THE HEIRESS’S TRIAL.
Rose’s letter to Cosmo had been conceived in a sudden commotion of
feeling, in which her instincts and sensations had come uppermost, and
got almost out of her own control. That savage sense of property which
exists in unreasoning childhood had risen to flame and fire within her,
mingled with and made still more furious by the terror and panic of
possible loss. Beneath all her gentleness and smoothness, and the many
glosses of civilisation that clothed her being, Rose had an entirely
primitive nature, tenacious of every personal belonging, full of natural
acquisitiveness and a love of _having_, which children and savages share
with many highly cultivated persons. She was one of those who, without
any conscious evil meaning, are rendered desperate by the idea of
personal loss. Her first impulse, when she knew that her ‘rights’ were
in danger, was to fight for them wildly, to turn upon all assailants
with impassioned fury. She did not want to hurt anyone, but what she had
got she meant to keep. The idea of losing the position to which she had
been elevated, and the fortune which had made her for the last year so
much more important a person than before, filled her with a kind of
cruel panic or fierce terror which was ready to seize at any instrument
by which its enemies could be confounded. This fierce passion of fear is
apt to do more mischief than deliberate cruelty. It will launch any
thunderbolt that comes to hand, arrest the very motion of the earth, if
possible, and upset the whole course of mortal living. It is more
unscrupulous than any tyrant. Rose was altogether possessed by this
ferocious terror. When she saw her property and importance threatened,
she looked about her wildly to see what machinery she could set in
motion for the confusion of her enemies and her own defence. The
character of it, and the result of it to others, seemed entirely
unimportant to her if only it could stop the danger, forestall the
approaching crisis. In the letter which she had surreptitiously read it
was stipulated that in a certain case her inheritance was to be
absolutely secure, and it had immediately become all-important to Rose
to bring about the forbidden thing against which her father had made so
violent a stand. She took her measures instantly, with the cunning of
ignorance and simplicity and the cruel directness of a childish mind.
That there was some difficulty between her sister and Cosmo her quick
observation had early divined. Perhaps her vanity had whispered that it
was because he liked her best: but, on the other hand, Rose understood
the power of pecuniary obstacles, and could feel the want of money in a
much more reasonable way than her sister, though so much her superior,
ever had done. And in either case her appeal to Cosmo would be
sovereign, she thought, in the first heat of her panic. If he had liked
her best, he would perceive that it was hopeless. If he had been afraid,
because of the want of fortune, her letter would reassure him. And if
she could but bring it about--make Anne unpardonable--secure her own
‘rights’!--with a passion of hostility against everybody who could
injure her, this was what Rose thought.
But when the letter was fairly gone, and the machinery set in motion, a
little chill crept over that first energy of passionate self-defence.
Other thoughts began to steal in. The strength of the savage and of the
child lies in their singleness of vision. As long as you can perceive
only what you want and how it is to be had, or tried for, everything is
possible; but when a cold breath steals upon you from here and there,
suggesting perhaps the hurt of another whom you have really no desire to
hurt, perhaps the actual wickedness which you have no desire to
perpetrate, what chills come upon the heat of action, what creeping
doubts even of the first headlong step already taken! Rose had three
days to reflect upon what she had done, and those three days were not
happy. She disguised her discomposure as much as she could, avoiding the
society of her mother and sister. Anne, though she was absorbed in
occupations much more important than anything that was likely to be
involved in the varying looks of Rose, perceived her little sister’s
flightiness and petulance with a grieved consciousness that her
position as heiress and principal personage of the family group was, now
that they were in their own country and better able to realise what it
meant, doing Rose harm; while Mrs. Mountford set it down to the girl’s
unreasonable fancy for little Keziah, whose company she seemed to seek
on all occasions, and whose confidences and preparations were not the
kind of things for a young girl to share.
