“She was leaning back in an arm-chair, reading a ‘good book,’ and looked charming. The accident seemed to have greatly shocked the delicate frame of the young creature, but when I entered, she held out her hand, greeting me with a fascinating smile. Mademoiselle was imitated by Monsieur. I mean Mr. Mortimer. I did not fancy the countenance of that gentleman much. It was dark and forbidden, but his manners were those of a person acquainted with good society; he thanked me ‘with effusion,’ as the French say, for my timely assistance on the night before; and then he strolled forth with the good parson to look at the garden, leaving me tete-à-tete with his sister.
“Why lengthen out my story by comment, reflections, a description of every scene, and the progressive steps through which the ‘affair’ passed? I was in love with Miss Mortimer. She saw it. Her eyes said, ‘Love me as much as you choose, and don’t be afraid I will not love you soon, in return.’ At the end of this interview, which the worthy Mr. Mortimer did not interrupt for at least two hours, I rode home thinking with a throb of the heart ‘If she will only love me?’ Then the throb was succeeded by a sudden sinking of the same organ. ‘But there will be no opportunity!’ I groaned, ‘doubtless in two or three days she will leave this part of the country!’ A week afterward that apprehension had been completely removed. Miss Mortimer was still faint and weak, ‘from her accident.’ All her movements were slow and languid. She had not left the good parson’s house, Surry—and what is more she was not going to leave it! She had learned what she desired to know about me; heard that I was a young man of great wealth; and had devised a scheme so singular that—but let me not anticipate! She proceeded rapidly. In our second interview she ‘made eyes at me.’ In the third, she blushed and murmured, avoiding my glances, when I looked at her. In the fourth, she blushed more deeply when I took her hand—but did not withdraw it. In the fifth, the fair head in some manner had come to rest on my shoulder—no doubt from weakness. And in a few days afterward the shy, embarrassed, loving, palpitating creature, blushing deeply, ‘sunk upon my bosom,’ as the poets say, and murmured, ‘How can I resist you?’
“In other words, my dear friend, Miss Mortimer had promised to become my wife, and I need not say, I was the happiest of men. I thought with rapture of the bliss I was about to enjoy in having by my side, throughout life, this charming creature. I trembled at the very thought that the accident in the wood might not have happened, and I might never have known her! I was at the parsonage morning, noon, and night. When not beside her I was riding through the forest at full speed, with bared brow, laughing lips, and shouts of joy—in a word, my dear friend, I was as much intoxicated as ever youth was yet, and fed on froth and moonshine to an extent that was really astonishing!
“There was absolutely nothing to oppose our marriage. My old guardian, it is true, shook his head, and suggested inquiries into the family, position, character, etc., of the Mortimers; I was young, wealthy, heir of one of the oldest families, he said, and sharpers might deceive me. But all I heard was the word ‘sharpers’—and I left my guardian, whose functions had ceased now, in high displeasure at his unworthy imputations. That angel a sharper! That pure, devoted creature, guilty of deception! I fell into a rage; swore never to visit my guardian again; and returning to the parsonage urged a speedy consummation of our marriage.
“The fair one was not loth. She indicated that fact by violently opposing me at first, but soon yielded. When I rode home that night I had made every arrangement for our union in one month from that time.
“So much for Act I., Surry!”
XVII. — THE WILL.
Mohun had commenced his narrative in a mild voice, and with an expression of great sadness upon his features. As he proceeded, however, this all disappeared; gradually the voice became harsh and metallic, so to describe it, and his face resumed that expression of cynical bitterness which I had observed in him on our first meeting. As he returned thus, to the past, all its bitterness seemed to revive; memory lashed him with its stinging whip; and Mohun had gone back to his “first phase,”—that of the man, stern, implacable, and misanthropic.