Part 17 (2/2)
Returning to the topic of topics, he proposed an engagement. ”I have a ring in my pocket,” said this brisk wooer, looking down. But this Mrs.
Dodd thought premature and unnecessary. ”You are nearly of age,” said she, ”and then you will be able to marry, if you are in the same mind.”
But, upon being warmly pressed, she half conceded even this. ”Well,”
said she, ”on receiving your father's consent, you can _propose_ an engagement to Julia, and she shall use her own judgment; but, until then, you will not even mention such a thing to her. May I count on so much forbearance from you, sir?”
”Dear Mrs. Dodd,” said Alfred, ”of course you may. I should indeed be ungrateful if I could not wait a post for that. May I write to my father here?” added he, naively.
Mrs. Dodd smiled, furnished him with writing materials, and left him, with a polite excuse.
”ALBION VILLA, _September 29._
”MY DEAR FATHER,--You are too thorough a man of the world, and too well versed in human nature, to be surprised at hearing that I, so long invulnerable, have at last formed a devoted attachment to one whose beauty, goodness, and accomplishments I will not now enlarge upon; they are indescribable, and you will very soon see them and judge for yourself. The attachment, though short in weeks and months, has been a very long one in hopes, and fears, and devotion. I should have told you of it before you left, but in truth I had no idea I was so near the goal of all my earthly hopes; there were many difficulties: but these have just cleared away almost miraculously, and nothing now is wanting to my happiness but your consent. It would be affectation, or worse, in me to doubt that you will grant it. But, in a matter so delicate, I venture to ask you for something more: the mother of my ever and only beloved Julia is a lady of high breeding and sentiments: she will not let her daughter enter any family without a cordial invitation from its head. Indeed she has just told me so. I ask, therefore, not your bare consent, of which I am sure, since my happiness for life depends on it, but a consent so gracefully worded--and who can do this better than you?--as to gratify the just pride and sensibilities of the high-minded family about to confide its brightest ornament to my care.
”My dear father, in the midst of felicity almost more than mortal, the thought has come that this letter is my first step towards leaving the paternal roof under which I have been so happy all my life, thanks to you. I should indeed be unworthy of all your goodness if this thought caused me no emotion.
”Yet I do but yield to Nature's universal law. And, should I be master of my own destiny, I will not go far from you. I have been unjust to Barkington: or rather I have echoed, without thought, Oxonian prejudices and affectation. On mature reflection, I know no better residence for a married man.
”Do you remember about a year ago you mentioned a Miss Lucy Fountain to us as 'the most perfect gentlewoman you had ever met?' Well, strange to say, it is that very lady's daughter; and I think when you see her you will say the breed has anything but declined, in spite of Horace mind his _'d.a.m.nosa quid non.'_ Her brother is my dearest friend, and she is Jenny's; so a more happy alliance for all parties was never projected.
”Write to me by return, dear father, and believe me, ever your dutiful and grateful son,
”ALFRED HARDlE.”
As he concluded, Julia came in, and he insisted on her reading this masterpiece. She hesitated. Then he told her with juvenile severity that a good husband always shares his letters with his wife.
”His wife! Alfred!” and she coloured all over. ”Don't call me _names,_”
said she, turning it off after her fas.h.i.+on. ”I can't bear it: it makes me tremble. With fury.”
”This will never do, sweet one,” said Alfred gravely. ”You and I are to have no separate existence now; you are to be I, and I am to be you.
Come!”
”No; you read me so much of it as is proper for me to hear. I shall not like it so well from your lips: but never mind.”
When he came to read it, he appreciated the delicacy that had tempered her curiosity. He did not read it all to her, but nearly.
”It is a beautiful letter,” said she; ”a little pomposer than mamma and I write. 'The paternal roof!' But all that becomes you; you are a scholar: and, dear Alfred, if I should separate you from your papa, I will never estrange you from him; oh, never, never. May I go for my work? For methinks, O most erudite, the 'maternal dame,' on domestic cares intent, hath confided to her offspring the recreation of your highness.” The gay creature dropt him a curtsey, and fled to tell Mrs.
Dodd the substance of ”the sweet letter the dear high-flown Thing had written.”
By then he had folded and addressed it, she returned and brought her work: charity children's great cloaks: her mother had cut them, and in the height of the fas.h.i.+on, to Jane Hardie's dismay; and Julia was binding, hooding, etcetering them.
How demurely she bent her lovely head over her charitable work, while Alfred poured his tale into her ears! How careful she was not to speak, when there was a chance of his speaking! How often she said one thing so as to express its opposite, a process for which she might have taken out a patent! How she and Alfred compared heart-notes, and their feelings at each stage of their pa.s.sion! Their hearts put forth tendril after tendril, and so curled, and clung, round each other.
In the afternoon of the second blissful day, Julia suddenly remembered that this was dull for her mother. To have such a thought was to fly to her; and she flew so swiftly that she caught Mrs. Dodd in tears, and trying adroitly and vainly to hide them.
”What is the matter? I am a wretch. I have left you alone.”
”Do not think me so peevish, love! you have but surprised the natural regrets of a mother at the loss of her child.”
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