Rose Damerel’s life had, up to this time, been spent altogether in the
sunshine. She had been too young when she went to school to ponder much
over anything that went on at home, and had concluded during her
holidays that home, which was so dainty, so pleasant, so sweet, was a
kind of paradise on earth, infinitely more delightful than any of the
other homes of which she heard from her school-fellows. None of them had
a father so delightful, a mother so kind; and in these holiday times, as
everybody indulged and petted her, the private shadows--I will not say
skeletons--in the house were never divined by her. She had, as sometimes
happens to the eldest of a large family, much more care taken of her
education and training than her sisters were likely to meet with. The
burden had not begun to be so heavily felt when the eldest girl grew
into bright intelligence, to her parents’ pride. The others were still
too young to demand or even to suggest the expense that would be
involved in their education--and nothing was spared upon Rose. She had
returned from school not much more than a year before the time of which
I treat, and had gone on for some time in her delightful youthful
confidence that everything around her was exactly as it ought to be. But
shadows had begun to flit vaguely across the picture before that
memorable day in the garden, which henceforward became a turning point
in her thoughts. This was the first moment at which she fully identified
the occasional clouds upon her mother’s face, and learned that Mrs.
Damerel was not merely a little cross--that easy and rapid solution with
which a child settles all problems concerning its parents--but had a
distinct cause for the little irritabilities which she tried so
carefully to restrain. Perhaps it was in the very nature of things that
Rose should be more attracted by the gentle indulgence and indolent
perfection of her father than by her mother’s stronger character. Mr.
Damerel, had he been very rich, and free of all occasion to think of his
children’s future, would have been a model father to grown-up and
well-behaved sons and daughters. He could not bear any roughness,
coarseness, or disorderliness, therefore the school-boys were but little
congenial to him, and he was never sorry when the holidays were over.
And the little children were too troublesome and too noisy to please
him; but Rose was the perfection of a child to such a man, and to her he
was the perfection of a father. Everything in her pleased and gratified
him. She was pretty, gentle, full of intelligence, eager to read with
him if he would, still more eager to hear him talk, yet quick to
perceive when he was disinclined to talk, and regarding all his moods
with religious respect.
She would sit by him for hours together, like a charming piece of
still-life, when he pleased, and was ready to converse or to listen, to
walk, to sing, to follow his lead in everything, as only a woman-child,
full of the beautiful enthusiasm of youthful admiration, can do. Nothing
except perhaps the devotion of a young wife, when she really loves the
man much older than herself, whom she has married, can equal the
devotion of a girl to her father. She admired everything about him--his
beautiful refined head, his fine voice, his grace and high breeding, his
sermons, and what she called his genius. To find this faultless father
to be anything less than a demi-god was terrible to Rose. I do not mean
to say that she got within a hundred miles of this discovery all at
once; nay, the first result of the vague and dreamy doubts that stole
into her mind was rather an increase of enthusiasm for her father, an
instinctive making-up to her own ideal for the sense of failure in him,
of which she was vaguely conscious. Rose loved her mother after a
totally different fashion, in an ordinary and matter-of-fact way, but
she had no romance of feeling towards her; and when her whole little
world, began, as it were, to sway upon its axis, to yield beneath her
feet, as if it might swing round altogether in space, turning what she
had supposed the brighter side into shadow, and elevating that which she
had held lowly enough, she, poor girl, grew giddy with this strange and
sickening sensation. She was at the age, too, when everything is apt to
reel about the young experimentalist taking her first steps in life. She
was vaguely conscious of being now a free agent, consulted as to her own
movements, no longer told curtly to do this and that, but exercising
personal choice as to what she should do. This change is of itself
sufficiently bewildering. Nature makes, as it were, a pause at this
first crisis of personal life. The child, wondering, half-delighted and
half-troubled to have no longer its duties clearly and sharply
indicated, falls into a partial trance, and neglects many things for
sheer want of use and knowledge how to act for itself.
This was Rose’s position. Between the mother, who, a little mortified
and hurt at her child’s want of sympathy with her, did not give her
orders, but only suggested employment, and the father, who said, “Never
mind, let her alone,” she stood, not knowing how to settle the question,
but inclining naturally to the side on which she was most indulged and
smiled upon, though with a secret uneasiness which she could not shake
off, and moral sense of a false situation which grew upon her day by
day.
