"I must say something to you, Harry. Let us walk on a little. It is
not late. Harry, what is the trouble between you and Rose?"
"Trouble!" repeated Harry, in amazement. "Do you mean because she
fancied herself left alone this afternoon?"
"Of course I do not mean that. But more than once lately you have
spoken to each other as though you were alluding to something of which I
am ignorant--something that must have happened when you were away from
home--at the West, I mean--something which I have not been told."
"Graeme, I don't understand what you mean. What could possibly have
happened which has been concealed from you? Why don't you ask Rose?"
"Because I have not hitherto thought it necessary to ask any one, and
now I prefer to ask you. Harry, dear, I don't think it is anything very
serious. Don't be impatient with me."
"Has Rose been saying anything to you?"
"Nothing that I have not heard you say yourself. You accused her once
in my hearing of being too fond of admiration, of--of flirting, in
short--"
"My dear Graeme! I don't think I ever made any such assertion--at least
in a way that you or Rose need to resent--or complain of."
"Rose does not complain of it, she laughs at it. Harry, dear, what is
it? Don't you remember one night when something was said about Mrs
Gridley--no, don't be impatient. You were annoyed with Rose, then, and
it was not about anything that was said at the time, at least I thought
not. I don't wish to seem prying or inquisitive, but what concerns Rose
is a great matter to me. She is more to me than any one."
"Graeme," said Harry, gravely, "you don't suppose that I love Rose less
than you do. I think I know what you mean, however. I annoyed her once
by something I said about Charlie, but it was only for the moment. I am
sure she does not care about that now."
"About Charlie!" repeated Graeme.
"Yes; you did not know it, I suppose, but it was a serious matter to
Charlie when you and Rose went away that time. He was like a man lost.
And I do believe she cared for him, too--and I told him so--only she was
such a child."
"You told him so!" repeated Graeme, in astonishment.
"I could not help it, Graeme. The poor fellow was in such a way, so--so
miserable; and when he went West last winter, it was more to see Rose
than for anything else. But he came back quite downhearted. She was so
much run after, he said, and she was very distant with him. Not that he
said very much about it. But when I went out there afterwards, I took
her to task sharply about it."
"Harry! How could you?"
"Very easily. It is a serious thing when a girl plays fast and loose
with a man's heart, and such a man as Charlie. And I told her so
roundly."
"And how did she take it?" asked Graeme, in a maze between astonishment
and vexation.
"Oh! she was as high and mighty as possible, called my interference
rudeness and impertinence, and walked out of the room like an offended
princess--and I rather think I had the worst of it," added Harry,
laughing at the remembrance. "But I don't bear malice, and I don't
think Rose does."
"Of course, she does not. But Harry, dear, though I should not call
your interference impertinent in any bad sense, I must say it was not a
very wise thing to take her to task, as you call it. I don't believe
Mr Millar ever said a word to her about--about his feelings, and you
don't suppose she was going to confess, or allow you to scold her
about--any one."
"Now; Graeme, don't be missish! `Never said a word!'--Why, a blind man
might have seen it all along. I know we all looked upon her as a child,
but a woman soon knows when a man cares for her."
"No wise woman will acknowledge it to another till she has been told so
in words; at least she ought not," said Graeme, gravely.
"Oh, well!--there is no use talking. Perhaps I was foolish; but I love
Charlie, dearly. I daresay Rose thinks herself too good for him,
because he does not pretend to be so wonderfully intellectual as some of
her admirers do, and you may agree with her. But I tell you, Graeme,
Charlie is pure gold. I don't know another that will compare with him,
for everything pure and good and high-minded--unless it is our own Will;
and it is so long since we have seen him, we don't know how he may be
changed by this time. But I can swear for Charlie."
"You don't need to swear to me, Harry. You know well I have always
liked Charlie."
"Well, it can't be helped now. Charlie has got over it. Men _do_ get
over these things, though it doesn't seem possible to them at the time,"
added Harry, meditatively. "I was rather afraid of Rosie's coming home,
and I wanted Charlie to go to Scotland, then, but he is all right now.
Of course you are not to suppose that I blame Rose. Such things will
happen, and it is well it is no worse. It is the way with those girls
not to know or value true worth because they see it every day."
"Poor Charlie!" said Graeme, softly.
"Oh, don't fret about Charlie. He is all right now. He is not the man
to lose the good of his life because a silly girl doesn't know her own
mind. `There's as good fish in the sea,' you know. If you are going to
be sorry for any one, let it be for Rosie. She has lost a rare chance
for happiness in the love of a good man."
