Victorian Short Stories: Stories of Courtship
had entertained some similar thoughts. 'I fear she is obstinate', he had
said to himself, and then he had half accused her of being sullen also.
'If that be her temper, what a life of misery I have before me!'
'Have you fixed a day yet?' his aunt asked him as they came near to her
house.
'No, not yet; I don't know whether it will suit me to fix it before I
leave.'
'Why, it was but the other day you were in such a hurry.'
'Ah--yes-I have thought more about it since then.'
'I should have imagined that this would depend on what Patty thinks,'
said Miss Le Smyrger, standing up for the privileges of her sex. 'It is
presumed that the gentleman is always ready as soon as the lady will
consent.'
'Yes, in ordinary cases it is so; but when a girl is taken out of her
own sphere--'
'Her own sphere! Let me caution you, Master John, not to talk to Patty
about her own sphere.'
'Aunt Penelope, as Patience is to be my wife and not yours, I must claim
permission to speak to her on such subjects as may seem suitable to me.'
And then they parted--not in the best humour with each other.
On the following day Captain Broughton and Miss Woolsworthy did not meet
till the evening. She had said, before those few ill-omened words had
passed her lover's lips, that she would probably be at Miss Le
Smyrger's house on the following morning. Those ill-omened words did
pass her lover's lips, and then she remained at home. This did not come
from sullenness, nor even from anger, but from a conviction that it
would be well that she should think much before she met him again. Nor
was he anxious to hurry a meeting. His thought--his base thought--was
this; that she would be sure to come up to the Colne after him; but she
did not come, and therefore in the evening he went down to her, and
asked her to walk with him.
They went away by the path that led by Helpholme, and little was said
between them till they had walked some mile together. Patience, as she
went along the path, remembered almost to the letter the sweet words
which had greeted her ears as she came down that way with him on the
night of his arrival; but he remembered nothing of that sweetness then.
Had he not made an ass of himself during these last six months? That was
the thought which very much had possession of his mind.
'Patience,' he said at last, having hitherto spoken only an indifferent
word now and again since they had left the parsonage, 'Patience, I hope
you realize the importance of the step which you and I are about to
take?'
'Of course I do,' she answered: 'what an odd question that is for you to
ask!'
'Because,' said he, 'sometimes I almost doubt it. It seems to me as
though you thought you could remove yourself from here to your new home
with no more trouble than when you go from home up to the Colne.'
'Is that meant for a reproach, John?'
'No, not for a reproach, but for advice. Certainly not for a reproach.'
'I am glad of that.'
'But I should wish to make you think how great is the leap in the world
which you are about to take.' Then again they walked on for many steps
before she answered him.
'Tell me, then, John,' she said, when she had sufficiently considered
what words she would speak;--and as she spoke a dark bright colour
suffused her face, and her eyes flashed almost with anger. 'What leap do
you mean? Do you mean a leap upwards?'
'Well, yes; I hope it will be so.'
'In one sense, certainly, it would be a leap upwards. To be the wife of
the man I loved; to have the privilege of holding his happiness in my
hand; to know that I was his own--the companion whom he had chosen out
of all the world--that would, indeed, be a leap upward; a leap almost to
heaven, if all that were so. But if you mean upwards in any other
sense--'
'I was thinking of the social scale.'
'Then, Captain Broughton, your thoughts were doing me dishonour.'
'Doing you dishonour!'
'Yes, doing me dishonour. That your father is, in the world's esteem, a
greater man than mine is doubtless true enough. That you, as a man, are
richer than I am as a woman is doubtless also true. But you dishonour
me, and yourself also, if these things can weigh with you now.'
'Patience,--I think you can hardly know what words you are saying to
me.'
'Pardon me, but I think I do. Nothing that you can give me--no gifts of
that description--can weigh aught against that which I am giving you. If
you had all the wealth and rank of the greatest lord in the land, it
would count as nothing in such a scale. If--as I have not doubted--if in
return for my heart you have given me yours, then--then--then, you have
paid me fully. But when gifts such as those are going, nothing else can
count even as a make-weight.'
'I do not quite understand you,' he answered, after a pause. 'I fear you
are a little high-flown.' And then, while the evening was still early,
they walked back to the parsonage almost without another word.
Captain Broughton at this time had only one more full day to remain at
Oxney Colne. On the afternoon following that he was to go as far as
Exeter, and thence return to London. Of course it was to be expected,
that the wedding day would be fixed before he went, and much had been
said about it during the first day or two of his engagement. Then he had
pressed for an early time, and Patience, with a girl's usual diffidence,
had asked for some little delay. But now nothing was said on the
subject; and how was it probable that such a matter could be settled
after such a conversation as that which I have related? That evening,
Miss Le Smyrger asked whether the day had been fixed. 'No,' said Captain
Broughton harshly; 'nothing has been fixed.' 'But it will be arranged
before you go.' 'Probably not,' he said; and then the subject was
dropped for the time.