‘No good ever comes of making intimates of your servants,’ her mother
said, disturbed by Rose’s uncertain spirits, her excitedness and
agitation. What was there to be agitated about? Once or twice the girl,
so wildly stirred in her own limited being, so full of ignorant
desperation, boldness, and terror, and at the same time cold creepings
of doubt and self-disapproval, came pressing close to her mother’s side,
with a kind of dumb overture of confidence. But Mrs. Mountford could not
understand that there was anything to tell. If there had been a lover at
hand, if Heathcote had shown his former admiration (as she understood
it) for Rose, or even if he had been coming daily to visit them, she
might have been curious, interested, roused to the possibility that
there was a secret to tell. But what could Rose find of a nature to be
confidential about in Hunston? The thing was incredible. So Mrs.
Mountford had said with a little impatience, ‘Can’t you find a seat, my
dear? I want my footstool to myself,’ when the child came to her feet as
girls are in the habit of doing. Rose felt herself rejected and pushed
aside: and Anne’s serious countenance repulsed her still more
completely. It frightened her to think that she had been venturing to
interfere in her sister’s affairs. What would Anne say? Her panic when
she thought of this was inconceivable. It was not a passion of fright
like that with which her own possible loss had filled her, but it was a
terror that put wings to her feet, that gave her that impulse of
instant flight and self-concealment which is the first thought of
terror. Thus the poor little undeveloped nature became the plaything of
desperate emotions, while yet all incapable of bearing them, and not
understanding what they were. She was capable of doing deadly harm to
others on one side, and almost of doing deadly harm to herself on the
other, out of her extremity of fear.
Cosmo’s letter, however, was as a dash of cold water in Rose’s face. Its
momentary effect was one of relief. He would not do what she wanted,
therefore he never, never was likely to betray to Anne that she had
interfered, and at the same time his refusal eased her sense of
wrong-doing: but after the first momentary relief other sensations much
less agreeable came into her mind. Her property! her property! Thus she
stood, a prey to all the uncertainties--nay, more than this, almost sure
that there was no uncertainty, that danger was over for Anne, that she
herself was the victim, the deceived one, cruelly betrayed and deserted
by her father, who had raised her so high only to abase her the
lower--and even by Anne, who had--what had Anne done? Was it certain,
Rose asked herself, that Anne had not herself privately read that fatal
letter, and acted upon it, though she had pretended to be so much
shocked when Rose touched it? That must have been at the bottom of it
all. Yes, no doubt that was how it was; most likely it was all a plot--a
conspiracy! Anne _knew_; and had put Cosmo aside--ordered him, perhaps,
to pretend to like Rose best!--bound him to wait till the three years
were over, and Rose despoiled, and all secure, when the whole thing
would come on again, and they would marry, and cheat poor papa in his
grave, and rob Rose of her fortune! She became wild with passion as this
gradually rose upon her as the thing most likely--nay, more than
likely, certain! Only this could have warranted the tone in which Cosmo
wrote. His letter was dreadful: it was unkind, it was mocking, it was
insolent. Yes! that was the word--insolent! insulting! was what it was.
Why, he pretended to propose to her!--to her! Rose! after being engaged
to her sister! When Rose read it over again and perceived what even her
somewhat obtuse faculties could not miss--the contemptuous mockery of
Cosmo’s letter, she stamped her feet with rage and despite. Her passion
was too much for her. She clenched her hands tight, and cried for anger,
her cheeks flaming, her little feet stamping in fury. And this was the
sight which Keziah saw when she came into the room--a sight very
alarming to that poor little woman; and, indeed, dangerous in the state
of health in which she was.
‘Oh! Miss Rose! Miss Rose!’ she said, with a violent start (which was so
bad for her); ‘what is it? what is the matter?’
Rose was in some degree brought to herself by the appearance of a
spectator; and, at the same time, it was a comfort to relieve her
burdened soul by speaking to someone.
‘Keziah,’ she said, in a great flush of agitation and resentment, ‘it
is--it is a gentleman that has been uncivil to me!’
‘Oh, Miss Rose!’ old Saymore’s wife cried out with excitement, attaching
a much more practical meaning to the words than Rose had any insight
into. ‘Oh, Miss Rose! in our house! Who is it? who is it? Only tell me,
and Mr. Saymore will turn him out of doors if it was the best customer
we have!’
