Victorian Short Stories: Stories of Courtship
would really have me for your wife, it will not be much to you to return
here again when time for thinking of it shall have passed by.' With
these words she had dismissed him, and now he had again come back to
Oxney Colne. But still she would not place herself at the window to look
for him, nor dress herself in other than her simple morning country
dress, nor omit one item of her daily work. If he wished to take her at
all, he should wish to take her as she really was, in her plain country
life, but he should take her also with full observance of all those
privileges which maidens are allowed to claim from their lovers. He
should curtail no ceremonious observance because she was the daughter of
a poor country parson who would come to him without a shilling, whereas
he stood high in the world's books. He had asked her to give him all
that she had, and that all she was ready to give, without stint. But the
gift must be valued before it could be given or received. He also was to
give her as much, and she would accept it as being beyond all price. But
she would not allow that that which was offered to her was in any degree
the more precious because of his outward worldly standing.
She would not pretend to herself that she thought he would come to her
that afternoon, and therefore she busied herself in the kitchen and
about the house, giving directions to her two maids as though the day
would pass as all other days did pass in that household. They usually
dined at four, and she rarely, in these summer months, went far from the
house before that hour. At four precisely she sat down with her father,
and then said that she was going up as far as Helpholme after dinner.
Helpholme was a solitary farmhouse in another parish, on the border of
the moor, and Mr. Woolsworthy asked her whether he should accompany her.
'Do, papa,' she said, 'if you are not too tired.' And yet she had
thought how probable it might be that she should meet John Broughton on
her walk. And so it was arranged; but, just as dinner was over, Mr.
Woolsworthy remembered himself.
'Gracious me,' he said, 'how my memory is going! Gribbles, from
Ivybridge, and old John Poulter, from Bovey, are coming to meet here by
appointment. You can't put Helpholme off till tomorrow?'
Patience, however, never put off anything, and therefore at six o'clock,
when her father had finished his slender modicum of toddy, she tied on
her hat and went on her walk. She started forth with a quick step, and
left no word to say by which route she would go. As she passed up along
the little lane which led towards Oxney Colne she would not even look to
see if he was coming towards her; and when she left the road, passing
over a stone stile into a little path which ran first through the upland
fields, and then across the moor ground towards Helpholme, she did not
look back once, or listen for his coming step.
She paid her visit, remaining upwards of an hour with the old bedridden
mother of the farmer of Helpholme. 'God bless you, my darling!' said the
old lady as she left her; 'and send you someone to make your own path
bright and happy through the world.' These words were still ringing in
her ears with all their significance as she saw John Broughton waiting
for her at the first stile which she had to pass after leaving the
farmer's haggard.
'Patty,' he said, as he took her hand, and held it close within both his
own, 'what a chase I have had after you!'
'And who asked you, Captain Broughton?' she answered, smiling. 'If the
journey was too much for your poor London strength, could you not have
waited till tomorrow morning, when you would have found me at the
parsonage?' But she did not draw her hand away from him, or in any way
pretend that he had not a right to accost her as a lover.
'No, I could not wait. I am more eager to see those I love than you seem
to be.'
'How do you know whom I love, or how eager I might be to see them? There
is an old woman there whom I love, and I have thought nothing of this
walk with the object of seeing her.' And now, slowly drawing her hand
away from him, she pointed to the farmhouse which she had left.
'Patty,' he said, after a minute's pause, during which she had looked
full into his face with all the force of her bright eyes; 'I have come
from London today, straight down here to Oxney, and from my aunt's
house close upon your footsteps after you to ask you that one question.
Do you love me?'
'What a Hercules?' she said, again laughing. 'Do you really mean that
you left London only this morning? Why, you must have been five hours in
a railway carriage and two in a post-chaise, not to talk of the walk
afterwards. You ought to take more care of yourself, Captain Broughton!'
He would have been angry with her,--for he did not like to be
quizzed,--had she not put her hand on his arm as she spoke, and the
softness of her touch had redeemed the offence of her words.
'All that have I done,' said he, 'that I may hear one word from you.'
'That any word of mine should have such potency! But, let us walk on, or
my father will take us for some of the standing stones of the moor. How
have you found your aunt? If you only knew the cares that have sat on
her dear shoulders for the last week past, in order that your high
mightyness might have a sufficiency to eat and drink in these desolate
half-starved regions.'
'She might have saved herself such anxiety. No one can care less for
such things than I do.'
