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?”