"But it may not be lost," murmured Graeme.
"I am afraid it is," said Harry, gravely. "It is not in Rose to do
justice to Charlie. Even you don't do it, Graeme. Because he lives
just a commonplace life, and buys and sells, and comes and goes, like
other men, you women have not the discrimination to see that he is one
of a thousand. As for Rose, with her romance, and her nonsense, she is
looking for a hero and a paladin, and does not know a true heart when it
is laid at her feet. I only hope she won't wait for the `hats till the
blue-bonnets go by,' as Janet used to say."
"As I have done, you would like to add," said Graeme, laughing, for her
heart was growing light. "And Harry, dear, Rosie never had anybody's
heart laid at her feet. It is you who are growing foolish and romantic,
in your love for your friend."
"Oh! well. It doesn't matter. She will never have it now. Charlie is
all right by this time. Her high and mighty airs have cured him, and
her flippancy and her love of admiration. Fancy her walking off to-day
with that red-headed fool and quite ignoring Mrs Roxbury and her
daughter, when they--Miss Roxbury, at least--wanted to see her to engage
her for this evening."
"He is not a fool, and he cannot help his red hair," said Graeme,
laughing, though there was both sadness and vexation in her heart. "The
Goldsmiths might have called her `high and mighty' if she had left them
and gone quite out of her way, as she must have done, to speak to those
`fine carriage people.' She could only choose between the two parties,
and I think politeness and kindness suggested the propriety of going on
with her friends, not a love of admiration, as you seem determined to
suppose."
"She need not have been rude to the Roxburys, however. Charlie noticed
it as well as I."
"I think you are speaking very foolishly, Harry," said Graeme. "What do
the Roxburys care for any of us? Do you suppose Mrs Roxbury would
notice a slight from a young girl like Rose. And she was not rude."
"No, perhaps not; but she was polite in a way so distant and dignified,
so condescending, even, that I was amazed, and so was Charlie, I know,
though he did not say so."
"Nonsense, Harry! Rose knows them, but very slightly. And what has Mr
Millar to do with it?"
"Mr Millar!" exclaimed Harry. "Do be reasonable, Graeme. Is it not of
Mr Millar that we have been speaking all this time? He has everything
to do with it. And as for not knowing them. I am sure Rose was at
first delighted with Miss Roxbury. And Amy was as delighted with her,
and wanted to be intimate, I know. But Rose is such a flighty, flippant
little thing, that--"
"That will do, Harry. Such remarks may be reserved for Mr Millar's
hearing. I do not choose to listen to them. You are very unjust to
Rose."
"It is you who are unjust, Graeme, and unreasonable, and a little out of
temper, which does not often happen with you. I am sure I don't
understand it."
Graeme laughed.
"Well, perhaps I am a little out of temper, Harry. I know I am
dreadfully tired. We won't say anything more about it to-night, except
that I don't like to have Rose misunderstood."
"I was, perhaps, a little hard on Rosie, once, but I don't think I
misunderstand her," said Harry, wisely. "She is just like other girls,
I suppose; only, Graeme, you have got me into the way of thinking that
my sisters should not be just like other girls, but a great deal better
in every way. And I shan't be hard on her any more, now that it is all
right with Charlie."
But was it all right with Charlie? Graeme's talk with Harry had not
enlightened her much. Had pretty, gentle Amy Roxbury helped Charlie "to
get over it;" as Harry's manner of speaking seemed to imply? Or did
Charlie still care for Rose? And had Rose ever cared for him "in that
way?" Was Rose foolish, and flippant, and fond of admiration, as Harry
declared; and was she growing dissatisfied with their quiet, uneventful
life? Was it this that had brought over her the change which could not
be talked about or noticed, which, at most times, could not be believed
in, but which, now and then, made itself evident as very real and very
sad? Or was it something else that was bringing a cloud and a shadow
over the life of her young sister? Even in her thoughts, Graeme shrunk
from admitting that Rose might be coming to the knowledge of her own
heart too late for her happiness.
"I will not believe that she has all that to pass through. It cannot be
so bad as that. I will have patience and trust. I cannot speak to her.
It would do no good. I will wait and trust."
Graeme sat long that night listening to the quiet breathing of her
sleeping sister; but all the anxious thoughts that passed through her
mind, could only end in this: "I will wait and trust."