This rapid acceptance of her complaint, and swift determination to
avenge it, brought Rose still more thoroughly to herself.
‘Oh, it is not anyone here. It is a gentleman on--a letter,’ Rose said;
and this subdued her. ‘It is not anything Saymore can help me about, nor
you, nor anyone.’
‘We are only poor folks, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah, ‘but for a real
interest, and wishing you well, there’s none, if it was the Queen
herself----’
The ludicrousness of the comparison struck Rose, but struck her not
mirthfully--dolefully.
‘It is not much that the Queen can care,’ she said. ‘Anne was presented,
but I was never presented. Nobody cares! What was I when Anne was there?
Always the little one--the one that was nobody!’
‘But, Miss Rose! Miss Rose!’
Keziah did not know how to put the consolation she wished to give, for
indeed she, like everybody else, had mourned the injustice to Anne,
which she must condone and accept if she adopted the first suggestion of
her sympathy.
‘You know,’ she said, with a little gasp over the renegade nature of the
speech--‘you know that Miss Anne is nobody now, and you are the one that
everybody thinks of----’
Keziah drew her breath hard after this, and stopped short, more ashamed
of her own turncoat utterance than could have been supposed: for indeed,
she said to herself, with very conciliatory speciousness of reasoning,
though Miss Anne was the one that everybody thought of, she herself had
always thought most of Miss Rose, who was not a bit proud, but always
ready to talk and tell you anything, and had liked her best.
‘Ah!’ cried Rose, shaking her head, ‘if that were always to last!’ and
then she stopped herself suddenly, and looked at Keziah as if there was
something to tell, as if considering whether she should tell something.
But Rose was not without prudence, and she was able to restrain herself.
‘It does not matter--it does not matter, Keziah,’ she cried, with that
air of injured superiority which is always so congenial to youth. ‘There
are some people who never get justice, whatever they may do.’
Little Mrs. Saymore was more bewildered than words could say. If there
was a fortunate person in the world, was it not Miss Rose? So suddenly
enriched, chosen, instead of Miss Anne, to have Miss Anne’s fortune, and
all the world at her feet! Keziah did not know what to make of it. But
Rose, who had no foolish consideration for other people’s feelings, left
her little time for consideration.
‘You may go now,’ she said, with a little wave of her hand; ‘I don’t
want anything. I want only to be left alone.’
‘I am sure, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah, offended, ‘I didn’t mean to intrude
upon you. I wanted to say as all _the things_ has come home, and if you
would like to look at them, I’ve laid them all out in the best room, and
they do look sweet,’ said the little, expectant mother.
Rose had taken a great deal of interest in the things, and even had
aided in various small pieces of needlework--a condescension which Mrs.
Mountford did not approve. But to-day she was in no mood for this
inspection. She shook her head and waved her hand with a mixture of
majesty and despondency.
‘Not to-day. I have other things to think of, Keziah. I couldn’t look at
them to-day.’
This made Keziah take an abrupt leave, with offence which swallowed up
her sympathy. Afterwards sympathy had the better of her resentment. She
went and reviewed her little show by herself, and felt sorry for Miss
Rose. It must be a trouble indeed which could not be consoled by a
sight of _the things_, with all their little frills goffered, and little
laces so neatly ironed, laid out in sets upon the best bed.
