Sir Magnus Mountjoy.

It was the peculiarity of Florence Mountjoy that she did not expect other people to be as good as herself.  It was not that she erected for herself a high standard and had then told herself that she had no right to demand from others one so exalted.  She had erected nothing.  Nor did she know that she attempted to live by grand rules.  She had no idea that she was better than anybody else; but it came to her naturally as the result of what had gone before, to be unselfish, generous, trusting, and pure.  These may be regarded as feminine virtues, and may be said to be sometimes tarnished, by faults which are equally feminine.  Unselfishness may become want of character; generosity essentially unjust; confidence may be weak, and purity insipid.  Here it was that the strength of Florence Mountjoy asserted itself.  She knew well what was due to herself, though she would not claim it.  She could trust to another, but in silence be quite sure of herself.  Though pure herself, she was rarely shocked by the ways of others.  And she was as true as a man pretends to be.

In figure, form, and face she never demanded immediate homage by the sudden flash of her beauty.  But when her spell had once fallen on a man’s spirit it was not often that he could escape from it quickly.  When she spoke a peculiar melody struck the hearer’s ears.  Her voice was soft and low and sweet, and full at all times of harmonious words; but when she laughed it was like soft winds playing among countless silver bells.  There was something in her touch which to men was almost divine.  Of this she was all unconscious, but was as chary with her fingers as though it seemed that she could ill spare her divinity.

In height she was a little above the common, but it was by the grace of her movements that the world was compelled to observe her figure.  There are women whose grace is so remarkable as to demand the attention of all.  But then it is known of them, and momentarily seen, that their grace is peculiar.  They have studied their graces, and the result is there only too evident.  But Florence seemed to have studied nothing.  The beholder felt that she must have been as graceful when playing with her doll in the nursery.  And it was the same with her beauty.  There was no peculiarity of chiselled features.  Had you taken her face and measured it by certain rules, you would have found that her mouth was too large and her nose irregular.  Of her teeth she showed but little, and in her complexion there was none of that pellucid clearness in which men ordinarily delight.  But her eyes were more than ordinarily bright, and when she laughed there seemed to stream from them some heavenly delight.  When she did laugh it was as though some spring had been opened from which ran for the time a stream of sweetest intimacy.  For the time you would then fancy that you had been let into the inner life of this girl, and would be proud of yourself that so much should have been granted you.  You would feel that there was something also in yourself in that this should have been permitted.  Her hair and eyebrows were dark brown, of the hue most common to men and women, and had in them nothing that was peculiar; but her hair was soft and smooth and ever well dressed, and never redolent of peculiar odors.  It was simply Florence Mountjoy’s hair, and that made it perfect in the eyes of her male friends generally.

“She’s not such a wonderful beauty, after all,” once said of her a gentleman to whom it may be presumed that she had not taken the trouble to be peculiarly attractive.  “No,” said another, ­“no.  But, by George!  I shouldn’t like to have the altering of her.”  It was thus that men generally felt in regard to Florence Mountjoy.  When they came to reckon her up they did not see how any change was to be made for the better.

To Florence, as to most other girls, the question of her future life had been a great trouble.  Whom should she marry? and whom should she decline to marry?  To a girl, when it is proposed to her suddenly to change everything in life, to go altogether away and place herself under the custody of a new master, to find for herself a new home, new pursuits, new aspirations, and a strange companion, the change must be so complete as almost to frighten her by its awfulness.  And yet it has to be always thought of, and generally done.

But this change had been presented to Florence in a manner more than ordinarily burdensome.  Early in life, when naturally she would not have begun to think seriously of marriage, she had been told rather than asked to give herself to her cousin Mountjoy.  She was too firm of character to accede at once ­to deliver herself over body and soul to the tender mercies of one, in truth, unknown.  But she had been unable to interpose any reason that was valid, and had contented herself by demanding time.  Since that there had been moments in which she had almost yielded.  Mountjoy Scarborough had been so represented to her that she had considered it to be almost a duty to yield.  More than once the word had been all but spoken; but the word had never been spoken.  She had been subjected to what might be called cruel pressure.  In season and out of season her mother had represented as a duty this marriage with her cousin.  Why should she not marry her cousin?  It must be understood that these questions had been asked before any of the terrible facts of Captain Scarborough’s life had been made known to her.  Because, it may be said, she did not love him.  But in these days she had loved no man, and was inclined to think so little of herself as to make her want of love no necessary bar to the accomplishment of the wish of others.  By degrees she was spoken of among their acquaintance as the promised bride of Mountjoy Scarborough, and though she ever denied the imputation, there came over her girl’s heart a feeling, ­very sad and very solemn, but still all but accepted, ­that so it must be.  Then Harry Annesley had crossed her path, and the question had been at last nearly answered, and the doubts nearly decided.  She did not quite know at first that she loved Harry Annesley, but was almost sure that it was impossible for her to become the wife of Mountjoy Scarborough.

