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 p.r.o.nounced to be unladylike. An unmarried girl should, he thought, under no circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sion of unsatisfied love made him feel chill at his heart. Who was this Harry Annesley, for whom she professed so warm a feeling? Her mother declared Harry Annesley to be a scapegrace, and something of the story of a discreditable midnight street quarrel between him and the young lady"s cousin had reached his ears. He did not suppose it to be possible that the young lady could actually get married without her mother"s co-operation, and therefore he thought that he still would go to England. In one respect he was altogether untouched. If he could ultimately succeed in marrying the young lady, she would not be a bit the worse as his wife because she had been attached to Harry Annesley.
That was a kind of folly which a girl could very quickly get over when she had not been allowed to have her own way. Therefore, upon the whole, he thought that he would go to England.
But the parting with Anderson had also to be endured, and must necessarily be more difficult. She owed him a debt for having abstained, and she could not go without paying the debt by some expression of grat.i.tude. That she would have done so had he kept aloof was a matter of course; but equally a matter of course was it that he would not keep aloof. "I shall want to see you for just five minutes to-morrow morning before you take your departure," he said, in a lugubrious voice, during her last evening.
He had kept his promise to the very letter, mooning about in his desolate manner very conspicuously. The desolation had been notorious, and very painful to Florence,--but the promise had been kept, and she was grateful. "Oh, certainly, if you wish it," she said.
"I do wish it." Then he made an appointment and she promised to keep it.
It was in the ball-room, a huge chamber, very convenient for its intended purpose, and always handsome at night-time, but looking as desolate in the morning as did poor Anderson himself. He was stalking up and down the long room when she entered it, and being at the farther end, stalked up to her and addressed her with words which he had chosen for the purpose. "Miss Mountjoy," he said, "you found me here a happy, light-hearted young man."
"I hope I leave you soon to be the same, in spite of this little accident."
He did not say that he was a blighted being, because the word had, he thought, become ridiculous; but he would have used it had he dared, as expressing most accurately his condition.
"A cloud has pa.s.sed over me, and its darkness will never be effaced. It has certainly been your doing."
"Oh, Mr. Anderson! what can I say?"
"I have loved before,--but never like this."
"And so you will again."
"Never! When I declare that, I expect my word to be respected," He paused for an answer, but what could she say? She did not at all respect his word on such a subject, but she did respect his conduct. "Yes; I call upon you to believe me when I say that for me all that is over. But it can be nothing to you."
"It will be very much to me."
"I shall go on in the same disconsolate, miserable way, I suppose I shall stay here, because I shall be as well here as anywhere else. I might move to Lisbon,--but what good would that do me? Your image would follow me to whatever capital I might direct my steps. But there is one thing you can do." Here he brightened up, putting on quite an altered face.
"I will do anything, Mr. Anderson--in my power."
"If--if--if you should change--"
"I shall never change!" she said, with an angry look.
"If you should change, I think you should remember the promise you exacted and the fidelity with which it has been kept."
"I do remember it."
"And then I should be allowed to come again and have my chance. Wherever I may be, at the court of the Shah of Persia or at the Chinese capital, I will instantly come. I promised you when you asked me. Will you not now promise me?"
"I cannot promise anything--so impossible."
"It will bind you to nothing but to let me know that Mr. Annesley has gone his way." But she had to explain to him that it was impossible she should make any promise founded on the idea that Mr. Henry Annesley should ever go any way in which she would not accompany him. With that he had to be as well satisfied as the circ.u.mstances of the case would admit, and he left her with an a.s.surance, not intended to be quite audible, that he was and ever should be a blighted individual.
When the carriage was at the door Sir Magnus came down into the hall, full of smiles and good-humor; but at that moment Lady Mountjoy was saying a last word of farewell to her relatives in her own chamber.
"Good-bye, my dear; I hope you will get well through all your troubles."
This was addressed to Mrs. Mountjoy. "And as for you, my dear," she said, turning to Florence, "if you would only contrive to be a little less stiff-necked, I think the world would go easier with you."
"I think my stiff neck, aunt, as you call it, is what I have chiefly to depend upon,--I mean in reference to other advice than mamma"s. Good-bye, aunt."
"Good-bye, Florence." And the two parted, hating each other as only female enemies can hate. But Florence, when she was in the carriage, threw herself on to her mother"s neck and kissed her.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
MR. PROSPER CHANGES HIS MIND.
When Florence with her mother reached Cheltenham she found a letter lying for her, which surprised her much. The the letter was from Harry, and seemed to have been written in better spirits than he had lately displayed. But it was very short:
"DEAREST FLORENCE,--When can I come down? It is absolutely necessary that I should see you. All my plans are likely to be changed in the most extraordinary manner.
"n.o.body can say that this is a love-letter.
"Yours affectionately, H. A."
Florence, of course, showed the letter to her mother, who was much frightened by its contents. "What am I to say to him when he comes?" she exclaimed.
"If you will be so very, very good as to see him you must not say anything unkind."
"Unkind! How can I say anything else than what you would call unkind? I disapprove of him altogether. And he is coming here with the express object of taking you away from me."
"Oh no;--not at once."
"But at some day,--which I trust may be very distant. How can I speak to him kindly when I feel that he is my enemy?" But the matter was at last set at rest by a promise from Florence that she would not marry her lover in less than three years without her mother"s express consent.