When, however, Keziah had withdrawn, the want of anyone to speak to
became intolerable to Rose. She was not used to be shut up within the
limits of her own small being; and though she could keep her little
secrets as well as anyone, yet the possession of this big secret, now
that there was no longer anything to do--now that her initiative had
failed, and produced her nothing but Cosmo’s insolent letter, with its
mock proposal--was more than she could contain. She dared not speak to
Anne, and her mother had unwittingly repulsed her confidence. A tingling
impatience took possession of her. If Keziah had been present--little as
Keziah would have understood it, and unsuitable as she would have been
for a _confidante_--Rose felt that she must have told her all. But even
Keziah was not within her reach. She tried to settle to something, to
read, to do some of her fancy-work. For a moment she thought that to
‘practise’--a duty which in her emancipation she had much
neglected--might soothe her; but she could only practise by going to the
sitting-room where the piano was, where her mother usually sat, and
where Anne most likely would be at that hour. Her book was a novel, but
she could not read it. Even novels, though they are a wonderful resource
in the vigils of life, lose their interest at the moments when the
reader’s own story is at, or approaching, a crisis. When she sat down to
read, one of the phrases in Cosmo’s letter would suddenly dart upon her
mind like a winged insect and give her a sting: or the more serious
words of the other letter--the secret of the dead which she had
violated--would flit across her, till her brain could stand it no
longer. She rose up with a start and fling, in a kind of childish
desperation. She could not, would not bear it! all alone in that little
dark cell of herself, with no rays of light penetrating it except the
most unconsolatory rays, which were not light at all, but spurts as of
evil gases, and bad little savage suggestions, such as to make another
raid upon Anne’s despatch-box, and get the letter again and burn it, and
make an end of it coming into her mind against her will. But then, even
if she were so wicked as to do that, how did she know there was not
another? indeed, Rose was almost sure that Anne had told her there was
another--the result of which would be that she would only have the
excitement of doing something very wrong without getting any good from
it. She sat with her book in her hand, and went over a page or two
without understanding a word. And then she jumped up and stamped her
little feet and clenched her hands, and made faces in the glass at Cosmo
and fate. Then, in utter impatience, feeling herself like a hunted
creature, pursued by something, she knew not what, Rose seized her hat
and went out, stealing softly down the stairs that nobody might see her.
She said to herself that there was a bit of ribbon to buy. There are
always bits of ribbon to buy for a young lady’s toilette. She would save
the maid the trouble and get it for herself.
The tranquil little old-fashioned High Street of a country town on an
August morning is as tranquillising a place as it is possible to
imagine. It was more quiet, more retired, and what Rose called dull,
than the open fields. All the irregular roofs--here a high-peaked gable,
there an overhanging upper story, the red pediment of the Queen Anne
house which was Mr. Loseby’s office and dwelling, the clustered chimneys
of the almshouses--how they stood out upon the serene blueness of the
sky and brilliancy of the sunshine! And underneath how shady it was!
how cool on the shady side! in what a depth of soft shelter, contrasting
with the blaze on the opposite pavement, was the deep cavernous doorway
of the ‘Black Bull,’ and the show in the shop windows, where one mild
wayfarer in muslin was gazing in, making the quiet more apparent! A boy
in blue, with a butcher’s tray upon his head, was crossing the street;
two little children in sunbonnets were going along with a basket between
them; and in the extreme distance was a costermonger’s cart with fruit
and vegetables, which had drawn some women to their doors. Of itself the
cry of the man who was selling these provisions was not melodious, but
it was so softened by the delight of the still, sweet, morning air, in
which there was still a whiff of dew, that it toned down into the
general harmony, adding a not unpleasant sense of common affairs, the
leisurely bargain, the innocent acquisition, the daily necessary traffic
which keeps homes and tables supplied. The buying and selling of the
rosy-cheeked apples and green cabbages belonged to the quiet ease of
living in such a softened, silent place. Rose did not enter into the
sentiment of the scene; she was herself a discord in it. In noisy London
she would have been more at home; and yet the quiet soothed her, though
she interrupted and broke it up with the sharp pat of her high-heeled
boot and the crackle of her French muslin. She was not disposed towards
the limp untidy draperies that are ‘the fashion.’ Her dress neither
swept the pavement nor was huddled up about her knees like the curtains
of a shabby room, but billowed about her in crisp puffs, with enough of
starch; and her footstep, which was never languid, struck the pavement
more sharply than ever in the energy of her discomposure. The butcher in
the vacant open shop, from which fortunately most of its contents had
been removed, came out to the door bewildered to see who it could be;
and one of Mr. Loseby’s clerks poked out of a window in his
shirt-sleeves, but drew back again much confused and abashed when he
caught the young lady’s eye. The clerks in Mr. Loseby’s office were not,
it may be supposed, of an order to hope from any notice from a Miss
Mountford of Mount; yet in the twenties both boys and girls have their
delusions on that point. Rose, however, noticed the young clerk no more
than if he had been a costermonger, or one of the cabbages that worthy
was selling; yet the sight of him gave her a new idea. Mr. Loseby! any
Mountford of Mount had a right to speak to Mr. Loseby, whatever trouble
he or she might be in. And Rose knew the way into his private room as
well as if she had been a child of the house. She obeyed her sudden
impulse, with a great many calculations equally sudden springing up
spontaneously in her bosom. It would be well to see what Mr. Loseby
knew; and then he might be able to think of some way of punishing Cosmo:
and then--in any case it would be a relief to her mind. The young clerk
in his shirt-sleeves, yawning over his desk, heard the pat of her high
heels coming up the steps at the door, and could not believe his ears.