Then there came nearly twelve months of most painful uncertainty in her life.  It is very hard for a young girl to have to be firm with her mother in declining a proposed marriage, when all circumstances of the connection are recommended to her as being peculiarly alluring.  And there was nothing in the personal manners of her cousin which seemed to justify her in declaring her abhorrence.  He was a dark, handsome, military-looking man, whose chief sin it was in the eyes of his cousin that he seemed to demand from her affection, worship, and obedience.  She did not analyse his character, but she felt it.  And when it came to pass that tidings of his debts at last reached her, she felt that she was glad of an excuse, though she knew that the excuse would not have prevailed with her had she liked him.  Then came his debts, and with the knowledge of them a keener perception of his imperiousness.  She could consent to become the wife of the man who had squandered his property and wasted his estate; but not of one who before his marriage demanded of her that submission which, as she thought, should be given by her freely after her marriage.  Harry Annesley glided into her heart after a manner very different from this.  She knew that he adored her, but yet he did not hasten to tell her so.  She knew that she loved him, but she doubted whether a time would ever come in which she could confess it.  It was not till he had come to acknowledge the trouble to which Mountjoy had subjected him that he had ever ventured to speak plainly of his own passion, and even then he had not asked for a reply.  She was still free, as she thought of all this, but she did at last tell herself that, let her mother say what she would, she certainly never would stand at the altar with her cousin Mountjoy.

Even now, when the captain had been declared not to be his father’s heir, and when all the world knew that he had disappeared from the face of the earth, Mrs. Mountjoy did not altogether give him up.  She partly disbelieved her brother, and partly thought that circumstances could not be so bad as they were described.

To her feminine mind, ­to her, living, not in the world of London, but in the very moderate fashion of Cheltenham, ­it seemed to be impossible that an entail should be thus blighted in the bud.  Why was an entail called an entail unless it were ineradicable, ­a decision of fate rather than of man and of law?  And to her eyes Mountjoy Scarborough was so commanding that all things must at last be compelled to go as he would have them.  And, to tell the truth, there had lately come to Mrs. Mountjoy a word of comfort, which might be necessary if the world should be absolutely upset in accordance with the wicked skill of her brother, which even in that case might make crooked things smooth.  Augustus, whom she had regarded always as quite a Mountjoy, because of his talent, and appearance, and habit of command, had whispered to her a word.  Why should not Florence be transferred with the remainder of the property?  There was something to Mrs. Mountjoy’s feelings base in the idea at the first blush of it.  She did not like to be untrue to her gallant nephew.  But as she came to turn it in her mind there were certain circumstances which recommended the change to her ­should the change be necessary.  Florence certainly had expressed an unintelligible objection to the elder brother.  Why should the younger not be more successful?  Mrs. Mountjoy’s heart had begun to droop within her as she had thought that her girl would prove deaf to the voice of the charmer.  Another charmer had come, most objectionable in her sight, but to him no word of absolute encouragement had, as she thought, been yet spoken.  Augustus had already obtained for himself among his friends the character of an eloquent young lawyer.  Let him come and try his eloquence on his cousin, ­only let it first be ascertained, as an assured fact, and beyond the possibility of all retrogression, that the squire’s villainy was certain.

“I think, my love,” she said to her daughter one day, “that, under the immediate circumstances of the family, we should retire for a while into private life.”  This occurred on the very day on which Septimus Jones had been vaguely informed of the iniquitous falsehood of Harry Annesley.

“Good gracious, mamma, is not our life always private?” She had understood it all, ­that the private life was intended altogether to exclude Harry, but was to be made open to the manoeuvres of her cousin, such as they might be.

“Not in the sense in which I mean.  Your poor uncle is dying.”

“We hear that Sir William says he is better.”

