fortnight you will be back, and then—"
"Then there will be some peace, won't there? But mind you write every day." And so Harry was whisked away, as triumphant16 a man as ever left Cheltenham by the London train. On the following morning Hugh Anderson reached Cheltenham and appeared in Montpellier Place.
"My daughter is at home, certainly," said Mrs. Mountjoy. There was something in the tone which made the young man at once assure himself that he had better go back to Brussels. He had even been a favorite with Mrs. Mountjoy. In his days of love-making poor Mountjoy had been absent, declared no longer to have a chance of Tretton, and Harry had been—the very evil one himself. Mrs. Mountjoy had been assured by the Brussels Mountjoy that, with the view of getting well rid of the evil one, she had better take poor Anderson to her bosom17. She had opened her bosom accordingly, but with very poor results. And now he had come to look after what result there might be. Mrs. Mountjoy felt that he had better go back to Brussels.
"Could I not see her?" asked Anderson.
"Well, yes; you could see her."
"Mrs. Mountjoy, I'll tell you everything, just as though you were my own mother. I have loved your daughter;—oh, I don't know how it is! If she'd be my wife for two years, I don't think I'd mind dying afterward18."
"Oh, Mr. Anderson!"
"I wouldn't. I never heard of a case where a girl had got such a hold of a man as she has of me."
"You don't mean to say that she has behaved badly?"
"Oh no! She couldn't behave badly;—it isn't in her. But she can bowl a fellow over in the most—well, most desperate manner. As for me, I'm not worth my salt since I first saw her. When I go to ride with the governor I haven't a word to say to him," But this ended in Mrs. Mountjoy going and promising19 that she would send Florence down in her place. She knew that it would be in vain; but to a young man who had behaved so well as Mr. Anderson so much could not be refused. "Here I am again," he said, very much like Punch in the pantomime.
"Oh, Mr. Anderson! how do you do?"
A lover who is anxious to prevail with a lady should always hold up his head. Where is the writer of novels, or of human nature, who does not know as much as that? And yet the man who is in love, truly in love, never does hold up his head very high. It is the man who is not in love who does so. Nevertheless it does sometimes happen that the true lover obtains his reward. In this case it was not observed to be so. But now Mr. Anderson was sure of his fate, so that there was no encouragement to him to make any attempt at holding up his head. "I have come once more to see you," he said.
"I am sure it gives mamma so much pleasure."
"Mrs. Mountjoy is very kind. But it hasn't been for her. The truth is, I couldn't settle down in this world without having another interview."
"What am I to say, Mr. Anderson?"
"I'll just tell you how it all is. You know what my prospects20 are." She did not quite remember, but she bowed to him. "You must know, because I told you. There is nothing I kept concealed21." Again she bowed. "There can be no possible family reason for my going to Kamtchatka."
"Kamtchatka!"
"Yes, indeed;—the F.O." (The F.O. always meant the Foreign Office.) "The F.O. wants a young man on whom it can thoroughly22 depend to go to Kamtchatka. The allowances are handsome enough, but the allowances are nothing to me."
"Why should you go?"
"It is for you to decide. Yes, you can detain me. If I go to that bleak23 and barren desert, it will merely be to court exile from that quarter of the globe in which you and I would have to live together and not separate. That I cannot stand. In Kamtchatka—Well, there is no knowing what may happen to me then."
"But I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Annesley."
"You told me something of that before."
"But it's all fixed24. Mamma will tell you. It's to be this day fortnight. If you'd only stay and come as one of my friends."
Surely such a proposition as this is the unkindest that any young lady can make; but we believe that it is made not unfrequently. In the present case it received no reply.
