florence, as she went home in the fly with her mother after the party at which harry had spoken to her so openly, did not find the little journey very happy. mrs. mountjoy was a woman endowed with a strong power of wishing rather than of willing, of desiring rather than of contriving; but she was one who could make herself very unpleasant when she was thwarted. her daughter was now at last fully determined that if she ever married anybody, that person should be harry annesley. having once pressed his arm in token of assent, she had as it were given herself away to him, so that no reasoning, no expostulations could, she thought, change her purpose; and she had much more power of bringing about her purposed design than had her mother. but her mother could be obstinate and self-willed, and would for the time make herself disagreeable. florence had assured her lover that everything should be told her mother that night before she went to bed. but mrs. mountjoy did not wait to be simply told. no sooner were they seated in the fly together than she began to make her inquiries. "what has that man been saying to you?" she demanded.
florence was at once offended by hearing her lover so spoken of, and could not simply tell the story of harry's successful courtship, as she had intended. "mamma," she said "why do you speak of him like that?"
"because he is a scamp."
"no, he is no scamp. it is very unkind of you to speak in such terms of one whom you know is very dear to me."
"i do not know it. he ought not to be dear to you at all. you have been for years intended for another purpose." this was intolerable to florence,—this idea that she should have been considered as capable of being intended for the purposes of other people! and a resolution at once was formed in her mind that she would let her mother know that such intentions were futile. but for the moment she sat silent. a journey home at twelve o'clock at night in a fly was not the time for the expression of her resolution. "i say he is a scamp," said mrs. mountjoy. "during all these inquiries that have been made after your cousin he has known all about it."
"he has not known all about it," said florence.
"you contradict me in a very impertinent manner, and cannot be acquainted with the circumstances. the last person who saw your cousin in london was mr. henry annesley, and yet he has not said a word about it, while search was being made on all sides. and he saw him under circumstances most suspicious in their nature; so suspicious as to have made the police arrest him if they were aware of them. he had at that moment grossly insulted captain scarborough."
"no, mamma; no, it was not so."
"how do you know? how can you tell?"
"i do know; and i can tell. the ill-usage had come from the other side."
"then you, too, have known the secret, and have said nothing about it? you, too, have been aware of the violence which took place at that midnight meeting? you have been aware of what befell your cousin, the man to whom you were all but engaged. and you have held your tongue at the instigation, no doubt, of mr. henry annesley. oh, florence, you also will find yourself in the hands of the policeman!" at this moment the fly drew up at the door of the house in montpelier place, and the two ladies had to get out and walk up the steps into the hall, where they were congratulated on their early return from the party by the lady's-maid.
"mamma, i will go to bed," said florence, as soon as she reached her mother's room.
"i think you had better, my dear, though heaven knows what disturbances there may be during the night." by this mrs. mountjoy had intended to imply that prodgers, the policeman, might probably lose not a moment more before he would at once proceed to arrest miss mountjoy for the steps she had taken in regard to the disappearance of captain scarborough.
she had heard from harry annesley the fact that he had been brutally attacked by the captain in the middle of the night in the streets of london; and for this, in accordance with her mother's theory, she was to be dragged out of bed by a constable, and that, probably, before the next morning should have come. there was something in this so ludicrous as regarded the truth of the story, and yet so cruel as coming from her mother, that florence hardly knew whether to cry or laugh as she laid her head upon the pillow.
but in the morning, as she was thinking that the facts of her own position had still to be explained to her mother,— that it would be necessary that she should declare her purpose and the impossibility of change, now that she had once pledged herself to her lover,—mrs. mountjoy came into the room, and stood at her bedside, with that appearance of ghostly displeasure which always belongs to an angry old lady in a night-cap.
"well, mamma?"
"florence, there must be an understanding between us."
"i hope so. i thought there always had been. i am sure, mamma, you have known that i have never liked captain scarborough so as to become his wife, and i think you have known that i have liked harry annesley."
"likings are all fiddlesticks!"
"no, mamma; or, if you object to the word, i will say love. you have known that i have not loved my cousin, and that i have loved this other man. that is not nonsense; that at any rate is a stern reality, if there be anything real in the world."
"stern! you may well call it stern."