“I fear, nevertheless, that he is dying, ­though it may, perhaps, take a long time.  And then poor Mountjoy has disappeared.  I think that we should see no one till the mystery about Mountjoy has been cleared up.  And then the story is so very discreditable.”

“I do not see that that is an affair of ours,” said Florence, who had no desire to be shut up just at the present moment.

“We cannot help ourselves.  This making his eldest son out to be ­oh, something so very different ­is too horrible to be thought of.  I am told that nobody knows the truth.”

“We at any rate are not implicated in that.”

“But we are.  He at any rate is my brother, and Mountjoy is my nephew, ­or at any rate was.  Poor Augustus is thrown into terrible difficulties.”

“I am told that he is greatly pleased at finding that Tretton is to belong to him.”

“Who tells you that?  You have no right to believe anything about such near relatives from any one.  Whoever told you so has been very wicked.”  Mrs. Mountjoy no doubt thought that this wicked communication had been made by Harry Annesley.  “Augustus has always proved himself to be affectionate and respectful to his elder brother, that is, to his brother who is ­is older than himself,” added Mrs. Mountjoy, feeling that there was a difficulty in expressing herself as to the presumed condition of the two Scarboroughs, “Of course he would rather be owner of Tretton than let any one else have it, if you mean that.  The honor of the family is very much to him.”

“I do not know that the family can have any honor left,” said Florence, severely.

“My dear, you have no right to say that.  The Scarboroughs have always held their heads very high in Staffordshire, and more so of late than ever.  I don’t mean quite of late, but since Tretton became of so much importance.  Now, I’ll tell you what I think we had better do.  We’ll go and spend six weeks with your uncle at Brussels.  He has always been pressing us to come.”

“Oh, mamma, he does not want us.”

“How can you say that?  How do you know?”

“I am sure Sir Magnus will not care for our coming now.  Besides, how could that be retiring into private life?  Sir Magnus, as ambassador, has his house always full of company.”

“My dear, he is not ambassador.  He is minister plenipotentiary.  It is not quite the same thing.  And then he is our nearest relative, ­our nearest, at least, since my own brother has made this great separation, of course.  We cannot go to him to be out of the way of himself.”

“Why do you want to go anywhere, mamma?  Why not stay at home?” But Florence pleaded in vain as her mother had already made up her mind.  Before that day was over she succeeded in making her daughter understand that she was to be taken to Brussels as soon as an answer could be received from Sir Magnus and the necessary additions were made to their joint wardrobe.

Sir Magnus Mountjoy, the late general’s elder brother, had been for the last four or five years the English minister at Brussels.  He had been minister somewhere for a very long time, so that the memory of man hardly ran back beyond it, and was said to have gained for himself very extensive popularity.  It had always been a point with successive governments to see that poor Sir Magnus got something, and Sir Magnus had never been left altogether in the cold.  He was not a man who would have been left out in the cold in silence, and perhaps the feeling that such was the case had been as efficacious on his behalf as his well-attested popularity.  At any rate, poor Sir Magnus had always been well placed, and was now working out his last year or two before the blessed achievement of his pursuit should have been reached.  Sir Magnus had a wife of whom it was said at home that she was almost as popular as her husband; but the opinion of the world at Brussels on this subject was a good deal divided.  There were those who declared that Lady Mountjoy was of all women the most overbearing and impertinent.  But they were generally English residents at Brussels, who had come to live there as a place at which education for their children would be cheaper than at home.  Of these Lady Mountjoy had been heard to declare that she saw no reason why, because she was the minister’s wife, she should be expected to entertain all the second-class world of London.  This, of course, must be understood with a good deal of allowance, as the English world at Brussels was much too large to expect to be so received; but there were certain ladies living on the confines of high society who thought that they had a right to be admitted, and who grievously resented their exclusion.  It cannot, therefore, be said that Lady Mountjoy was popular; but she was large in figure, and painted well, and wore her diamonds with an air which her peculiar favorites declared to be majestic.  You could not see her going along the boulevards in her carriage without being aware that a special personage was passing.  Upon the whole, it may be said that she performed well her special rôle in life.  Of Sir Magnus it was hinted that he was afraid of his wife; but in truth he desired it to be understood that all the disagreeable things done at the Embassy were done by Lady Mountjoy, and not by him.  He did not refuse leave to the ladies to drop their cards at his hall-door.  He could ask a few men to his table without referring the matter to his wife; but every one would understand that the asking of ladies was based on a different footing.