He addressed himself to his work with an earnestness which was almost
solemn. Was she coming to complain of his stare at her from the window?
or was it to ask Mr. Loseby, perhaps, who was that nice-looking young
man in the little room close to the door?
Mr. Loseby’s room was apt to look dusty in the summer, though it was in
fact kept in admirable order. But the Turkey carpet was very old, and
penetrated by the sweeping of generations, and the fireplace always had
a tinge of ashes about it. To-day the windows were open, the Venetian
blinds down, and there was a sort of green dimness in the room, in which
Rose, dazzled by the sunshine out of doors, could for the moment
distinguish nothing. She was startled by Mr. Loseby’s exclamation of her
name. She thought for the moment that he had found her out internally as
well as externally, and surprised her secret as well as herself. ‘Why,
little Rose!’ he said. He was sitting in a coat made of yellow Indian
grass-silk which did not accord so well as his usual shining blackness
with the glistening of his little round bald head, and his eyes and
spectacles. His table was covered with papers done up in bundles with
all kinds of red tape and bands. ‘This is a sight for sore eyes,’ he
said. ‘You are like summer itself stepping into an old man’s dusty den;
come and sit near me and let me look at you, my summer Rose! I don’t
know which is the freshest and the prettiest!’ said the old lawyer,
waving his hand towards a beautiful luxurious blossom of ‘La France’
which was on his table in a Venetian glass. He had a fancy for pretty
things.
‘Oh, I was passing, and I thought I would come in--and see you,’ Rose
said.
Mr. Loseby had taken her appearance very quietly, as a matter of course;
but when she began to explain he was startled. He pushed his spectacles
up upon his forehead and looked at her curiously. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘that
was kind of you--to come with no other object than to see an old man.’
‘Oh!’ cried Rose, confused, ‘I did not say I had no other object, Mr.
Loseby. I want you to tell me--is--is--Anne likely to settle upon the
Dower-house? I do so want to know.’
‘My dear child, your mother has as much to do with it as Anne has. You
will hear from her better than from me.’
‘To be sure, that is true,’ said Rose; and then, after a pause, ‘Oh, Mr.
Loseby, is it really, really true that Cosmo Douglas is not going to
marry Anne? isn’t it shameful? to bring her into such trouble and then
to forsake her. Couldn’t he be made to marry her? I think it is a horrid
shame that a man should behave like that and get no punishment at all.’
Mr. Loseby pushed his spectacles higher and higher; he peered at her
through the partial light with a very close scrutiny. Then he rose and
half drew up one of the blinds. But even this did not satisfy him. ‘Do
you think then,’ he said at last, ‘that it would be a punishment to a
man to marry Anne?’
‘It would depend upon what his feelings were,’ said Rose with much force
of reason; ‘if he wanted, for example, to marry--somebody else.’
‘Say Rose--instead of Anne,’ said the acute old lawyer, with a grin
which was very much like a grimace.