Mr. Anderson took up his hat and rushed to the door. Then he returned for a moment. "God bless you, Miss Mountjoy!" he said. "In spite of the cruelty of that suggestion, I must bid God bless you." And then he was gone. About a week afterward M. Grascour appeared upon the scene with precisely25 the same intention. He, too, retained in his memory a most vivid recollection of the young lady and her charms. He had heard that Captain Scarborough had inherited Tretton, and had been informed that it was not probable that Miss Florence Mountjoy would marry her cousin. He was somewhat confused in his ideas, and thought, that were he now to re-appear on the scene there might still be a chance for him. There was no lover more unlike Mr. Anderson than M. Grascour. Not even for Florence Mountjoy, not even to own her, would he go to Kamtchatka; and were he not to see her he would simply go back to Brussels. And yet he loved her as well as he knew how to love any one, and, would she have become his wife, would have treated her admirably. He had looked at it all round, and could see no reason why he should not marry her. Like a persevering26 man, he persevered27; but as he did so, no glimmering28 of an idea of Kamtchatka disturbed him.
But from this farther trouble Mrs. Mountjoy was able to save her daughter. M. Grascour made his way into Mrs. Mountjoy's presence, and there declared his purpose. He had been sent over on some question connected with the literature of commerce, and had ventured to take the opportunity of coming down to Cheltenham. He hoped that the truth of his affection would be evinced by the journey. Mrs. Mountjoy had observed, while he was making his little speech, how extremely well brushed was his hat. She had observed, also, that poor Mr. Anderson's hat was in such a condition as almost to make her try to smooth it down for him. "If you make objection to my hat, you should brush it yourself," she had heard Harry say to Florence, and Florence had taken the hat, and had brushed it with fond, lingering touches.
"M. Grascour, I can assure you that she is really engaged," Mrs. Mountjoy had said. M. Grascour bowed and sighed. "She is to be married this day week."
"Indeed!"
"To Mr. Harry Annesley."
"Oh-h-h! I remember the gentleman's name. I had thought—"
"Well, yes; there were objections, but they have luckily disappeared." Though Mrs. Mountjoy was only as yet happy in a melancholy29 manner, rejoicing with but bated joy at her girl's joys, she was too loyal to say a word now against Harry Annesley.
"I should not have troubled you, but—"
"I am sure of that, M. Grascour; and we are both of us grateful to you for your good opinion. I know very well how high is the honor which you are doing Florence, and she will quite understand it. But you see the thing is fixed; it's only a week." Florence was said, at the moment, to be not at home, though she was up-stairs, looking at four dozen new pocket-handkerchiefs which had just come from the pocket-handkerchief merchant, with the letters F.A. upon them. She had much more pleasure in looking at them than she would have had in listening to the congratulations of M. Grascour.
"He's a very good man, no doubt, mamma; a deal better, perhaps, than Harry." That, however, was not her true opinion. "But one can't marry all the good men."
There was almost more trouble taken down at Buston about Harry's marriage than his sister's, though Harry was to be married at Cheltenham; and only his father, and one of his sisters as a bride's maid, were to go down to assist upon the occasion. His father was to marry them. And his mother had at last consented to postpone30 the joy of seeing Florence till she was brought home from her travels, a bride three months old. Nevertheless, a great fuss was made, especially at Buston Hall. Mr. Prosper32 had become comparatively light in heart since the duty of providing a wife for Buston, and a future mother for Buston's heirs, had been taken off his shoulders and thrown upon those of his nephew. The more he looked back upon the days of his own courtship the more did his own deliverance appear to him to be almost a work of Heaven. Where would he have been had Miss Thoroughbung made good her footing in Buston Hall? He used to shut his eyes and gently raise his left hand toward the skies as he told himself that this evil thing had passed by him.
But it had passed by, and it was expected that there should be a lunch of some sort at Buston; and as, with all his diligent33 inquiry34, he had heard nothing but good of Florence, she should be received with as hearty35 a welcome as he could give her. There was one point which troubled him more than all others. He was determined to refurnish the drawing-room and also the bedroom in which Florence was destined36 to sleep. He told his sister in the most solemn manner that he had at last made up his mind thoroughly. The thing should be done. She understood how great a thing it was for him to do. "The two centre rooms!" he said, with an almost tragic37 air. Then he sent for her the next day, and told her that, on farther considerations, he had determined to add in the dressing-room.