"i mean unbending, strong, not to be overcome by outside circumstances. if mr. annesley had not spoken to me as he did last night,—could never have so spoken to me,—i should have been a miserable girl, but my love for him would have been just as stern. i should have remained and thought of it, and have been unhappy through my whole life. but he has spoken, and i am exultant. that is what i mean by stern. all that is most important, at any rate to me."
"i am here now to tell you that it is impossible."
"very well, mamma. then things must go on, and we must bide our time."
"it is proper that i should tell you that he has disgraced himself."
"never! i will not admit it. you do not know the circumstances," exclaimed florence.
"it is most impertinent in you to pretend that you know them better than i do," said her mother, indignantly.
"the story was told to me by himself."
"yes; and therefore told untruly."
"i grieve that you should think so of him, mamma; but i cannot help it. where you have got your information i cannot tell. but that mine has been accurately told to me i feel certain."
"at any rate, my duty is to look after you and to keep you from harm. i can only do my duty to the best of my ability. mr. annesley is, to my thinking, a most objectionable young man, and he will, i believe, be in the hands of the police before long. evidence will have to be given, in which your name will, unfortunately, be mentioned."
"why my name?"
"it is not probable that he will keep it a secret, when cross-questioned, as to his having divulged the story to some one. he will declare that he has told it to you. when that time shall come it will be well that we should be out of the country. i propose to start from here on this day week."
"uncle magnus will not be able to have us then."
"we must loiter away our time on the road. i look upon it as quite imperative that we shall both be out of england within eight days' time of this."
"but where will you go?"
"never mind. i do not know that i have as yet quite made up my mind. but you may understand that we shall start from cheltenham this day week. baker will go with us, and i shall leave the other two servants in charge of the house. i cannot tell you anything farther as yet,—except that i will never consent to your marriage with mr. henry annesley. you had better know that for certain, and then there will be less cause for unhappiness between us." so saying, the angry ghost with the night-cap on stalked out of the room.
it need hardly be explained that mrs. mountjoy's information respecting the scene in london had come to her from augustus scarborough. when he told her that annesley had been the last in london to see his brother mountjoy, and had described the nature of the scene that had occurred between them, he had no doubt forgotten that he himself had subsequently seen his brother. in the story, as he had told it, there was no need to mention himself,—no necessity for such a character in making up the tragedy of that night. no doubt, according to his idea, the two had been alone together. harry had struck the blow by which his brother had been injured, and had then left him in the street. mountjoy had subsequently disappeared, and harry had told to no one that such an encounter had taken place. this had been the meaning of augustus scarborough when he informed his aunt that harry had been the last who had seen mountjoy before his disappearance. to mrs. mountjoy the fact had been most injurious to harry's character. harry had wilfully kept the secret while all the world was at work looking for mountjoy scarborough; and, as far as mrs. mountjoy could understand, it might well be that harry had struck the fatal blow that had sent her nephew to his long account. all the impossibilities in the case had not dawned upon her. it had not occurred to her that mountjoy could not have been killed and his body made away with without some great effort, in the performance of which the "scamp" would hardly have risked his life or his character. but the scamp was certainly a scamp, even though he might not be a murderer, or he would have revealed the secret. in fact, mrs. mountjoy believed in the matter exactly what augustus had intended, and, so believing, had resolved that her daughter should suffer any purgatory rather than become harry's wife.
but her daughter made her resolutions exactly in the contrary direction. she in truth did know what had been done on that night, while her mother was in ignorance. the extent of her mother's ignorance she understood, but she did not at all know where her mother had got her information. she felt that harry's secret was in hands other than he had intended, and that some one must have spoken of the scene. it occurred to florence at the moment that this must have come from mountjoy himself, whom she believed,—and rightly believed,—to have been the only second person present on the occasion. and if he had told it to any one, then must that "any one" know where and how he had disappeared. and the information must have been given to her mother solely with the view of damaging harry's character, and of preventing harry's marriage.