'And yet I think I have heard you boast of the cook of your club.' And
then again there was silence for a minute or two.
'Patty,' said he, stopping again in the path; 'answer my question. I
have a right to demand an answer. Do you love me?'
'And what if I do? What if I have been so silly as to allow your
perfections to be too many for my weak heart? What then, Captain
Broughton?'
'It cannot be that you love me, or you would not joke now.'
'Perhaps not, indeed,' she said. It seemed as though she were resolved
not to yield an inch in her own humour. And then again they walked on.
'Patty,' he said once more, 'I shall get an answer from you
tonight,--this evening; now, during this walk, or I shall return
tomorrow, and never revisit this spot again.'
'Oh, Captain Broughton, how should we ever manage to live without you?'
'Very well,' he said; 'up to the end of this walk I can bear it
all;--and one word spoken then will mend it all.'
During the whole of this time she felt that she was ill-using him. She
knew that she loved him with all her heart; that it would nearly kill
her to part with him; that she had heard his renewed offer with an
ecstasy of joy. She acknowledged to herself that he was giving proof of
his devotion as strong as any which a girl could receive from her lover.
And yet she could hardly bring herself to say the word he longed to
hear. That word once said, and then she knew that she must succumb to
her love for ever! That word once said, and there would be nothing for
her but to spoil him with her idolatry! That word once said, and she
must continue to repeat it into his ears, till perhaps he might be tired
of hearing it! And now he had threatened her, and how could she speak it
after that? She certainly would not speak it unless he asked her again
without such threat. And so they walked on again in silence.
'Patty,' he said at last. 'By the heavens above us you shall answer me.
Do you love me?'
She now stood still, and almost trembled as she looked up into his face.
She stood opposite to him for a moment, and then placing her two hands
on his shoulders, she answered him. 'I do, I do, I do,' she said, 'with
all my heart; with all my heart--with all my heart and strength.' And
then her head fell upon his breast.
Captain Broughton was almost as much surprised as delighted by the
warmth of the acknowledgment made by the eager-hearted passionate girl
whom he now held within his arms. She had said it now; the words had
been spoken; and there was nothing for her but to swear to him over and
over again with her sweetest oaths, that those words were true--true as
her soul. And very sweet was the walk down from thence to the parsonage
gate. He spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length of
his day's journey. But he stopped her at every turn that he might press
her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness of
her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight. There were no more gibes now
on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments on
his coming and going. With downright honesty she told him everything:
how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion;
how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise to
take him at his first word, and had thought it better that he should
return to London, and then think over it; how she had almost repented
of her courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, that
he would forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her old
friend had told her that he was coming.
'And yet,' said he, 'you were not glad to see me!'
'Oh, was I not glad? You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who
has lived secluded as I have done. Glad is no word for the joy I felt.
But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much. It was the knowledge
that you were near me once again. I almost wish now that I had not seen
you till tomorrow.' But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and this
caress gave the lie to her last words.
'No, do not come in tonight,' she said, when she reached the little
wicket that led up the parsonage. 'Indeed you shall not. I could not
behave myself properly if you did.'
'But I don't want you to behave properly.'
'Oh! I am to keep that for London, am I? But, nevertheless, Captain
Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper tonight.'
'Surely I may shake hands with your father.'
'Not tonight--not till--. John, I may tell him, may I not? I must tell
him at once.'
'Certainly,' said he.
'And then you shall see him tomorrow. Let me see--at what hour shall I
bid you come?'
'To breakfast.'
'No, indeed. What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkey
and the cold pie? I have got no cold pie for you.'
'I hate cold pie.'
'What a pity! But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly after
breakfast. Come down--come down at two, or three; and then I will go
back with you to Aunt Penelope. I must see her tomorrow.' And so at last
the matter was settled, and the happy Captain, as he left her, was
hardly resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own.
When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, there
still were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devon
lore. So Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting till
they should go. For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles and
Poulter did go. But it was not in such matters as this that Patience
Woolsworthy was impatient. She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbing
herself for weeks and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyes
good; but she could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words when
things came to be discussed which she did not think to be good.
'Papa,' she said, when Gribbles' long-drawn last word had been spoken at
the door. 'Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would
say if I were to leave you?'
'Yes, surely,' he replied, looking up at her in astonishment.
'I am going to leave you now,' she said. 'Dear, dearest father, how am I
to go from you?'
'Going to leave me,' said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and
thinking of nothing else.
Now there had been a story about Helpholme. That bedridden old lady