'John,' she said, just before she went to bed, 'if there be anything
wrong between you and Patience, I conjure you to tell me.'
'You had better ask her,' he replied. 'I can tell you nothing.'
On the following morning he was much surprised by seeing Patience on the
gravel path before Miss Le Smyrger's gate immediately after breakfast.
He went to the door to open it for her, and she, as she gave him her
hand, told him that she came up to speak to him. There was no hesitation
in her manner, nor any look of anger in her face. But there was in her
gait and form, in her voice and countenance, a fixedness of purpose
which he had never seen before, or at any rate had never acknowledged.
'Certainly,' said he. 'Shall I come out with you, or will you come
upstairs?'
'We can sit down in the summer-house,' she said; and thither they both
went.
'Captain Broughton,' she said--and she began her task the moment that
they were both seated--'You and I have engaged ourselves as man and
wife, but perhaps we have been over rash.'
'How so?' said he.
'It may be--and indeed I will say more--it is the case that we have made
this engagement without knowing enough of each other's character.'
'I have not thought so.'
'The time will perhaps come when you will so think, but for the sake of
all that we most value, let it come before it is too late. What would be
our fate--how terrible would be our misery, if such a thought should
come to either of us after we have linked our lots together.'
There was a solemnity about her as she thus spoke which almost repressed
him,--which for a time did prevent him from taking that tone of
authority which on such a subject he would choose to adopt. But he
recovered himself. 'I hardly think that this comes well from you,' he
said.
'From whom else should it come? Who else can fight my battle for me;
and, John, who else can fight that same battle on your behalf? I tell
you this, that with your mind standing towards me as it does stand at
present you could not give me your hand at the altar with true words and
a happy conscience. Is it not true? You have half repented of your
bargain already. Is it not so?'
He did not answer her; but getting up from his seat walked to the front
of the summer-house, and stood there with his back turned upon her. It
was not that he meant to be ungracious, but in truth he did not know how
to answer her. He had half repented of his bargain.
'John,' she said, getting up and following him so that she could put her
hand upon his arm, 'I have been very angry with you.'
'Angry with me!' he said, turning sharp upon her.
'Yes, angry with you. You would have treated me like a child. But that
feeling has gone now. I am not angry now. There is my hand;--the hand of
a friend. Let the words that have been spoken between us be as though
they had not been spoken. Let us both be free.'
'Do you mean it?' he asked.
'Certainly I mean it.' As she spoke these words her eyes were filled
with tears in spite of all the efforts she could make to restrain them;
but he was not looking at her, and her efforts had sufficed to prevent
any sob from being audible.
'With all my heart,' he said; and it was manifest from his tone that he
had no thought of her happiness as he spoke. It was true that she had
been angry with him--angry, as she had herself declared; but
nevertheless, in what she had said and what she had done, she had
thought more of his happiness than of her own. Now she was angry once
again.
'With all your heart, Captain Broughton! Well, so be it. If with all
your heart, then is the necessity so much the greater. You go tomorrow.
Shall we say farewell now?'
'Patience, I am not going to be lectured.'
'Certainly not by me. Shall we say farewell now?'
'Yes, if you are determined.'
'I am determined. Farewell, Captain Broughton. You have all my wishes
for your happiness.' And she held out her hand to him.
'Patience!' he said. And he looked at her with a dark frown, as though
he would strive to frighten her into submission. If so, he might have
saved himself any such attempt.
'Farewell, Captain Broughton. Give me your hand, for I cannot stay.' He
gave her his hand, hardly knowing why he did so. She lifted it to her
lips and kissed it, and then, leaving him, passed from the summer-house
down through the wicket-gate, and straight home to the parsonage.
During the whole of that day she said no word to anyone of what had
occurred. When she was once more at home she went about her household
affairs as she had done on that day of his arrival. When she sat down to
dinner with her father he observed nothing to make him think that she
was unhappy, nor during the evening was there any expression in her
face, or any tone in her voice, which excited his attention. On the
following morning Captain Broughton called at the parsonage, and the
servant-girl brought word to her mistress that he was in the parlour.
But she would not see him. 'Laws miss, you ain't a quarrelled with your
beau?' the poor girl said. 'No, not quarrelled,' she said; 'but give him
that.' It was a scrap of paper containing a word or two in pencil. 'It
is better that we should not meet again. God bless you.' And from that
day to this, now more than ten years, they have never met.
'Papa,' she said to her father that afternoon, 'dear papa, do not be
angry with me. It is all over between me and John Broughton. Dearest,
you and I will not be separated.'
It would be useless here to tell how great was the old man's surprise
and how true his sorrow. As the tale was told to him no cause was given
for anger with anyone. Not a word was spoken against the suitor who had
on that day returned to London with a full conviction that now at least
he was relieved from his engagement. 'Patty, my darling child,' he said,
'may God grant that it be for the best!'
'It is for the best,' she answered stoutly. 'For this place I am fit;
and I much doubt whether I am fit for any other.'