The whole parish felt the effect. It was not so much that the parish was struck by the expenditure38 proposed,—because the squire39 was known to be a man who had not for years spent all his income,—but that he had given way so far on behalf of a nephew whom he had lately been so anxious to disinherit. Rumor40 had already reached Buntingford of what the squire had intended to do on the receipt of his own wife,—rumors which had of course since faded away into nothing. It had been positively41 notified to Buntingford that there should be really a new carpet and new curtains in the drawing-room. Miss Thoroughbung had been known to have declared at the brewery42 that the whole thing should be done before she had been there twelve months.
"He shall go the whole hog," she had said. And there had been a little bet about it between her and her brother, who entertained an idea that Mr. Prosper was an obstinate43 man. And Joe had brought tidings of the bet to the parsonage, so that there had been much commotion44 on the subject. When the best room had been included, and then the dressing-room, even Matthew had been alarmed. "It'll come to as much as five hundred pounds!" he had whispered to Mrs. Annesley. Matthew seemed to think that it was quite time that there should be somebody to control his master. "Why, ma'am, it's only the other day, because I can remember it myself, when that loo-table came into the house new!" Matthew had been in the place over twenty years. When Mrs. Annesley reminded him that fashions were changed, and that other kinds of table were required, he only shook his head.
But there was a question more vital than that of expense. How was the new furniture to be chosen? The first idea was that Florence should be invited to spend a week at her future home, and go up and down to London with either Mrs. Annesley or her brother, and select the furniture herself. But there were reasons against this. Mr. Prosper would like to surprise her by the munificence45 of what he did. And the suggestion of one day was sure to wane46 before the stronger lights of the next. Mr. Prosper, though he intended to be munificent47, was still a little afraid that it should be thrown away as a thing of course, or that it should appear to have been Harry's work. That would be manifestly unjust. "I think I had better do it myself," he said to his sister.
"Perhaps I could help you, Peter." He shuddered48; but it was at the memory of the sound of the word "Peter," as it had been blurted49 out for his express annoyance50 by Miss Thoroughbung. "I wouldn't mind going up to London with you." He shook his head, demanding still more time for deliberation. Were he to accept his sister's offer he would be bound by his acceptance. "It's the last drawing-room carpet I shall ever buy," he said to himself, with true melancholy, as he walked back home across the park.
Then there had been the other grand question of the journey, or not, down to Cheltenham. In a good-natured way Harry had told him that the wedding would be no wedding without his presence. That had moved him considerably51. It was very desirable that the wedding should be more than a merely legal wedding. The world ought to be made aware that the heir to Buston had been married in the presence of the Squire of Buston. But the journey was a tremendous difficulty. If he could have gone from Buston direct to Cheltenham it would have been comparatively easy. But he must pass through London, and to do this must travel the whole way between the Northern and Western railway-stations. And the trains would not fit. He studied his Bradshaw for an entire morning and found that they would not fit. "Where am I to spend the hour and a quarter?" he asked his sister, mournfully. "And there would be four journeys, going and coming,—four separate journeys!" And these would be irrespective of numerous carriages and cabs. It was absolutely impossible that he should be present in the flesh on that happy day at Cheltenham. He was left at home for three months,—July, August, and September,—in which to buy the furniture; which, however, was at last procured52 by Mr. Annesley.
The marriage, as far as the wedding was concerned, was not nearly as good fun as that of Joe and Molly. There was no Mr. Crabtree there, and no Miss Thoroughbung. And Mrs. Mountjoy, though she meant to do it all as well as it could be done, was still joyous53 only with bated joy. Some tinge54 of melancholy still clung to her. She had for so many years thought of her nephew as the husband destined for her girl, that she could not be as yet demonstrative in her appreciation55 of Harry Annesley. "I have no doubt we shall come to be true friends, Mr. Annesley," she had said to him.
"Don't call me Mr. Annesley."
"No, I won't, when you come back again and I am used to you. But at present there—there is a something—"
"A regret, perhaps?"
"Well, not quite a regret. I am an old-fashioned person, and I can't change my manners all at once. You know what it was that I used to hope."
"Oh yes. But Florence was very stupid, and would have a different opinion."
"Of course I am happy now. Her happiness is all the world to me. And things have undergone a change."