Three years is a long time, was Mrs. Mountjoy"s thought, and many things might occur within that term. Harry, of whom she thought all manner of unnatural things, might probably in that time have proved himself to be utterly unworthy. And Mountjoy Scarborough might again have come forward in the light of the world. She had heard of late that Mountjoy had been received once more into his father"s full favor. And the old man had become so enormously rich through the building of mills which had been going on at Tretton, that, as Mrs. Mountjoy thought, he would be able to make any number of elder sons. On the subject of entail her ideas were misty; but she felt sure that Mountjoy Scarborough would even yet become a rich man. That Florence should be made to change on that account she did not expect. But she did think that when she should have learned that Harry was a murderer, or a midnight thief, or a wicked conspirator, she would give him up. Therefore she agreed to receive him with not actually expressed hostility when he should call at Montpelier Place.
But now, in the proper telling of our story, we must go back to Harry Annesley himself. It will be remembered that his father had called upon Mr. Prosper, to inform him of Harry"s projected journey to America; that Mountjoy Scarborough had also called at Buston Hall; and that previous to these two visits old Mr. Scarborough had himself written a long letter giving a detailed account of the conflict which had taken place in the London streets. These three events had operated strongly on Mr.
Prosper"s mind; but not so strongly as the conduct of Miss Thoroughbung and Messrs. Soames & Simpson. It had been made evident to him, from the joint usage which he had received from these persons, that he was simply "made use of," with the object of obtaining from him the best possible establishment for the lady in question.
After that interview, at which the lady, having obtained in way of jointure much more than was due to her, demanded also for Miss Tickle a life-long home, and for herself a pair of ponies, he received a farther letter from the lawyers. This offended him greatly. Nothing on earth should induce him to write a line to Messrs. Soames & Simpson. Nor did he see his way to writing again to Messrs. Grey & Barry about such trifles as those contained in the letter from the Buntingford lawyers.
Trifles to him they were not; but trifles they must become, if put into a letter addressed to a London firm. "Our client is anxious to know specifically that she is to be allowed to bring Miss Tickle with her, when she removes to Buston Hall. Her happiness depends greatly on the company of Miss Tickle, to which she had been used now for many years.
Our client wishes to be a.s.sured also that she shall be allowed to keep a pair of ponies in addition to the carriage-horses, which will be maintained, no doubt, chiefly for your own purposes." These were the demands as made by Messrs. Soames & Simpson, and felt by Mr. Prosper to be altogether impossible. He recollected the pa.s.sionate explosion of wrath to which the name of Miss Tickle had already brought him in presence of the clergyman of his parish. He would endure no farther disgrace on behalf of Miss Tickle. Miss Tickle should never be an inmate of his house, and as for the ponies, no pony should ever be stabled in his stalls. A pony was an animal which of its very nature was objectionable to him. There was a want of dignity in a pony to which Buston Hall should never be subjected. "And also," he said to himself at last, "there is a lack of dignity about Miss Thoroughbung herself which would do me an irreparable injury."
But how should he make known his decision to the lady herself? and how should he escape from the marriage in such a manner as to leave no stain on his character as a gentleman? If he could have offered her a sum of money, he would have done so at once; but that he thought would not be gentleman-like,--and would be a confession on his own part that he had behaved wrongly.
At last he determined to take no notice of the lawyers" letter, and himself to write to Miss Thoroughbung, telling her that the objects which they proposed to themselves by marriage were not compatible, and that therefore their matrimonial intentions must be allowed to subside.
He thought it well over, and felt a.s.sured that very much of the success of such a measure must depend upon the wording of the letter. There need be no immediate haste. Miss Thoroughbung would not come to Buston again quite at once to disturb him by a farther visit. Before she would come he would have flown to Italy. The letter must be courteous, and somewhat tender, but it must be absolutely decisive. There must be no loop-hole left by which she could again entangle him, no crevice by which she could creep into Buston. The letter should be a work of time. He would give himself a week or ten days for composing it. And then, when it should have been sent, he would be off to Italy.
But before he could allow himself to go upon his travels he must settle the question about his nephew, which now lay heavy upon his conscience.
He did feel that he had ill treated the young man. He had been so told in very strong language by Mr. Scarborough of Tretton, and Mr.
Scarborough of Tretton was a man of very large property, and much talked about in the world. Very wonderful things were said about Mr.
Scarborough, but they all tended to make Mr. Prosper believe that he was a man of distinction. And he had also heard lately about Mr.
Scarborough"s younger son,--or, indeed, his only son, according to the new way of speaking of him,--tidings which were not much in that young man"s favor. It was from Augustus Scarborough that he had heard those evil stories about his own nephew. Therefore his belief was shaken; and it was by no means clear to him that there could be any other heir for their property.
Miss Thoroughbung had proved herself to be altogether unfit for the high honor he had intended her. Miss Puffle had gone off with Farmer Tazlehurst"s son. Mr. Prosper did not think that he had energy enough to look for a third lady who might be fit at all points to become his wife.
And now another evil had been added to all these. His nephew had declared his purpose of emigrating to the United States and becoming an American. It might be true that he should be driven to do so by absolute want. He, Mr. Prosper, had stopped his allowance, and had done so after deterring him from following any profession by which he might have earned his bread. He had looked into the law, and, as far as he could understand it, Buston must become the property of his nephew, even though his nephew should become an American citizen. His conscience p.r.i.c.ked him sorely as he thought of the evil which might thus accrue, and of the disgrace which would be attached to his own name. He therefore wrote the following letter to his nephew, and sent it across to the parsonage, done up in a large envelope, and sealed carefully with the Buston arms. And on the corner of the envelope "Peter Prosper" was written very legibly: