Florence stood ready cloaked and bonneted beside them when this was spoken, but though delighted, oh! delighted past telling, by hearing him say so, she was no fluttered, or in any way vehemently agitated by it. The idea that it was possible Sir Charles Temple should think of falling in love with her, and ask her to be his wife, had never for a single moment, under any form or disguise of dream or vision, entered her young head; and when she looked wistfully and hopefully at Algernon for his answer, it was only because she anticipated with great satisfaction, which she would have frankly avowed to everybody, (excepting perhaps to cousin Sophy,) the hearing every word Sir Charles Temple was going to say the whole time of the walk, because it would all be said to herself, instead of being spoken with his head turned to Algernon, as often happened when they all walked together.
“That is too bad, Sir Charles!” was Algernon’s reply, “for I wanted particularly to ask you about the snow, and if it was likely we should be stopped. However, never mind, that will do as we go along to-morrow; and I’ll go and have a gossip with mamma, about a hundred and fifty things that I have not bad time to talk about yet. So get you gone, with your secret; only be sure not to forget what my mother said about the bill that she MUST have it in, you know, before the end of the week, because else positively he will never be paid at all, on account of their going away.”
This took place at the distance of at least a quarter of a mile from the house; Sir Charles having more than once had occasion to observe, during the last week, that his now dutiful and well-behaved ward seldom failed to propose joining herself to the walking party, whenever any of Algernon’s personal preparations for the journey kept him at home. Never did this happen, however, under any other circumstances, for a more cordial aversion than the heiress felt for her cousin Algernon has rarely perhaps been experienced by any young lady for any young gentleman.
They were now, however, quite out of sight of the house, and too distant from it, to fear the possibility of being overtaken by any one, much less by so deliberate a stepper as Miss Martin Thorpe.
Not a word was spoken after this very unreserved arrangement was completed, till the sound of Algernon’s retreating steps was no longer to be heard. Sir Charles’s arm had been silently offered, and silently taken; but this was an honour which had often fallen upon Florence before, and therefore created no surprise. When it seemed quite certain that they were indeed alone, Sir Charles determined to begin speaking, and then, to his great surprise, he found that his heart beat so violently, as hardly to allow him breath for utterance. But though he could not very consistently have denied that of late his heart had been his master, he had no intention that its pulsations should master him now, and making a vigorous effort he articulated.... “My dear Miss Florence.... will you give me leave to speak to you?”
“Leave!...” repeated Florence gently, but without any sigh, “Oh yes! Sir Charles, I shall like to hear whatever you have got to say to me.”
The baronet pressed her arm the very least in the world, and then began as follows, — a mode of courting as much out of the common way, perhaps, as the style in which he had secured the tête-à-tête, required for it; —
“have you ever heard anybody mention, Florence, how very, very, poor l am?”
“Poor? Sir Charles Temple... what can you mean by calling yourself poor? How can you be poor?... But you are only jesting,” replied Florence, and she looked up at him, and smiled, exceedingly like an angel.
“I should be very sorry if I thought that you were in earnest, Miss Heathcote.... I should be very sorry if I conceived it possible that you believed me to be rich,” replied Sir Charles gravely, nay almost sadly.
“Why?” said Florence.
“Because such an idea would altogether deceive you, Florence. Instead of rich, I am, for my station, most lamentably poor.”
“Do you mind it?” said Florence.
“Mind it?... Perhaps when thinking of myself only, I do not mind it.... I have not, I believe, minded it, so much as I ought to do.. But cannot you imagine how much more painful the thought of it must be, when the idea of another being joined with one is mixed with it?... another, Florence, ten thousand times dearer than oneself.... whose every wish it would be joy to gratify, and whom to see want anything would be agony.”
That Sir Charles Temple, with the beautiful house that people said so much about, should be so poor as to talk of want, was certainly very surprising; but as he said it was so, no doubt for a moment remained upon the mind of Florence that such was the fact; and she did feel “very sorry for it, for she knew very well indeed that it must make him uncomfortable. And besides this conviction, which was quite painful enough, another idea had occurred to her, which made her extremely unhappy. She thought that what he was saying to her alluded to Algernon, to the additional expense that must be occasioned by his accompanying him, and by the fear, perhaps, that he might not be able to indulge him so much as his generous kindness would wish — Oh! it was very painful! and the more so, of course, because she did not know what in the world to say to him. Not for a moment did she suppose that the kind Sir Charles repented of having invited her brother.... No, no, that was not it. Sir Charles loved Algernon, loved him dearly, and, as she truly believed, anticipated as much pleasure from taking the boy, as the boy did from being taken... But if, as she believed, the baronet, notwithstanding his title and fine house, was really poor, he might hot be able to indulge any of those idle wishes, which it was so easy to imagine might arise. “Dear, kind, Sir Charles! what could she say to make him feel more comfortable?” She knew she ought to say something, and after a little delay replied...
“I am sure you don’t know, Sir Charles, what a rough, cheap way of doing things we have always been used to...”Don’t fancy that Algernon will have any wants or wishes beyond the great delight of travelling through a new country, with a friend, new too, but so very, very kind that it is difficult to believe he is not an old one. I am sure Algernon would a thousand times rather not go at all than think that he was a trouble to you — Talk to him about it, as soon as we go home, and he would presently make you understand what sort of ideas he has about extravagance.”
“Florence!” said Sir Charles, taking the little hand which rested upon his left arm, into his right hand... “Florence! I was not thinking of Algernon.”
Florence was very young... but little more than seventeen, and younger still in womanly knowledge than in age... Yet the action, the words, the accent of the young man seemed to awaken a new being within her, and she suddenly stopped, trembling from head to foot.
“Florence! my sweet Florence!... Do not tremble thus because you find I love you!”... and the position of his arms was again changed, and one stole round her waist as if to support her... “I would not be thus abrupt in speaking to you, dearest Florence... if... if more time remained to me. I had taught myself to believe that I could leave you, Florence, and that it would be better I should do so, without confessing that, notwithstanding I was not in circumstances to marry, I had not been able to preserve my heart from love. But I cannot do it. Every wish of my soul is centred in the hope that I may make you love me,... love me, Florence, well enough to make you careless Of the difference between having such a house as Temple, filled with servants and with company; and living in it, almost as I do now, without a carriage, Florence... in great retirement, and taxing all our ingenuity to find out how to live without getting into debt? Speak one word... one little word to me, sweet Florence! Gould you consent to live this hermit’s life with me?”
“No!... It is impossible!” said Florence, drawing a long breath.
“Merciful heaven! Have I then deceived myself?” ejaculated the deeply-wounded young man. “So sternly prompt!... so hopelessly decisive!”... and withdrawing the arm that encircled her, he stepped hastily forward, thoughtless and careless of what to do or to say, next.
But Florence heard him not; she was hardly conscious that he had left her standing alone, o
n the spot where she had first heard the astounding words, “I love you!”
After striding on, melo-dramatically enough, for a step or two, the heart-stricken Sir Charles turned back to see how far she had already got on her way home, and beheld his Atalanta, spellbound, as it seemed, and as little likely to run away as a statue.
His return was more rapid still than his departure, but his countenance expressed a vast deal more of despair than of hope.
“What is it, Miss Heathcote, that you declare impossible?” said he, stopping short before her at the distance of about four feet, and in a voice most preternaturally hoarse and disagreeable: “What is impossible?”
“That you.... that Sir Charles Temple should love me!” murmured Florence, her hands clasped, and her tearful eyes once more raised to meet his.
“Oh Florence! Florence!... why have you tortured me?” he eagerly exclaimed; but, strange to say, in a voice that sounded most singularly musical. “Why make me think myself the most miserable wretch that crawls between heaven and earth, when one dear look of those angelic eyes could make me the happiest?” and so saying, and in such utter defiance of all decorum that his historian is almost afraid to relate it, he actually seized her in his arms, and without further ceremony impressed one, two, three, most passionate kisses on her lips.
Florence was terrified... no, not quite terrified either, but in sober truth she was so vehemently agitated, that if the impetuous young man had not once again thrown a supporting arm around her, it is no exaggeration to say that she might have fallen.
“Forgive me! oh forgive me, Florence!” he exclaimed, with very genuine self-condemnation as he saw every trace of colour vanish from her cheeks and lips... “This is strange wooing, dearest! First I frighten you by drawing, perhaps, an exaggerated picture of my poverty,.... then rush from you like a madman, without giving myself time to look into your gentle eyes.... and then!.... Have pity, Florence! I cannot finish the catalogue of my offences for very shame! Can you forgive me, Florence?”
During all this vehemence poor Florence stood as quiet as a lamb.... The only evidence of her knowing what was passing, being, that silent but copious drops chased each other down her face;.... and his only rational hope of forgiveness arising from the fact, that she did not withdraw the hand he had taken, on returning to her.
After the interval of a minute or two, the really penitent Sir Charles had the satisfaction of seeing her colour return, and then he very gently drew her arm again within his, in proper walking order, and at a slow and not very fatiguing pace they proceeded onwards. At first the conversation between them was not very intelligible, but by degrees they were both sufficiently recovered, for the one to speak and the other to comprehend what was meant to be said and understood. It was not indeed very easy to make Florence believe that what Sir Charles Temple really meant was, that he wanted her to be his wife, and that at a time not farther off than a year at the very farthest, as he said; but when at last she did folly understand that it was so, a very considerable degree of happiness was mixed with her astonishment, and he had the inexpressible ecstasy of seeing her smile once or twice, as he went on to describe to her, rather more clearly than at first, the sort of life that he thought they might lead at Temple. The more he talked, the less she understood what he could possibly mean about being poor; but a sort of instinct prevented her telling him so. She felt, rather than thought, that it would be like telling him that she saw no objection to their marrying directly; so on this point she was most profoundly silent; yet nevertheless he did contrive to find out before they got home, that she did think it was possible she might be very happy at Temple, even without a carriage.
As to the way in which they got home, they could have given no very good account of it themselves. It seemed, upon thinking the matter over afterwards, that instead of turning to the left, which was the only way to get to the mill, they most certainly had followed a sweeping turn to the right, by which, in about three hours, they arrived, to their own unspeakable dismay and astonishment, exactly in front of the village church, and within a hundred yards of Major Heathcote’s door.
“What shall we do about the miller’s bill, Florence?” said Sir Charles, laughing. “Do you remember how very zealously we promised Algernon not to forget it?”
“Sir Charles!” replied Florence, looking away from him, and leaving only the profil perdu of her blushing cheek to be seen; “Sir Charles! I must tell mamma everything that has passed today.”
“Do so, dear love,” he replied, “and authorize me to do the same to your good father. But beyond these, my Florence, let not our secret go, for some months to come. I would rather that Algernon did not know it, for my own sake.... I would rather Miss Martin Thorpe did not know it, for yours. When people are very much in earnest, dearest, they love not light jesting, even from such a friend as Algernon; and trust me, I should not like to think that while I was hoarding in my heart of hearts the dear engagement upon which hangs my more than life, Miss Martin Thorpe should have the power of cross-examining you on the subject, and calling up blushes perhaps, which I should hold it as a robbery were any one but my most happy self to see.”