"That's true. Mr. Prosper has made over the marrying business to me, and I mean to go through it like a man. Only you must call me Harry." This she promised to do, and did, in the seclusion56 of her room, give him a kiss. But still her joy was not loud, and the hilarity57 of her guests was moderated. Mr. Annesley did his best, and the bridesmaids' dresses were pretty,—which is all that is required of a bride's maid. Then at last the father's carriage came, and they were carried away to Gloucester, where they were committed to the untender, commonplace, but much more comfortable mercies of the railway-carriage. There we will part with them, and encounter them again but for a few moments as, after a long day's ramble58, they made their way back to a solitary59 but comfortable hotel among the Bernese Alps. Florence was on a pony60, which Harry had insisted on hiring for her, though Florence had declared herself able to walk the whole way. It had been very hot, and she was probably glad of the pony. They both had alpenstocks in their hands, and on the pommel of her saddle hung the light jacket with which he had started, and which had not been so light but that he had been glad to ease himself of the weight. The guide was lagging behind, and they two were close together. "Well, old girl!" he said, "and now what do you think of it all?"
"I'm not so very much older than I was when you took me, pet."
"Oh, yes, you are. Half of your life has gone; you have settled down into the cares and duties of married life, none of which had been so much as thought of when I took you."
"Not thought of! They have been on my mind ever since that night at Mrs. Armitage's."
"Only in a romantic and therefore untrue sort of manner. Since that time you have always thought of me with a white choker and dress-boots."
"Don't flatter yourself; I never looked at your boots."
"You knew that they were the boots and the clothes of a man making love, didn't you? I don't care personally very much about my own boots: I never shall care about another pair; but I should care about them. Anything that might give me the slightest assistance."
"Nothing was wanted; it had all been done, Harry."
"My pet! But still a pair of high-lows heavy with nails would not have been efficacious then. I should think I love him, you might have said to yourself, but he is such an awkward fellow."
"It had gone much beyond that at Mrs. Armitage's."
"But now you have to take my high-lows as part of your duty."
"And you?"
"When a man loves a woman he falls in love with everything belonging to her. You don't wear high-lows. Everything you possess as specially31 your own has to administer to my sense of love and beauty."
"I wish—I wish it might be so."
"There is no danger about that at all. But I have to come before you on an occasion such as this as a kind of navvy,—and you must accept me." She glanced around furtively61 to see whether their guide was looking, but the guide had gone back out of sight. For, sitting on her pony, she had her arm around his neck and kissed him. "And then there is ever so much more," he continued. "I don't think I snore?"
"Indeed, no! There isn't a sound comes from you. I sometimes look to see if I think you are alive."
"But if I do, you'll have to put up with it. That would be one of your duties as a wife. You never could have thought of that when I had those dress-boots on."
"Of course I didn't. How can you talk such rubbish?"
"I don't know whether it is rubbish. Those are the kind of things that must fall upon a woman so heavily. Suppose I were to beat you?"
"Beat me!"
"Yes;—hit you over the head with this stick!"
"I am sure you would not do that."
"So am I. But suppose I were to? Your mother must be told of my leaving that poor man bloody62 and speechless. What if I were to carry out my usual habits as then shown? Take care, my darling, or that brute'll throw you!" This he said as the pony stumbled over a stone.
"Almost as unlikely as you are. One has to risk dangers in the world, but one makes the risk as little as possible. I know they won't give me a pony that will tumble down; and I know that I've told you to look to see that they don't. You chose the pony, but I had to choose you. I don't know very much about ponies63, but I do know something about a lover, and I know that I have got one that will suit me."
The End
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peculiarity
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severed
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determined
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harry
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opposition
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mitigating
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contrived
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eventual
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prospect
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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disabusing
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| v.去除…的错误想法( disabuse的现在分词 )；使醒悟 | |
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alas
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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afterward
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promising
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prospects
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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thoroughly
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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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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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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persevering
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persevered
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glimmering
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melancholy
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postpone
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specially
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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diligent
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inquiry
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hearty
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destined
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tragic
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expenditure
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squire
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rumor
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positively
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brewery
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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44
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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munificent
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| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
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48
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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49
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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52
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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55
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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62
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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