He was both proud and fearful as to the thing to be done,—proud that he, the Squire of Buston, should be called on to take so important a step; proud by anticipation of his feelings as he would return home a jolly thriving wooer,—and yet a little fearful lest he might not succeed. Were he to fail the failure would be horrible to him. He knew that every man and woman about the place would know all about it. Among the secrets of the family there was a story, never now mentioned, of his having done the same thing, once before. He was then a young man, about twenty-five, and he had come forth to lay himself and Buston at the feet of a baronet\'s daughter who lived some twenty-five miles off. She was very beautiful, and was said to have a fitting dower, but he had come back, and had shut himself up in the house for a week afterward. To no human ears had he ever since spoken of his interview with Miss Courteney. The doings of that day had been wrapped in impenetrable darkness. But all Buston and the neighboring parishes had known that Miss Courteney had refused him. Since that day he had never gone forth again on such a mission.
There were those who said of him that his love had been so deep and enduring that he had never got the better of it. Miss Courteney had been married to a much grander lover, and had been taken off to splendid circles. But he had never mentioned her name. That story of his abiding love was throughly believed by his sister, who used to tell it of him to his credit when at the rectory the rector would declare him to be a fool. But the rector used to say that he was dumb from pride, or that he could not bear to have it known that he had failed at anything. At any rate, he had never again attempted love, and had formally declared to his sister that, as he did not intend to marry, Harry should be regarded as his son. Then at last had come the fellowship, and he had been proud of his heir, thinking that in some way he had won the fellowship himself, as he had paid the bills. But now all was altered, and he was to go forth to his wooing again.
There had been a rumor about the country that he was already accepted; but such was not the case. He had fluttered about Buntingford, thinking of it: but he had never put the question. To his thinking it would not have been becoming to do so without some ceremony. Buston was not to be made away during the turnings of a quadrille or as a part of an ordinary conversation. It was not probable,—nay, it was impossible,—that he should mention the subject to any one; but still he must visibly prepare for it, and I think that he was aware that the world around him knew what he was about.
And the Thoroughbung\'s knew, and Miss Matilda Thoroughbung knew well. All Buntingford knew. In those old days in which he had sought the hand of the baronet\'s daughter, the baronet\'s daughter, and the baronet\'s wife, and the baronet himself, had known what was coming, though Mr. Prosper thought that the secret dwelt alone in his own bosom. Nor did he dream now that Harry and Harry\'s father, and Harry\'s mother and sisters, had all laughed at the conspicuous gravity of his threat. It was the general feeling on the subject which made the rumor current that the deed had been done. But when he came down-stairs with one new gray kid-glove on, and the other dangling in his hand, nothing had been done.
"Drive to Buntingford," said the squire.
"Yes, sir," said Matthew, the door of the carriage in his hand.
"To Marmaduke Lodge."
"Yes, sir." Then Matthew told the coachman, who had heard the instructions very plainly, and knew them before he had heard them. The squire threw himself back in the carriage, and applied himself to wondering how he should do the deed. He had, in truth, barely studied the words,—but not, finally, the manner of delivering them. With his bare hand up to his eyes so that he might hold the glove unsoiled in the other, he devoted his intellect to the task; nor did he withdraw his hand till the carriage turned in at the gate. The drive up to the door of Marmaduke Lodge was very short, and he had barely time to arrange his waistcoat and his whiskers before the carriage stood still. He was soon told that Miss Thoroughbung was at home, and within a moment he found himself absolutely standing on the carpet in her presence.
Report had dealt unkindly with Miss Thoroughbung in the matter of her age. Report always does deal unkindly with unmarried young women who have ceased to be girls. There is an idea that they will wish to make themselves out to be younger than they are, and therefore report always makes them older. She had been called forty-five, and even fifty. Her exact age at this moment was forty-two, and as Mr. Prosper was only fifty there was no discrepancy in the marriage. He would have been young-looking for his age, but for an air of ancient dandyism which had grown upon him. He was somewhat dry, too, and skinny, with high cheekbones and large dull eyes. But he was clean, and grave, and orderly,—a man promising well to a lady on the lookout for a husband. Miss Thoroughbung was fat, fair, and forty to the letter, and she had a just measure of her own good looks, of which she was not unconscious. But she was specially conscious of twenty-five thousand pounds, the possession of which had hitherto stood in the way of her search after a husband. It was said commonly about Buntingford that she looked too high, seeing that she was only a Thoroughbung and had no more than twenty-five thousand pounds.
But Miss Tickle was in the room, and might have been said to be in the way, were it not that a little temporary relief was felt by Mr. Prosper to be a comfort. Miss Tickle was at any rate twenty years older than Miss Thoroughbung, and was of all slaves at the same time the humblest and the most irritating. She never asked for anything, but was always painting the picture of her own deserts. "I hope I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Tickle quite well," said the squire, as soon as he had paid his first compliments to the lady of his love.
"Thank you, Mr. Prosper, pretty well. My anxiety is all for Matilda." Matilda had been Matilda to her since she had been a little girl, and Miss Tickle was not going now to drop the advantage which the old intimacy gave her.
"I trust there is no cause for it."
"Well, I\'m not so sure. She coughed a little last night, and would not eat her supper. We always do have a little supper. A despatched crab it was; and when she would not eat it I knew there was something wrong."
"Nonsense! what a fuss you make. Well, Mr. Prosper, have you seen your nephew yet?"
"No, Miss Thoroughbung; nor do I intend to see him. The young man has disgraced himself."
"Dear, dear; how sad!"
"Young men do disgrace themselves, I fear, very often," said Miss Tickle.
"We won\'t talk about it, if you please, because it is a family affair."
"Oh no," said Miss Thoroughbung.
"At least, not as yet. It may be;—but never mind, I would not wish to be premature in anything."
"I am always telling Matilda so. She is so impulsive. But as you may have matters of business, Mr. Prosper, on which to speak to Miss Thoroughbung, I will retire."
"It is very thoughtful on your part, Miss Tickle."
Then Miss Tickle retired; from which it may be surmised that the probable circumstances of the interview had been already discussed between the ladies. Mr. Prosper drew a long breath, and sighed audibly, as soon as he was alone with the object of his affections. He wondered whether men were ever bright and jolly in such circumstances. He sighed again, and then he began: "Miss Thoroughbung!"
"Mr. Prosper!"
All the prepared words had flown from his memory. He could not even bethink himself how he ought to begin. And, unfortunately, so much must depend upon manner! But the property was unembarrassed, and Miss Thoroughbung thought it probable that she might be allowed to do what she would with her own money. She had turned it all over to the right and to the left, and she was quite minded to accept him. With this view she had told Miss Tickle to leave the room, and she now felt that she was bound to give the gentleman what help might be in her power. "Oh, Miss Thoroughbung!" he said.
"Mr. Prosper, you and I are such good friends, that—that—that—"
"Yes, indeed. You can have no more true friend than I am,—not even Miss Tickle."
"Oh, bother Miss Tickle! Miss Tickle is very well."
"Exactly so. Miss Tickle is very well; a most estimable person."
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CHAPTER XXV. HARRY AND HIS UNCLE.
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CHAPTER XXVII. THE PROPOSAL.
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