Fluttering, trembling, with hardly power to walk, or even to breathe, but so infinitely happy that even as she stumbled up the stairs she felt “lapped in Elysium,” Florence reached her own ‘ little room, and for about half-an-hour enjoyed, unquestioned and unseen, the contemplation of her almost incredible happiness. That she had loved Sir Charles Temple, long before it had ever entered her head as a thing possible that he could love her, she was now obliged to confess to her own conscious heart; and her fair cheeks, albeit unseen of all but heaven, did certainly blush “celestial rosy red,” as her reluctant memory made the avowal. But despite this terrible mortification, she did not attempt to conceal from herself the fact that she was most superlatively happy; and when, at the conclusion of this beatified half-hour, she employed a pair of little trotting feet, which she heard passing her door, to carry an invitation to her good step-mother, the narrative she had to recount on her arrival gave her more pleasure than pain in the telling, though it was delivered with blushes and with tears.
Mrs. Heathcote’s joy, and astonishment also, were in very fair proportion to her own; and so vehement indeed were her exclamations of delight, that Florence began to fear it would be very difficult to restrain them within the bounds prescribed by Sir Charles. “But you must remember, dearest mamma,” she cried, “that nobody in the world is to know of it except papa. Not even Algernon, and least of all cousin Sophy... it is Sir Charles’s most particular desire.”
“And his particular desire shall be attended to, Florence, let it cost me what it will,” she replied. “But I won’t deny, for there’s no use in it, that I should have liked to see how Sophy Martin would have looked when she heard you were going to be Lady Temple, and mistress of the very finest place in Herefordshire... But don’t look so frightened, Florence; I have promised not to say a word about it, and I won’t. But to be sure it is a most extraordinary piece of good fortune. Mercy on me, Florence! How delighted your poor dear father will be! — Bless him!... I saw what he felt, though he did not say a single syllable about it; I saw what he felt, when he brought the news about Sophy. It is a comfort, dear, isn’t it, to think that we didn’t make that terrible costly journey to Thorpe-Combe for nothing. Algernon’s journey to the finest country in the world, and your marriage to the handsomest and kindest man in it, is well worth the hire of the post-chaise. And, of course, I am glad, you know, about Sophy, into the bargain.... not but what yours will be the finer fortune of the two, I believe, when the old Lady Temple dies.... for l know she has got two thousand a year settled upon her for life out of the estate; and old ladies can’t live for ever, you know.”
“Dearest mother!... I wish you would think more of Sir Charles, and less of his fortune; and, besides, I believe you are quite mistaken about it, for he is rather unhappy, I am afraid, about being so exceedingly
poor; but I shall not mind that in the least, if he won’t. Don’t you remember, mother, how often you have told me that I should make an excellent wife to a poor man, because I was easily contented? I longed to tell him that you said so, but I did not.”
While this was going on up stairs, Major Heathcote was shut up with his aspirant son-in-law in the little study below; and not a whit less happy was he than his lady, though the young man dilated a good deal upon his poverty, and lamented deeply that under the present circumstances of the property, he could not propose to settle more than a thousand a year upon his lovely Florence. Major Heathcote wrung his hand when the mortifying statement was ended, and said, with characteristic frankness, “It may seem very little to you, Sir Charles, and I know you speak sincerely, when you say so; but to me, my dear friend, who have not a hundred pounds in the world to give my daughter, you must surely be aware that it seems much.”
Major Heathcote cordially approved the present secrecy, so urgently pleaded for by the young baronet; for though he said little or nothing about it, he was by no means unaware of several little peculiarities in the temper of the new heiress, which might be likely enough to make her a disagreeable companion to the young fiancée, if she were permitted to know anything about her engagement.
The party, therefore, met at the last dinner they were all likely to partake together for a long time, with a great variety of individual sources of meditation; but as they were all agreeable, the evening passed away quietly and smoothly to all external appearance, but with a vast deal more of real happiness than any mere looker-on could have divined.
The parting of the next morning was considerably less delightful; for then, perhaps, the sorrow felt was as much beyond what was apparent, as joy had been the evening before. But the hour of measured farewells, hidden tears, and unspoken grief, passed away, and left Bamboo Cottage in a state as different as it was well possible to imagine from that in which the recent return of its master, with his almost stranger guest, had found it.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 299