He knew well that as a rule it was not fitting that he should ask a married man without his wife; but there are occasions on which an excuse can be given, and upon the whole the men liked it.  He was a stout, tall, portly old gentleman, sixty years of age, but looking somewhat older, whom it was a difficulty to place on horseback, but who, when there, looked remarkably well.  He rarely rose to a trot during his two hours of exercise, which to the two attache’s who were told off for the duty of accompanying him was the hardest part of their allotted work.  But other gentlemen would lay themselves out to meet Sir Magnus and to ride with him, and in this way he achieved that character for popularity which had been a better aid to him in life than all the diplomatic skill which he possessed.

“What do you think?” said he, walking off with Mrs. Mountjoy’s letter into his wife’s room.

“I don’t think anything, my dear.”

“You never do.”  Lady Mountjoy, who had not yet undergone her painting, looked cross and ill-natured.  “At any rate, Sarah and her daughter are proposing to come here.”

“Good gracious!  At once?”

“Yes, at once.  Of course, I’ve asked them over and over again, and something was said about this autumn, when we had come back from Pimperingen.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Bother!  I did tell you.  This kind of thing always turns up at last.  She’s a very good kind of a woman, and the daughter is all that she ought to be.”

“Of course she’ll be flirting with Anderson.”  Anderson was one of the two mounted attaches.

“Anderson will know how to look after himself,” said Sir Magnus.  “At any rate they must come.  They have never troubled us before, and we ought to put up with them once.”

“But, my dear, what is all this about her brother?”

“She won’t bring her brother with her.”

“How can you be sure of that?” said the anxious lady.

“He is dying, and can’t be moved.”

“But that son of his ­Mountjoy.  It’s altogether a most distressing story.  He turns out to be nobody after all, and now he has disappeared, and the papers for an entire month were full of him.  What would you do if he were to turn up here?  The girl was engaged to him, you know, and has only thrown him off since his own father declared that he was not legitimate.  There never was such a mess about anything since London first began.”

Then Sir Magnus declared that, let Mountjoy Scarborough and his father have misbehaved as they might, Mr. Scarborough’s sister must be received at Brussels.  There was a little family difficulty.  Sir Magnus had borrowed three thousand pounds from the general which had been settled on the general’s widow, and the interest was not always paid with extreme punctuality.  To give Mrs. Mountjoy her due, it must be said that this had not entered into her consideration when she had written to her brother-in-law; but it was a burden to Sir Magnus, and had always tended to produce from him a reiteration of those invitations, which Mrs. Mountjoy had taken as an expression of brotherly love.  Her own income was always sufficient for her wants, and the hundred and fifty pounds coming from Sir Magnus had not troubled her much.  “Well, my dear, if it must be it must; ­only what I’m to do with her I do not know.”

“Take her about in the carriage,” said Sir Magnus, who was beginning to be a little angry with this interference.

“And the daughter?  Daughters are twice more troublesome than their mothers.”

“Pass her over to Miss Abbott.  And for goodness’ sake don’t make so much trouble about things which need not be troublesome.”  Then Sir Magnus left his wife to ring for her chambermaid and go on with her painting, while he himself undertook the unwonted task of writing an affectionate letter to his sister-in-law.  It should be here explained that Sir Magnus had no children of his own, and that Miss Abbott was the lady who was bound to smile and say pretty things on all occasions to Lady Mountjoy for the moderate remuneration of two hundred a year and her maintenance.

The letter which Sir Magnus wrote was as follows: 

My dear Sarah, ­Lady Mountjoy bids me say that we shall be delighted to receive you and my niece at the British Ministry on the 1st of October, and hope that you will stay with us till the end of the month. ­Believe me, most affectionately yours, Magnus Mountjoy.

“I have a most kind letter from Sir Magnus,” said Mrs. Mountjoy to her daughter.

“What does he say?”

“That he will be delighted to receive us on the 1st of October.  I did say that we should be ready to start in about a week’s time, because I know that he gets home from his autumn holiday by the middle of September.  But I have no doubt he has his house full till the time he has named.”

“Do you know her, mamma?” asked Florence.

“I did see her once; but I cannot say that I know her.  She used to be a very handsome woman, and looks to be quite good-natured; but Sir Magnus has always lived abroad, and except when he came home about your poor father’s death I have seen very little of him.”

“I never saw him but that once,” said Florence.

And so it was settled that she and her mother were to spend a month at Brussels.