Part 17 (1/2)
At this Julia screamed, and threw herself on her knees beside her, and cried ”Kill me! oh, pray kill me! but don't drive me to despair with such cruel words and looks!” and fell to sobbing so wildly that Mrs.
Dodd altered her tone with almost ludicrous rapidity. ”There, do not terrify me with your impetuosity, after grieving me so. Be calm, child; let me see whether I cannot remedy your sad imprudence; and, that I may, pray tell me the whole truth. How did this come about?”
In reply to this question, which she somewhat mistook, Julia sobbed out, ”He met me c-coming out of the school, and asked to s-see me home. I said 'No thank you,' because I th-thought of your warning. 'Oh yes!'
said he, and _would_ walk with me, and keep saying he loved me. So, to stop him, I said, 'M-much ob-liged, but I was b-busy and had no time to flirt.' 'Nor have I the in-inclination,' said he. 'That is not what others say of you,' said I--you know what you t-told me, mamma--so at last he said d-did ever he ask any lady to be his wife? 'I suppose not,' said I, 'or you would be p-p-private property by now instead of p-public.'”
”Now there was a foolish speech; as much as to say n.o.body could resist him.”
”W-wasn't it? And n-no more they could. You have no idea how he makes love; _so_ unladylike: keeps advancing and advancing, and never once retreats, nor even st-ops. 'But I ask _you_ to be my wife,' said he.
Oh, mamma, I trembled so. Why did I tremble? I don't know. I made myself cold and haughty; 'I should make no reply to such ridiculous questions; say that to mamma, if you dare!' I said.”
Mrs. Dodd bit her lip, and said, ”Was there ever such simplicity?”
”Simple! Why that was my cunning. You are the only creature he is afraid of; so I thought to stop his mouth with you. But instead of that, my lord said calmly, 'That was understood; he loved me too well to steal me from her to whom he was indebted for me.' Oh, he has always an answer ready. And that makes him such a p-pest.”
”It was an answer that did him credit.”
”Dear mamma! now did it not? Then at parting he said he would come to-morrow, and ask you for my hand; but I must intercede with you first, or you would be sure to say 'No.' So I declined to interfere: 'W-w-what was it to me?' I said. He begged and prayed me: 'Was it likely you would give him such a treasure as Me unless I stood his friend?' (For the b-b-brazen Thing turns humble now and then.) And, oh, mamma, he did so implore me to pity him, and kept saying no man ever loved as he loved me, and with his begging and praying me so pa.s.sionately--oh, so pa.s.sionately--I felt something warm drop from his poor eyes on my hand.
Oh! oh! oh! oh!--What could I do? And then, you know, I wanted to get away from him. So I am afraid I did just say 'Yes.' But only in a whisper. Mamma! my own, good, kind, darling mamma, have pity on him and on me; we love one another so.”
A shower of tender tears gushed out in support of this appeal and in a moment she was caught up with Love's mighty arms, and her head laid on her mother's yearning bosom. No word was needed to reconcile these two.
After a long silence, Mrs. Dodd said this would be a warning never to judge her sweet child from a distance again, nor unheard. ”And therefore,” said she, ”let me hear from your own lips how so serious an attachment could spring up. Why, it is scarcely a month since you were first introduced at that ball.”
”Mamma,” murmured Julia, hanging her head, ”you are mistaken; we knew each other before.”
Mrs. Dodd looked all astonishment.
”Now I _will_ ease my heart,” said Julia, impetuously, addressing some invisible obstacle. ”I tell you I am sick of having secrets from my own mother.” And with this out it all came. She told the story of her heart better than I have; and, woman-like, dwelt on the depths of loyalty and delicate love she had read in Alfred's moonlit face that night at Henley. She said no eloquence could have touched her like it. ”Mamma, something said to me, 'Ay, look at him well, for that is your husband to be.'” She even tried to solve the mystery of her _soi-disant_ sickness: ”I was disturbed by a feeling so new and so powerful,* but, above all, by having a secret from you; the first--the last.”
*Perhaps even this faint attempt at self-a.n.a.lysis was due to the influence of Dr. Whately. For, by nature, young ladies of this age seldom turn the eye inward.
”Well, darling, then why have a secret? Why not trust me, your friend as well as your mother?”
”Ah! why, indeed? I am a puzzle to myself. I wanted you to know, and yet I could not tell you. I kept giving you hints, and hoped so you would take them, and make me speak out. But when I tried to tell you plump, something kept pull--pull--pulling me inside, and I couldn't. Mark my words! some day it will turn out that I am neither more nor less than a fool.”
Mrs. Dodd slighted this ingenious solution. She said, after a moment's reflection, that the fault of this misunderstanding lay between the two.
”I remember now I have had many hints; my mind must surely have gone to sleep. I was a poor simple woman who thought her daughter was to be always a child. And you were very wrong to go and set a limit to your mother's love: there is none--none whatever.” She added: ”I must import a little prudence and respect for the world's opinion into this new connection; but whoever you love shall find no enemy in me.”
Next day Alfred came to know his fate. He was received with ceremonious courtesy. At first he was a good deal embarra.s.sed, but this was no sooner seen than it was relieved by Mrs. Dodd with tact and gentleness.
When her turn came, she said, ”Your papa? Of course you have communicated this step to him?”
Alfred looked a little confused, and said, ”No: he left for London two days ago, as it happens.”
”That is unfortunate,” said Mrs. Dodd. ”Your best plan would be to write to him at once. I need hardly tell you that we shall enter no family without an invitation from its head.”
Alfred replied that he was well aware of that, and that he knew his father, and could answer for him. ”No doubt,” said Mrs. Dodd, ”but, as a matter of reasonable form, I prefer he should answer for himself.”
Alfred would write by this post. ”It is a mere form,” said he, ”for my father has but one answer to his children, 'Please yourselves.' He sometimes adds, 'and how much money shall you want?' These are his two formulae.”
He then delivered a glowing eulogy on his father; and Mrs. Dodd, to whom the boy's character was now a grave and anxious study, saw with no common satisfaction his cheek flush and his eyes moisten as he dwelt on the calm, sober, unvarying affection, and reasonable indulgence he and his sister had met with all their lives from the best of parents.