Rose had lovers, too, in this new, miraculous life upon which she had
entered: two lovers, not yet declared, but very evident to all knowing
eyes; and in the village there were many keen observers. One of these
suitors was the most wealthy proprietor, in the neighborhood--a man much
above her own age, yet not old, and perfectly qualified to please a
lady’s eye; and the other, a young naval lieutenant without a penny, the
son of Mrs. Wodehouse, who lived on the Green, and had nothing in the
world but her pension as an officer’s widow. Of course I do not need to
say that it was the poor man whom Rose preferred. She was not in love
with him--far from it; but she was so completely on the verge of
universal awakening, that a word or touch might be enough to arouse her
whole being at any moment--might open her eyes to her own position and
that of her parents, and show her the nature of her individual
sentiments, as by a sudden gleam of light. Rose, however, was not the
least in the world aware of this; and at the present moment she was no
further advanced than was consistent with saying frankly that she liked
Wodehouse very much--and feeling (but of this she said nothing) more
glad when she saw him coming than about any other event in her simple
days.
Dinglefield is a sociable place, and there is something in a soft summer
evening after a very hot, blazing summer day which fosters a disposition
to stroll about and interchange greetings with your neighbors. As it
began to darken upon the evening of this particular day, various people
in the houses about stepped out of their wide-open windows after dinner,
and, tempted by the beauty of twilight, strayed along the road or over
the Green to the rectory garden, which was by universal acknowledgment
“the most perfect spot” in the village. Much has been said about the
charms of twilight, but little, I think, of its peculiar English beauty,
which is not so magical as the momentary interval between light and dark
in the south, or the lingering, prolonged, silvery, and ineffable
dimness of those northern twilights which last half the night; but has a
dusky softness altogether peculiar to itself, like the shadowing of
downy wings. The air was delicious, fresh after the hot day, yet so warm
as to make wrappings quite unnecessary. The sky, still somewhat pale in
its blue after the languor of the heat, looked down faint yet friendly,
as if glad to see again a little movement and sense of life. A few
subdued stars peeped out here and there, and the wide stretch of country
lay dim underneath, revealing itself in long soft lines of gray, till it
struck into a higher tone of blue on the horizon where earth and heaven
met. All the Damerels who were out of bed were in the garden, and the
neighbors, who had made this pleasant terrace the end of their walk,
were scattered about in various groups. Mr. Incledon, who was Rose’s
wealthy lover, came late and stood talking with Mrs. Damerel, watching
with wistful eyes her appropriation by his rival, young Wodehouse--whose
mother, hooded in the white Shetland shawl, which she had thrown over
her cap to come out, sat on a garden-chair with her feet upon the
rector’s Persian rug, listening to him while he talked, with the devout
admiration which became a member of his flock. The rector was talking
politics with General Peronnet, and Mrs. Wodehouse thought it was
beautiful to see how thoroughly he understood a subject which was so
much out of his way as the abolition of purchase in the army. “If he had
been in parliament now!” she said to the general’s wife, who thought her
husband was the object of the eulogy. There were two or three other
members of this group listening to the rector’s brilliant talk, saying a
few words, wise or foolish, as occasion served. Others were walking
about upon the lawn, and one lady, with her dress lifted, was hastening
off the grass which she had just discovered to be wet with dew. Upon
none of them, however, did Mr. Incledon’s attention turn. He followed
with his eyes a pair whose young figures grew less and less in the
distance, half lost in the darkness. The persistence with which he
watched them seemed a reproach to the mother, with whom he talked by
fits and starts, and whose anxiety was not at all awakened by the fact
that Rose was almost out of sight. “I am afraid Rose is not so careful
as she ought to be about the dew on the grass,” she said, half
apologetically, half smiling, in reply to his look.
“Shall I go and tell her you think so?” said Mr. Incledon, hastily. He
was a man of about five-and-thirty, good looking, sensible, and well
dispositioned; a personage thoroughly _comme il faut_. He was the sort
of suitor whom proper parents love to see approaching a favorite child.
