Part 5, Chapter XL.
Mr Blandford of Fordham.
“Like some long childish dream
Thy life has run.”
Easter was now drawing near, but, owing to the approaching Confirmation and one or two other reasons connected with the girls’ studies, though some of the pupils went home, there was no general break-up of the school; and a week’s holiday was to be given in the beginning of May, when Violante was to go to London and meet her father, who was then expected in England. Moreover, the Miss Vennings, interested in the affection between the two lonely sisters, invited Rosa to spend a few days at Easter, and see for herself what sort of home Violante had found, and to this meeting Violante herself looked forward with a mixture of delight and alarm, as she reflected on the facts hitherto concealed from her sister.
In the meantime Redhurst had filled up all the leisure in Flossy’s busy life; and, perhaps, more than all the leisure in her busy soul. She was always welcome there, with her inveterate freshness and brightness, which even the associations of the place could not destroy; she was almost the only visitor whom Arthur really liked to see; and, consequently, the only one to whose coming Hugh did not object. But she was not encouraged to bring Violante there with her, Mrs Crichton secretly thinking that the young men had talked quite enough about their old acquaintance with her, and Miss Venning being by no means desirous of bringing about a renewal of it. So Hugh only suffered from hearing her progress and her charms described by the unconscious Flossy to Arthur, while he expressed a hope that “she had forgotten the manager.”
Flossy was too busy a person to be entirely absorbed in one subject; but beneath all her daily occupations Redhurst was for ever present in her mind, and—though she was herself scarcely aware of it—Redhurst as it affected Arthur Spencer. She never heard of any incident taking place there without wondering whether it was pleasant or not to him; and, though she did not rival Hugh in the keenness of his self-conscious insight into the passing phases of Arthur’s humour, her sympathy enabled her to draw much kinder, and, on the whole, truer conclusions from them. For Arthur was in an unsatisfactory state, languid and inconsistent, sometimes indolent and careless, and sometimes over-vehement as to his work, in a way really trying to Hugh’s patience; sometimes silent and listless, and sometimes apparently excited by any change, and even ready to seek it in the companionship of the young Dysarts and Ribstones. He was so uncertain as to be sometimes very provoking; but he did not look well; and Hugh, though secretly despising what he thought want of self-control, was outwardly marvellously patient, when his own secret fretting vexations were considered. Flossy did Arthur a great deal of good. She believed in his faith, patience, and courage, and helped to create the qualities that she believed in. She liked to coax him into an argument, to induce him to tease her in the old fashion, and she was the only person to whom he ever mentioned Mysie’s name, or to whom he ever talked about himself. All this was very good for Arthur, who sorely needed a friend; but, even for the simple unsentimental Flossy, it was very dangerous work. How long the peculiar circumstances of the case might have blinded her eyes to her danger may be doubtful, as an incident happened, extremely startling to her in itself, and which caused her to make a still more startling discovery. At twenty-one she had never even been accredited with an admirer, and had thought far less of young men than of young maidens; but, of late, possibilities had begun to dawn on the minds of her sisters. A short time before Colonel Dysart had taken Ashenfold the living of Fordham had been given to a connection of his, a Mr Blandford, who had made some stir in the clerical world of Oxley by his fine sermons and by the superior manner in which he organised his new parish. He was about five-and-thirty and unmarried; and, through a whole dinner-party, was observed to discuss Church matters, practical and theoretical, with Miss Florence Venning, who dearly loved good conversation.
“So exactly the sort of man to suit Flossy!” said Miss Venning, confidentially, to Clarissa. “So superior and with such kindred tastes!”
“It’s much too good to be true,” said Clarissa, with one of her quaint little grimaces. “I shouldn’t wonder if he is in favour of the celibacy of the clergy.”
“Oh, my dear, with that nice vicarage! But I’m sure I don’t wish to lose Flossy. She is young enough yet.”
Flossy was much flattered at finding that Mr Blandford adopted some of her suggestions in his Sunday-school, and even went so far as to pity his parish for having no lady to look after it, and to wish that he could prepare the girls for their Confirmation; but, though she met Mr Blandford tolerably often, she did not regard him in the light of a probable lover, till one morning, as she read her letters at breakfast, Miss Florence’s pink cheeks grew redder and redder, and at the first opportunity she pursued her sisters into the drawing-room, and, with a sort of half-dignified fright, communicated the alarming fact that Mr Blandford had actually made her an offer.
“My dear Flossy! Well, it is no surprise to me,” said Miss Venning.
“I’m sure it’s a surprise to me,” said Flossy, rather ruefully.
“Why, you don’t mean to say you never thought of it?” said Clarissa.
“I did,” said Flossy, “of course, when everyone was wondering if he would marry; but, as he never paid me any attentions, I decided that—that he would not.”
“Never paid you attention?”
“Why, you don’t call talking about Sunday-schools and districts attention, do you?” said Flossy.