‘I am sure I never said that!’ cried Rose. ‘I never, never said it, nor
so much as hinted at it. He may say what he pleases, but _I_ never,
never said it! you always thought the worst of me, Mr. Loseby, Anne was
always your favourite; but you need not be unjust. Haven’t I come here
expressly to ask you? Couldn’t he be made to marry her? Why, they were
engaged! everybody has talked of them as engaged. And if it is broken
off, think how awkward for Anne.’
Mr. Loseby took off his spectacles, which had been twinkling and
glittering upon his forehead like a second pair of eyes--this was a very
strong step, denoting unusual excitement--and wiped them deliberately
while he looked at Rose. He had the idea, which was not a just idea,
that either Rose had been exercising her fascinations upon her sister’s
lover, or that she had been in her turn fascinated by him. ‘You saw a
good deal of Mr. Douglas in town?’ he said, looking at her keenly,
always polishing his spectacles; but Rose sustained the gaze without
shrinking.
‘Oh, a great deal,’ she said; ‘he went everywhere with us. He was very
nice to mamma and me. Still I do not care a bit about him if he behaves
badly to Anne; but he ought not to be let off--he ought to be made to
marry her. I told him--what I was quite ready to do----’
‘And what are you quite ready to do, if one might know?’ Mr. Loseby was
savage. His grin at her was full of malice and all uncharitableness.
‘Oh, you know very well!’ cried Rose, ‘it was you first who said----
Will you tell me one thing, Mr. Loseby,’ she ran on, her countenance
changing; ‘what does it mean by the will of 1868?’
‘What does what mean?’ The old lawyer was roused instantly. It was not
that he divined anything, but his quick instinct forestalled suspicion,
and there suddenly gleamed over him a consciousness that there was
something to divine.
‘Oh!--I mean,’ said Rose, correcting herself quickly, ‘what is meant by
the will of 1868? I think I ought to know.’
Mr. Loseby eyed her more and more closely. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘how you
know that there was a will of 1868?’
But there was nothing in his aspect to put Rose on her guard. ‘I think I
ought to know,’ she said, ‘but I am always treated like a child. And if
things were to turn round again, and everything to go back, and me never
to have any good of it, I wonder what would be the use at all of having
made any change?’
Mr. Loseby put on his spectacles again. He wore a still more familiar
aspect when he had his two spare eyes pushed up from his forehead, ready
for use at a moment’s notice. He was on the verge of a discovery, but
he did not know as yet what that discovery would be.
‘That is very true,’ he said; ‘and it shows a great deal of sense on
your part: for if everything were to turn round it would certainly be no
use at all to have made any change. The will of 1868 is the will that
was made directly after your father married for the second time; it was
made to secure her mother’s fortune to your sister Anne.’
‘Without even the least thought of me!’ cried Rose, indignant.
‘It was before you were born,’ said Mr. Loseby, with a laugh that
exasperated her.
‘Oh!’ she cried, with an access of that fury which had frightened
Keziah, ‘how horrible people are! how unkind things are! how odious it
is to be set up and set down and never know what you are, or what is
going to happen! Did I do anything to Cosmo Douglas to make him break
off with Anne? is it my fault that he is not going to marry her after
all? and yet it will be me that will suffer, and nobody else at all. Mr.
Loseby, can’t it be put a stop to? I know you like Anne best, but why
should not I have justice, though I am not Anne? Oh, it is too bad! it
is cruel--it is wicked! Only just because papa was cross and out of
temper, and another man is changeable, why should I be the one to
suffer? Mr. Loseby, I am sure if you were to try you could change it;
you could stop us from going back to this will of 1868 that was made
before I was born. If it was only to burn that bit of paper, that horrid
letter, that thing! I had nearly put it into the fire myself. Oh!’ Rose
wound up with a little cry: she came suddenly to herself out of her
passion and indignation, and shrank away, as it were, into a corner, and
confronted the old lawyer with a pale and troubled countenance like a
child found out. What had she done? She had betrayed herself. She
looked at him alarmed, abashed, in a sudden panic which was cold, not
hot with passion, like her previous one. What could he cause to be done
to her? What commotion and exposure might he make? She scarcely dared to
lift her eyes to his face; but yet would not lose sight of him lest
something might escape her which he should do.
