Mr. Scarborough's Family. Anthony TrollopeЧитать онлайн книгу.
wrote down his name for both. I almost think that Florence must have suspected that Harry Annesley was to be there that night, or why should the two places have been kept vacant? "And now what is this," he began, "about your going to Brussels?"
"Mamma's brother is minister there, and we are just going on a visit."
"But why now? I am sure there is some especial cause." Florence would not say that there was no especial cause, so she could only repeat her assertion that they certainly were going to Brussels. She herself was well aware that she was to be taken out of Harry's way, and that something was expected to occur during this short month of her absence which might be detrimental to him—and to her also. But this she could not tell, nor did she like to say that the plea given by her mother was the general state of the Scarborough affairs. She did not wish to declare to this lover that that other lover was as nothing to her. "And how long are you to be away?" asked Harry.
"We shall be a month with Sir Magnus; but mamma is talking of going on afterward to the Italian lakes."
"Good heavens! you will not be back, I suppose, till ever so much after Christmas?"
"I cannot tell. Nothing as yet has been settled. I do not know that I ought to tell you anything about it." Harry at this moment looked up, and caught the eye of Mrs. Mountjoy, as she was standing in the door-way opposite. Mrs. Mountjoy certainly looked as though no special communication as to Florence's future movements ought to be made to Harry Annesley.
Then, however, it came to his turn to dance, and he had a moment allowed to him to collect his thoughts. By nothing that he could do or say could he prevent her going, and he could only use the present moment to the best purpose in his power. He bethought himself then that he had never received from her a word of encouragement, and that such word, if ever to be spoken, should be forthcoming that night. What might not happen to a girl who was passing the balmy Christmas months amid the sweet shadows of an Italian lake? Harry's ideas of an Italian lake were, in truth, at present somewhat vague. But future months were, to his thinking, interminable; the present moment only was his own. The dance was now finished. "Come and take a walk," said Harry.
"I think I will go to mamma." Florence had seen her mother's eye fixed upon her.
"Oh, come, that won't do at all," said Harry, who had already got her hand within his arm. "A fellow is always entitled to five minutes, and then I am down for the next waltz."
"Oh no!"
"But I am, and you can't get out of it now. Oh, Florence, will you answer me a question—one question? I asked it you before, and you did not vouchsafe me any answer."
"You asked me no question," said Florence, who remembered to the last syllable every word that had been said to her on that occasion.
"Did I not? I am sure you knew what it was that I intended to ask." Florence could not but think that this was quite another thing. "Oh, Florence, can you love me?" Had she given her ears for it she could not have told him the truth then, on the spur of the moment. Her mother's eye was, she knew, watching her through the door-way all the way across from the other room. And yet, had her mother asked her, she would have answered boldly that she did love Harry Annesley, and intended to love him for ever and ever with all her heart. And she would have gone farther if cross-questioned, and have declared that she regarded him already as her lord and master. But now she had not a word to say to him. All she knew was that he had now pledged himself to her, and that she intended to keep him to his pledge. "May I not have one word," he said—"one word?"
What could he want with a word more? thought Florence. Her silence now was as good as any speech. But as he did want more she would, after her own way, reply to him. So there came upon his arm the slightest possible sense of pressure from those sweet fingers, and Harry Annesley was on a sudden carried up among azure-tinted clouds into the farthest heaven of happiness. After a moment he stood still, and passed his fingers through his hair and waved his head as a god might do it. She had now made to him a solemn promise than which no words could be more binding. "Oh, Florence," he exclaimed, "I must have you alone with me for one moment." For what could he want her alone for any moment? thought Florence. There was her mother still looking at them; but for her Harry did not now care one straw. Nor did he hate those bright Italian lakes with nearly so strong a feeling of abhorrence. "Florence, you are now all my own." There came another slightest pressure, slight, but so eloquent from those fingers.
"I hate dancing. How is a fellow to dance now? I shall run against everybody. I can see no one. I should be sure to make a fool of myself. No, I don't want to dance even with you. No, certainly not!—let you dance with somebody else, and you engaged to me! Well, if I must, of course I must. I declare, Florence, you have not spoken a single word to me, though there is so much that you must have to say. What have you got to say? What a question to ask! You must tell me. Oh, you know what you have got to tell me! The sound of it will be the sweetest music that a man can possibly hear."
"You knew it all, Harry," she whispered.
"But I want to hear it. Oh, Florence, Florence, I do not think you can understand how completely I am beyond myself with joy. I cannot dance again, and will not. Oh, my wife, my wife!"
"Hush!" said Florence, afraid that the very walls might hear the sound of Harry's words.
"What does it signify though all the world knew it?"
"Oh yes."
"That I should have been so fortunate! That is what I cannot understand. Poor Mountjoy! I do feel for him. That he should have had the start of me so long, and have done nothing!"
"Nothing," whispered Florence.
"And I have done everything. I am so proud of myself that I think I must look almost like a hero."
They had now got to the extremity of the room near an open window, and Florence found that she was able to say one word. "You are my hero." The sound of this nearly drove him mad with joy. He forgot all his troubles. Prodgers, the policeman, Augustus Scarborough, and that fellow whom he hated so much, Septimus Jones;—what were they all to him now? He had set his mind upon one thing of value, and he had got it. Florence had promised to be his, and he was sure that she would never break her word to him. But he felt that for the full enjoyment of his triumph he must be alone somewhere with Florence for five minutes. He had not actually explained to himself why, but he knew that he wished to be alone with her. At present there was no prospect of any such five minutes, but he must say something in preparation for some future five minutes at a time to come. Perhaps it might be to-morrow, though he did not at present see how that might be possible, for Mrs. Mountjoy, he knew, would shut her door against him. And Mrs. Mountjoy was already prowling round the room after her daughter. Harry saw her as he got Florence to an opposite door, and there for the moment escaped with her. "And now," he said, "how am I to manage to see you before you go to Brussels?"
"I do not know that you can see me."
"Do you mean that you are to be shut up, and that I am not to be allowed to approach you?"
"I do mean it. Mamma is, of course, attached to her nephew."
"What, after all that has passed?"
"Why not? Is he to blame for what his father has done?" Harry felt that he could not press the case against Captain Scarborough without some want of generosity. And though he had told Florence once about that dreadful midnight meeting, he could say nothing farther on that subject. "Of course mamma thinks that I am foolish."
"But why?" he asked.
"Because she doesn't see with my eyes, Harry. We need not say anything more about it at present. It is so; and therefore I am to go to Brussels. You have made this opportunity for yourself before I start. Perhaps I have been foolish to be taken off my guard."
"Don't say that, Florence."
"I shall think so, unless you can be discreet. Harry, you will have to wait. You will remember that we must wait; but I shall not change."
"Nor I—nor I."
"I think not, because I