“That depends. Did you expect him to talk about hearts and darts and forget-me-nots?” laughed Clarissa.
“I thought anyone would do something,” cried Flossy, crimson and nervous, as she twisted the letter in her hand.
“My dear, don’t be so childish,” said Miss Venning. “You are startled; but, depend upon it, Mr Blandford’s feelings are just as sincere as if he had talked more about them. And I’m sure a more excellent person—”
Miss Venning paused, rather overcome by her feelings; and Flossy said, gravely:
“I am afraid I have been childish. It is because I think so much of the things that interest me. But, indeed, I didn’t mean to—to flirt and lead him on.”
“Whatever you meant, my dear,” said Miss Venning, “you see the result.”
“What in the world shall I do, Mary? What shall I say?”
“Why, my darling, if you can care about him—”
“Oh, dear, no!” interrupted Flossy. “Of course, I can’t say yes. I never dreamt of such a thing!”
“Flossy, don’t be such a goose!” suddenly cried Clarissa. “Do bring your mind down to the realities of life, and think of something besides school-girls.”
“If one mayn’t talk to an old clergyman about his parish,” cried Flossy, who was chiefly concerned in exculpating herself from the dreadfully unfamiliar notion of having trifled with the lover’s feelings.
“Old! Flossy, you are too silly,” said Clarissa, angrily. But Miss Venning interposed:
“Now give yourself time to recover. Mr Blandford should have tried to prepare your mind for it. Go up to your room and think it over, and try to understand yourself.” Miss Venning spoke somewhat as if Flossy had been a naughty child; but the girl was glad of the respite, and hurried away to her own room. There she soon began to recover herself. A lover in the flesh is a startling novelty to many maidens of this latter nineteenth century, and Flossy’s heart had not prepared her so to regard Mr Blandford. Her sisters were unmarried, and she had thought it very likely that she should not marry herself. But she had no doubt as to her own feelings, and too much sense to reproach herself after the first flutter was over. It was a simple, honest, womanly answer that she was beginning to write, when a knock interrupted her, and Clarissa came in.
“Flossy,” she said, in an agitated voice, “Don’t—don’t be a silly child! You don’t know what you are throwing away.”
“Indeed, Clary!” said Flossy, “I am quite sure that I do not love Mr Blandford. I am very sorry. I misunderstood him, but I am quite clear in my own mind; and if I talked nonsense at first it was just the fluster of the thing.”
“Oh, Flossy, you don’t know,” said Clarissa, with tears in her eyes. “Don’t be in a hurry! You think your life will always be like it is now; but you’ll get tired of it—you will, indeed. You’ll want something more. You’ll grow into a woman—and—and you will have missed your chance, and you’ll be sorry.”
“Do you wish me to accept him for the sake of being married?” said Flossy, in superb disdain.
“Oh, I cannot tell,” said Clarissa. “But, Flossy, I want you to think what you are making up your mind to. Girls now-a-days don’t have many chances, and, though you’re handsome, you are not so very taking. Don’t you see that it means, perhaps, never to be married—never to have— Flossy, think, think!”
“Why, Clarissa, anyone would think you had said no yourself and repented.”
“I? I never said no—nor yes either.”
“You can’t suppose I am going to marry a man I don’t love?”
“No; but there are different ways of putting things, and if there is no one else—”
“Is it likely?” interrupted Flossy. “Clarissa, how can I go and marry a man when I don’t care as much for him as for hundreds of things—as I care for you and Mary, and the girls—”
“Or Arthur Spencer?” whispered Clarissa, with a sudden mischievous twinkle.
Flossy stood still; a great throb passed through her, and she quivered to her fingertips.
“Oh, Flossy, Flossy, forgive me,” cried Clarissa, clinging to her. “Indeed, I didn’t know—I didn’t mean to—”
“No!” said Flossy, putting her little, slight sister back, and standing up, tall and straight; her blue eyes lightening as they had never lightened before. “No! I don’t care half so much for him as I do for Arthur Spencer—as I did for my dear Mysie. I care exceedingly for Arthur, and Mr Blandford is only an acquaintance. You said no harm, Clarissa.” She stood grandly to her colours; but the sharp-eyed Clarissa saw it all. She ceased her arguments—they had their answer.
“You’ve got your life-story, anyhow,” she said, “and you will do as you please. I haven’t got any experience to give you the benefit of.”