He could give his wife everything a woman could desire--provide for her
handsomely, surround her with luxury, fill her life with pleasures and
prettinesses, and give her an excellent position. And the man himself
was free of cranks and crotchets, full of good sense, well educated,
good tempered. Where are girls’ eyes, that they do not perceive such
advantages? Mrs. Damerel hesitated a moment between sympathy with her
child and sympathy with this admirable man. There was a struggle in her
mind which was to have the predominance. At length some gleam of
recollection or association struck her, and moved the balance in Rose’s
favor, who she felt sure did not want Mr. Incledon just at that moment.
“Never mind,” she said tranquilly, “it will not hurt her;” and resumed a
conversation about the music in the church, which was poor. Mr. Incledon
was very musical, but he had no more heart for anthems at that moment
than had he never sung a note.
Rose had strayed a little way down the slope with Edward Wodehouse. They
were not talking much, and what they did say was about nothing in
particular--the garden, the wild flowers among the grass on this less
polished and less cultured lawn which sloped down the little hill. At
the moment when the elder suitor’s glances had directed Mrs. Damerel’s
attention towards them they were standing under a gnarled old
hawthorn-tree, round which was a little platform of soft turf.
“We lose the view lower down,” said Rose; and there they stopped
accordingly, neither of them caring to turn back. The soft plain
stretched away in long lines before them into the haze and distance like
the sea. And as they stood there, the young moon, which had been hidden
behind a clump of high trees, suddenly glinted out upon them with that
soft, dewy glimmer which makes the growing crescent so doubly sweet.
They were both a little taken aback, as if they had been surprised by
someone suddenly meeting and looking at them--though indeed there was
not a syllable of their simple talk that all the world might not have
heard. Both made a step on as if to return again after this surprise,
and then they both laughed, with a little innocent embarrassment, and
turned back to the view.
“What a lovely night!” said Rose, with a faint little sigh. She had
already said these not remarkable words two or three times at least, and
she had nothing in the world to sigh about, but was in fact happier than
usual; though a little sad, she knew not why.
“Look at those lights down below there,” said young Wodehouse; “how they
shine out among the trees!”
“Yes, that is from Ankermead,”, said Rose; “you know it?--the prettiest
little house!”
“When we are away, we poor mariners,” he said, with a little laugh which
was more affected than real, “that is, I think, the thing that goes to
our hearts most.”
“What?”
“The lights in the windows--of course I don’t mean at sea,” said young
Wodehouse; “but when we are cruising about a strange coast, for
instance, just one of those twinkles shining out of the darkness--you
can see lights a long way off--gives a fellow a stab, and makes him
think of home.”
“But it is pleasant to think of home,” said Rose. “Oh, what am I saying?
I beg your pardon, Mr. Wodehouse. To be sure, I know what you mean. When
I was at school something used to come in my throat when I
remembered--many a time I have stood at the window, and pretended I was
looking out, and cried.”
“Ah!” said Wodehouse, half sympathetic, half smiling, “but then you know
it would not do if I looked over the ship’s side and cried--though I
have had a great mind to do it sometimes, in my midshipman days.”
“To cry is a comfort,” said Rose; “what do you men do, instead?”
“We smoke, Miss Damerel; and think. How often I shall think of this
night and the lights yonder, and mix up this sweet evening with an
interior, perhaps sweeter still!”
“I don’t think so,” said Rose, with a soft laugh, in which there was,
however, a shade of embarrassment which somewhat surprised herself. “The
room is rather stuffy, and the lamps not bright, if you were near
enough; and two old people half dozing over the tea-table, one with the
newspaper, one with her worsted-work. It is very humdrum, and not sweet
at all inside.”
“Well, perhaps they are all the fonder of each other for being humdrum;
and it must have been sweet when they were young.”
“They were never young,” said Rose, with a silvery peal of laughter,
turning to go back to the lawn. “See what tricks imagination plays! You
would not like to spend an evening there, though the lights are so
pretty outside.”
“Imagination will play many a trick with me before I forget it,” said
young Wodehouse in subdued tones. Rose’s heart fluttered a little--a
very little--with the softest preliminary sensations of mingled
happiness and alarm. She did not understand the flutter, but somehow
felt it right to fly from it, tripping back to the serenity of society
on the lawn. As for the young man, he had a great longing to say
something more, but a feeling which was mingled of reverence for her
youth and dread of frightening her by a premature declaration kept him
silent.
