Part 112 (2/2)
”Ah, it is her you love: you don't care for me,” snapped Alfred.
”Don't I, dear Alfred?” murmured Julia.
”Forgive me! I'm a ruffian, a wretch.”
”You are my Alfred. But oh, have a little patience, dear.”
”A little patience? I have the patience of Job. But even his went at last.”
[I ought to have said they were in the pa.s.sage now. The encroaching youth had gained an entrance by agitating her so at the door that she had to ask him in to hide her own blushes from the public.] She now gently reminded him how much happier they were than they had been for months. ”Dear me,” said she, ”I am almost happy: happier than I ought to be; could be quite so, but that I see you discontented.”
”Ah, you have so many about you that you love: I have only you.”
”And that is true, my poor Alfred.”
This softened him a little; and then she interwove her fingers together, and so put both palms softly on his shoulder (you never saw a male do that, and never will), and implored him to be patient, to be generous.
”Oh,” said she, ”if you knew the distress it gives me to refuse to you anything on earth, you would be generous, and not press me when my heart says 'Yes,' but my lips _must_ say 'No.'”
This melted him altogether, and he said he would not torment her any more.
But he went away discontented with himself for having yielded: my lord did not call it ”yielding,” but ”being defeated.” And as he was not only very deep in love, but by nature combative, he took a lodging nearly opposite No. 66, and made hot love to her, as hot as if the attachment was just forming. Her mother could not go out but he was at the door directly: she could not go out but he was at her heels. This pleased her at first and thrilled her with the sense of sweet and hot pursuit: but by-and-by, situated as she was between him and her mother, it worried her a little at times, and made her nervous. She spoke a little sharply to him now and then. And that was new. It came from the nerves, not the heart. At last she advised him to go back to Oxford. ”I shall be the ruin of your mind if we go on like this,” said she sadly.
”What, leave the field to my rivals? No, thank you.”
”What rivals, sir?” asked Julia, drawing up.
”Your mother, your brother, your curates that would come buzzing the moment I left; your sick people, who bask on your smiles and your sweet voice till I envy them: Sarah, whom you permit to brush your lovely hair, the piano you play on, the air you deign to breathe and brighten, everybody and everything that is near you; they are all my rivals; and shall I resign you to them, and leave myself desolate? I'm not such a fool.”
She smiled, and could not help feeling it was sweet to be pestered. So she said with matronly dignity, and the old Julian consistency, ”You are a foolish impetuous boy. You are the plague of my life: and--the sun of my existence.” That pa.s.sed off charmingly. But presently his evil genius prompted Alfred to endeavour to soften Mrs. Dodd by letter, and induce her to consent to his marriage with her daughter. He received her answer at breakfast-time. It was wonderfully polite and cold; Mrs. Dodd feigned unmixed surprise at the proposal, and said that insanity being unfortunately in her own family, and the suspicion of insanity resting on himself, such a union was not to be thought of; and therefore, notwithstanding her respect for his many good qualities, she must decline with thanks the honour he offered her. She inserted a poisoned sting by way of postscript. ”When you succeed in publicly removing the impression your own relations share with me, and when my husband owes his restoration to you, instead of his destruction, of course you will receive a very different answer to your proposal--should you then think it consistent with your dignity to renew it.”
As hostile testators used to leave the disinherited one s.h.i.+lling, not out of a s.h.i.+lling's worth of kindly feeling, but that he might not be able to say his name was omitted through inadvertency, so Mrs. Dodd inserted this postscript merely to clench the nail and tantalise her enemy. It was a masterpiece of feminine spite.
She would have been wonderstruck could she have seen how Alfred received her missive.
To be sure he sat in a cold stupor of dejection for a good half hour; but at the end of that time he lifted up his head, and said quietly, ”So be it. I'll get the trial over, and my sanity established, as soon as possible: and then I'll hire a yacht and hunt her husband till I find him.”
Having settled this little plan, he looked out for Julia, whose sympathy he felt in need of after such a stern blow.
She came out much later than usual that day, for to tell the truth, her mother had detained her to show her Alfred's letter, and her answer.
”Ah, mamma,” said poor Julia, ”you don't love me as you did once. Poor Alfred!”
Mrs. Dodd sighed at this reproach, but said she did not deserve it. No mother in her senses would consent to such a match.
Julia bowed her head submissively and went to her duties. But when Alfred came to her open-mouthed to complain of her mother's cruelty, she stopped him at once, and asked him how he could go and write that foolish, unreasonable letter. Why had he not consulted her first? ”You have subjected yourself to a rebuff,” said she angrily, ”and one from which I should have saved you. Is it nothing that mamma out of pity to me connives at our meeting and spending hours together? Do you think she does no violence to her own wishes here? and is she to meet with no return?”
”What, are you against me too?” said poor Alfred.
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