A broken blossom, vol. 3 of 3

St. Pucelle never looked more beautiful than it did on the day that I took that walk with Charlie Sandilands. The summer glories, yet unfaded, had been overtaken by those of autumn, and the rich clusters of purple grapes that hung upon the walls of my guardian’s house made a brilliant contrast to the scarlet and white and rose-coloured geraniums that still bloomed luxuriantly on the window-sills. The purple heather reigned alone upon the hill-side, but ferns of various sorts were arching their graceful fronds above it, and the merry brown hares were leaping amongst the brushwood and filling the place with life. As I led Charlie up the hill (for I would not let Tessie’s silly remark deter me from showing him the glorious expanse of scenery to be gained from the summit) I pointed out the beauties of the country to him with so much interest as to excite the remark that I appeared entirely to have forgotten poor old Norwood in my new love for St. Pucelle.

This was exactly the sort of thing I had hoped Charlie would say to me, for I had had two reasons in inviting him to a confidential interview: one was to ask his advice about writing to Mr. Warrington; the other to find out if he intended to be sensible during his stay in our neighbourhood, and permit me to enjoy his company without being annoyed by his sentimentality. So I answered briskly:

‘I never cared for Norwood itself, you know, Charlie, and you would scarcely expect me to get up an enthusiastic admiration for a suburb of London, composed of bricks and mortar and stunted trees. Its recollections are sacred to me, because my dear mother lies there, but that is all.’

‘I was sure that coming abroad would give you a distaste for all the old things,’ he said, in a desponding manner.

‘Don’t talk rubbish, Charlie! You were sure of no such thing! If you ask me if I was happy at Norwood, I answer “_yes_” most fervently. If you ask me if I liked the place as a residence, I answer, as fervently, “_no_.” I should have been happy with my mother in St. Giles’s; but I should not have admired the locality.’

‘Ah well! Let us return to St. Pucelle,’ he said, with a sigh.

‘No! I refuse to return to St. Pucelle until I have spoken a few words to you. Do you mean to enjoy your holiday here, Charlie, and to let me enjoy it, or not?’

‘I don’t understand what you’re driving at.’

‘I’m driving at you, or rather at that receptacle for nonsense you call your brain. Now you know I am very fond of you, Charlie, and have been for years. You are so associated with my darling mother, that you seem like a link with the past to me; and I should like to treat you like a younger brother, and to feel that you looked upon me as a sister. But that can never be whilst you attempt to stuff any of your sentiment down my throat.’

‘Really, Hilda——’

‘Really, Charlie, please to hear me out first, and have your say afterwards. If I thought that what you told me at Norwood proceeded from a feeling such as men conceive in their maturity, and preserve for their whole lives, I should not dare broach the subject to you again. But I am sure it did not.’

‘You imagine, in fact, that I am such a boy,’ with a withering accent on the word, ‘that I am incapable of a lasting passion.’

‘Just so! That is just what I do think; at least, I am sure the fancy you took for me was born entirely of association and compassion.’

‘I confess I do not follow you.’

‘Oh yes, you do! There are several kinds of love, Charlie, but only one is the right one with which to enter upon a partnership for life. You had known me for so long: you had become so used to me, in fact, that when you thought of our separation, and under such melancholy circumstances, the pain seemed too hard to bear, and your mind flew to the only means by which you could have kept me with you. I have often and often thought of it since, and I am sure I am right. It was very good and sweet and true of you, Charlie, and I love you the better for it, but you should thank God I was more clear-sighted than yourself, for we should have been a very miserable couple.’

‘Do you think so, Hilda?’

‘I am sure of it! My dear boy, you are just at that age when men think they can live happily with any woman who is young and passably good-tempered and passably good-looking. But the daily companionship of a married life is a terrible crucible through which to pass the affections, and only the true ore will bear the test of it.’

‘I suppose you have found the “true ore” in St. Pucelle,’ he grumbled.

‘Don’t be impudent, Charlie! Every word you say convinces me more and more of the truth of my conviction. Now do be reasonable, my dear child——’

‘I won’t be called your “dear child.”’

‘My dear boy, then.’

‘Nor your “dear boy.”’

‘What then, my dear Mr. Sandilands? Oh, you baby! If you were fifty-two instead of twenty-two, you would be skipping with pleasure at being called a child. However, I will try not to hurt your feelings again. I won’t call you “dear” at all.’

‘No, Hilda! don’t say that.’

‘Confess, then, that you made a mistake the other day at Norwood, and that I, with my independent spirit and intolerance of control, would never have made you happy in the way you wished me to do.’

‘I will confess no such thing!’

‘But your heart is not broken, Charlie. Come!’ I said, looking round into his face.

He caught my glance and smiled.

‘Eureka!’ I exclaimed; ‘I knew I should get at the truth at last.’

‘Well! of course it’s not broken,’ he replied, in a foolish, half-shamed manner; ‘or I shouldn’t be walking here, but you made me very miserable, you know, Hilda! I am sure I hardly ate anything for a month after you left. But you had said it was of no use, and you never should change your mind, and so I tried to make the best of it. A man cannot go on crying over spilt milk for ever, can he?’

‘Of course not,’ I said energetically; ‘and it is so brave and nice of you to tell me the truth, Charlie. It makes me feel we shall be such real friends henceforward. And I want your friendship so much. I should have been unhappy to think that you had put it out of my power to confide in you; for things are not quite so straight here as they ought to be.’

‘What! with the Lovetts! Aren’t they kind to you?’

‘The girls are sweetness itself. I never had more lovable companions.’

‘The one I saw first seemed very jolly; the pretty one, I mean!’

‘What, Tessie? the one with fair hair?’

‘Yes!’

‘Oh! we call little Ange the beauty! Her face is perfectly lovely when you look into it.’

‘I didn’t see so much of her. She kept right behind her sister. But Miss Lovett appeared the prettiest girl I had ever seen, to me—except yourself, Hilda, of course,’ added Charlie, pulling himself up with a sudden recollection of the proprieties.

I laughed so heartily that I entirely discomposed him.

‘Oh, Charlie! you have not half learned your lesson yet! I know I’m a very pretty girl, because you’ve so often told me so; but I do not expect nor wish that you should never meet somebody you think much better-looking than myself. And Tessie Lovett and I are formed upon two such entirely opposite models! How could you think my wounded vanity would require that little postscript of yours as salve?’