thinking of all this, florence felt that a premeditated and foul attempt,—for, as she turned it in her mind, the attempt seemed to be very foul,—was being made to injure harry. a false accusation was brought against him, and was grounded on a misrepresentation of the truth in such a manner as to subvert it altogether to harry's injury. it should have no effect upon her. to this determination she came at once, and declared to herself solemnly that she would be true to it. an attempt was made to undermine him in her estimation; but they who made it had not known her character. she was sure of herself now, within her own bosom, that she was bound in a peculiar way to be more than ordinarily true to harry annesley. in such an emergency she ought to do for harry annesley more than a girl in common circumstances would be justified in doing for her lover. harry was maligned, ill-used, and slandered. her mother had been induced to call him a scamp, and to give as her reason for doing so an account of a transaction which was altogether false, though she no doubt had believed it to be true.
as she thought of all this she resolved that it was her duty to write to her lover, and tell him the story as she had heard it. it might be most necessary that he should know the truth. she would write her letter and post it,—so that it should be altogether beyond her mother's control,—and then would tell her mother that she had written it. she at first thought that she would keep a copy of the letter and show it to her mother. but when it was written,—those first words intended for a lover's eyes which had ever been produced by her pen,—she found that she could not subject those very words to her mother's hard judgment.
her letter was as follows:
"dear harry,—you will be much surprised at receiving a letter from me so soon after our meeting last night. but i warn you that you must not take it amiss. i should not write now were it not that i think it may be for your interest that i should do so. i do not write to say a word about my love, of which i think you may be assured without any letter. i told mamma last night what had occurred between us, and she of course was very angry. you will understand that, knowing how anxious she has been on behalf of my cousin mountjoy. she has always taken his part, and i think it does mamma great honor not to throw him over now that he is in trouble. i should never have thrown him over in his trouble, had i ever cared for him in that way. i tell you that fairly, master harry.
"but mamma, in speaking against you, which she was bound to do in supporting poor mountjoy, declared that you were the last person who had seen my cousin before his disappearance, and she knew that there had been some violent struggle between you. indeed, she knew all the truth as to that night, except that the attack had been made by mountjoy on you. she turned the story all round, declaring that you had attacked him,—which, as you perceive, gives a totally different appearance to the whole matter. somebody has told her,—though who it may have been i cannot guess,—but somebody has been endeavoring to do you all the mischief he can in the matter, and has made mamma think evil of you. she says that after attacking him, and brutally ill-using him, you had left him in the street, and had subsequently denied all knowledge of having seen him. you will perceive that somebody has been at work inventing a story to do you a mischief, and i think it right that i should tell you.
"but you must never believe that i shall believe anything to your discredit. it would be to my discredit now. i know that you are good, and true, and noble, and that you would not do anything so foul as this. it is because i know this that i have loved you, and shall always love you. let mamma and others say what they will, you are now to me all the world. oh, harry, harry, when i think of it, how serious it seems to me, and yet how joyful! i exult in you, and will do so, let them say what they may against you. you will be sure of that always. will you not be sure of it?
"but you must not write a line in answer, not even to give me your assurance. that must come when we shall meet at length,—say after a dozen years or so. i shall tell mamma of this letter, which circumstances seem to demand, and shall assure her that you will write no answer to it.
"oh, harry, you will understand all that i might say of my feelings in regard to you.
"your own, florence."
this letter, when she had written it and copied it fair and posted the copy in the pillar-box close by, she found that she could not in any way show absolutely to her mother. in spite of all her efforts it had become a love-letter. and what genuine love-letter can a girl show even to her mother? but she at once told her of what she had done. "mamma, i have written a letter to harry annesley."
"you have?"
"yes, mamma; i have thought it right to tell him what you had heard about that night."
"and you have done this without my permission,—without even telling me what you were going to do?"
"if i had asked you, you would have told me not."
"of course i should have told you not. good gracious! has it come to this, that you correspond with a young gentleman without my leave, and when you know that i would not have given it?"
"mamma, in this instance it was necessary."
"who was to judge of that?"
"if he is to be my husband—"
"but he is not to be your husband. you are never to speak to him again. you shall never be allowed to meet him; you shall be taken abroad, and there you shall remain, and he shall hear nothing about you. if he attempts to correspond with you—"
"he will not."
"how do you know?"
"i have told him not to write."
"told him, indeed! much he will mind such telling! i shall give your uncle magnus a full account of it all and ask for his advice. he is a man in a high position, and perhaps you may think fit to obey him, although you utterly refuse to be guided in any way by your mother." then the conversation for the moment came to an end. but florence, as she left her mother, assured herself that she could not promise any close obedience in any such matters to sir magnus.