He followed her into the hum of friendly talk, and then across the lawn
to the house, where the neighbors streamed in for tea. The bright lights
in the rectory drawing-room dazzled them both--the windows were wide
open; crowds of moths were flickering in and out, dashing themselves,
poor suicides, against the circle of light; and all the charmed dimness
grew more magical as the sky deepened into night, and the moon rose
higher and began to throw long shadows across the lawn. “On such a
night” lovers once prattled in Shakespeare’s sweetest vein. All that
they said, and a great deal more, came into young Wodehouse’s charmed
heart and stole it away. He heard himself saying the words, and wondered
how it was that he himself was so entirely happy and sad, and thought
how he might perhaps soon say them to himself as his ship rustled
through the water, and the moonlight slept broad and level and
uninterrupted by any poetry of shadows upon the sea. To think of that
filled his heart with a soft, unspeakable pang; and yet the very pain
had a sweetness in it, and sense of exaltation. “There are the lights
still,” he said, standing over her where she had seated herself near the
window. “I shall always remember them, though you will not allow of any
romance”--
“Romance! oh no,” said Rose lightly; “only two old people. We have not
any romance here.”
Mr. Incledon, who had been watching his opportunity so long, now came
forward with a cup of tea. Poor Edward was too much abstracted in his
thoughts and in her, and with the confusion of a little crisis of
sentiment, to think of the usual attentions of society which he owed to
her. He started and blushed when he saw how negligent he had been, and
almost stumbled over her chair in his anxiety to retrieve his
carelessness. “My dear Wodehouse, Miss Damerel cannot drink more than
one cup of tea at a time,” said the elder suitor, with that air of
indulgent pity for his vagaries which so irritates a young man; and he
mounted guard over Rose for the rest of the evening. The good neighbors
began to go home when they had taken their tea, and the rector and his
daughter went with them to the gate, when there was a soft babble and
commotion of good nights, and every two people repeated to each other,
“What a lovely moon!” and “What a glorious night!” As for poor
Wodehouse, in his climax of youth and love, his very heart was melted
within him. Twice he turned back, murmuring to his mother some
inarticulate explanation that he had forgotten something--that he wanted
to speak to the rector--and twice went back to her solemnly saying it
did not matter. “No, no,” he said to himself, “he must not be
premature.”
Rose took another turn round the lawn with her father before they went
in. Mrs. Damerel was visible inside, sending the tray away, putting
stray books in their places, and stray bits of work in the work-basket,
before the bell should ring for prayers. Mr. Damerel looked in as he
passed with an indulgent smile.
“She calleth her maidens about her,” he said, “though it is not to spin,
Rose, but to pray. Somehow it enhances the luxury of our stroll to see
your mother there, putting everything in order with that careful and
troubled face--eh, child, don’t you think with me?”
“But does it enhance her luxury to have us walking and talking while she
has everything to lay by?” said Rose with an uncomfortable sense that
her own work and several books which she had left about were among those
which her mother was putting away.
“Ah, you have found out that there are two sides to a question,” said
her father, patting her on the cheek, with his gentle habitual smile;
but he gave no answer to her question; and then the maids became
visible, trooping in, in their white caps and aprons, and the rector
with a sigh and a last look at the midnight and the dim, dewy
landscape, went in to domesticity and duty, which he did not like so
well.
Rose went to her room that night with a thrill of all her gentle being
which she could not explain. She looked out from her window among the
honeysuckles, and was so disappointed as almost to cry when she found
the lights out, and the little cottage on Ankermead lost in the
darkness. She could have cried, and yet but for that fanciful trouble,
how happy the child was! Everything embraced her--the clinging tendrils
of the honeysuckle, so laden with dew and sweetness; the shadows of the
trees, which held out their arms to her; the soft, caressing moon which
touched her face and surrounded it with a pale glory. Nothing but good
and happiness was around, behind, before her, and a trembling of
happiness to come, even sweeter than anything she had ever known,
whispered over her in soft, indefinite murmurs, like the summer air in
the petals of a flower. She opened her bosom to it, with a delicious
half-consciousness fresh as any rose that lets its leaves be touched by
the sweet south. This Rose in June expanded, grew richer, and of a more
damask rosiness, but could not tell why.