It is sometimes thought impossible that a woman should give her heart away, wholly without solicitation, utterly without hope of return; and, perhaps, the fire of passion cannot be quite spontaneous. But, whatever Flossy’s young, fresh nature understood by love, the absorbing interest, the unselfish devotion, the romantic idealism had gone out to Arthur Spencer, as she thought, for ever. To use an expression prevalent among the gentle, self-restrained heroines of an earlier day, “she had allowed her affections to become engaged,” and she faced the fact with all her natural sense and honesty. He was the one man in the world for her, and she would have—
Poor Flossy burst into tears of shame and fright as she thought that there was nothing she would not have done for his sake. But as she was not “disappointed,” as she had never for a moment connected any personal hopes or fears with him, she could bear to think that this feeling must be carried about with her, hopeless of result; without being utterly wretched, or fancying that she could never care for life again. And as she was proud and brave, and was his true friend before all things, she could resolve to make no perceptible change in her behaviour, but to be as kind to him as ever, while no single soul should guess how kindly she felt. The idea had its attraction. Flossy’s young eyes were half-blinded by the sunrise still; her loves and her sorrows had still some of the fascination of romance, were still fresh from the stately dreamland of hero-worship and self-sacrifice. And so, fearless, she turned her back on cloudland, and came out “into the light of common day,” which would soon show the stones in her path plainly enough. But as she was sensible and practical too, and not inexperienced—if experience can ever be other than personal—she was aware also that it was an unlucky thing that had come to her, and one to solemnise, if not sadden, her life; and she was seized with a fit of self-distrust. “I feel as if my case was just the one exception to all rules; but I never heard any girl talk nonsense who didn’t think that,” she said, bitterly, to herself. “Well, any way, someone has liked me,” and with that she burst into a great flood of tears; and, though she was far too single-minded to waver in her determination, the result of her discovery that she had given her heart to another was that poor Mr Blandford received a much softer and more tenderly-expressed refusal than he would have got before, and that she thought of him with a much greater amount of gratitude. However, between tears and excitement, she had worried herself into a bad headache, and was quite unable to go down to her teaching—a circumstance nearly as unusual as the event which had caused it, and which cost her another half-hour’s argument before she could convince Miss Venning that she did not regret her decision, and could induce her anxious sister to leave her in peace. She had been lying on her bed, half-asleep, for some time, when there was a little tap, and Violante came in with a cup of coffee in her hand.
“Miss Clarissa said I might bring you this. Are you better, signorina mia?”
“Oh, yes,” said Flossy, sitting up. “My headache is gone, I think. Thank you, Violante; this is very good. Oh, dear! Whatever became of the Italian?”
“I did it, Miss Florence, all myself; and Miss Clarissa sat in the room,” said Violante, in accents of pride.
“Why, Violante, how clever you are getting!”
“All, Miss Florence, I would do anything to help you a little bit!” said Violante, kissing her hand. “The house is sad when you are ill.”
Flossy was in a soft mood, and thought that she might yield to the girl’s caressing sweetness, without the possibility of a suspicion that she was fretting for Mr Fordham or for anyone else. She little thought that Violante—who, it is to be feared, considered being in love as the normal condition of young maidens, and who had heard Florence talk a great deal about Arthur—was only deterred from guessing the true state of the case by her conviction that such a being as Miss Florence could only find her equal in “Signor Hugo.” To be sure, when, in a fit of holiday-gossip, some glib-tongued girl had made this suggestion, Edith Robertson had silenced her with a sharp “Oh, dear, no; not likely at all! Mr Crichton will marry into a county family,” which remark had seemed to show innumerable vistas between herself and Hugh; still, could Flossy know him and be insensible? Flossy little guessed these thoughts, as Violante caressed her and helped her to twist up her long bright hair—the flossy flaxen—which the little Italian girl thought the most beautiful colour in the world; and Florence was comforted, she hardly knew how, and went once more about her business, perhaps a little graver, a little less ready for unnecessary interests; but giving Miss Venning no reason to suppose that she regretted Mr Blandford. When she looked back on her interview with Clarissa it struck her that sister’s manner had been singular; and one day she said to Miss Venning: “Mary, did Clarissa ever have any lovers?”
“Never, my dear, that I know of. I wish she had. She doesn’t like girls, and would be happier married.”
“Nor ever cared for anyone?”
“Not that I know of,” answered Miss Venning, placidly, as she folded the letter that she had been writing to an anxious mother to relate her daughter’s progress and well-being. Flossy reflected; but her own memory did not come to her aid; for, indeed, there was nothing to remember, and Clarissa subsided into her usual lazy, satirical, yet not uncheerful, demeanour; sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued; always the provider of the family jokes and the arranger of the little family comforts, the easy-chairs and cups of tea and unexpected fires, of which she always showed such a strong appreciation. Yet it occurred to Flossy for the first time to wonder what was Clarissa’s main-spring. Certainly not her work, which she hated: nor any art or occupation, for she had none of any great consequence; and not her sisters, for she did not often excite herself about their concerns. It seemed an objectless life; could Clarissa have mended it? Flossy, young and enthusiastic, was much inclined to answer that she could; and yet it was very difficult to imagine Clarissa taking up any of the lines that seemed so alien to her. She could no more acquire Flossy’s strong impulses and inborn tastes than she could alter the outlines of her lot; no more give herself a love than a lover.