‘Rose,’ he said, with a tone of great severity, yet a sort of chuckle
behind it which gave her consolation, ‘you have got hold of your
father’s letter to Anne.’
‘Well,’ she said, trembling but defiant, ‘it had to be read some time,
Mr. Loseby. It was only about us two; why should we wait so many years
to know what was in it? A letter from papa! Of course we wanted to know
what it said.’
‘_We!_ Does Anne know too?’ he cried, horrified. And it gleamed across
Rose’s mind for one moment that to join Anne with herself would be to
diminish her own criminality. But after a moment she relinquished this
idea, which was not tenable. ‘Oh, please!’ she cried, ‘don’t let Anne
know! She would not let me touch it. But why shouldn’t we touch it? It
was not a stranger that wrote it--it was our own father. Of course I
wanted to know what he said.’
There was a ludicrous struggle on Mr. Loseby’s face. He wanted to be
severe, and he wanted to laugh. He was disgusted with Rose, yet very
lenient to the little pretty child he had known all his life, and his
heart was dancing with satisfaction at the good news thus betrayed to
him. ‘I have got a duplicate of it in my drawer, and it may not be of
much use when all is said. Since you have broken your father’s
confidence, and violated his last wishes, and laid yourself open to all
sorts of penalties, you--may as well tell me all about it,’ he said.
When Rose emerged into the street after this interview, she came down
the steps straight upon Willie Ashley, who was mooning by, not looking
whither he was going, and in a somewhat disconsolate mood. He had been
calling upon Mrs. Mountford, but Rose had not been visible. Willie knew
it was ‘no use’ making a fool of himself, as he said, about Rose; but
yet when he was within reach he could not keep his feet from wandering
where she was. When he thus came in her way accidentally, his glum
countenance lighted up into a blaze of pleasure. ‘Oh, here you are!’ he
cried in a delighted voice. ‘I’ve been to Saymore’s and seen your
mother, but you were not in.’ This narrative of so self-evident a fact
made Rose laugh, though there were tears of agitation and trouble on her
face, which made Willie conclude that old Loseby (confound him!) had
been scolding her for something. But when Rose laughed all was well.
‘Of course I was not in. It is so tiresome there--nothing to do, nowhere
to go. I can’t think why Anne wishes to keep us here of all places in
the world.’
‘But you are coming to the Dower-house at Lilford? Oh! say you are
coming, Rose. I know some people that would dance for joy.’
‘What people? I don’t believe anybody cares where we live,’ said Rose
with demure consciousness, walking along by his side with her eyes cast
down, but a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. Confession
had been of use to her, and had relieved her soul, even though Mr.
Loseby had no power to confer absolution.
‘Don’t we? Well, there’s Charley for one; he has never had a word to
throw to a dog since you went away. Though a fellow may know it is no
good, it’s always something to know that you’re there.’
‘What is no good?’ said Rose, with extreme innocence. And thus the two
went back talking--of matters very important and amusing--through the
coolness and sweetness and leisure of the little country street. Anne,
who was seated in the bow-window of the sitting-room with her books and
her papers, could not help breathing forth a little sigh as she looked
out and saw them approaching, so young and so like each other. ‘What a
pity!’ she said to herself. So far as she herself was concerned, it was
far more than a pity; but even for Rose----.
‘What is a pity?’ said Mrs. Mountford: and she came and looked out over
Anne’s shoulder, being a little concerned about her child’s absence.
When she saw the pair advancing she flushed all over with annoyance and
impatience. ‘Pity! it must be put a stop to,’ she cried; ‘Willie Ashley
was always out of the question; a boy with next to nothing. But now it
is not to be thought of for a moment. I rely upon you, if you have any
regard for your sister, to put a stop to it, Anne!’