Mrs. Damerel thought it her duty, a few nights after this, to speak to
her husband of Rose’s suitors. “Mr. Incledon has spoken so plainly to me
that I cannot mistake him,” she said; “and in case you should not have
noticed it yourself, Herbert”--
“I notice it!” he said, with a smile; “what chance is there that I
should notice it? So my Rose in June is woman enough to have lovers of
her own!”
“I was married before I was Rose’s age,” said Mrs. Damerel.
“So you were, Martha. I had forgotten the progress of time, and that
summer, once attained, is a long step towards autumn. Well, if it must
be, it must be. Incledon is not a bad fellow, as men go.”
“But, I think--there is another, Herbert.”
“Another!” said the rector, leaning back in his chair with gentle
laughter. “Why, this is too good; and who may he be--the No. 2?”
“It is young Wodehouse, the sailor”--
“The widow’s son on the Green! Come now, Martha, once for all this is
absurd,” said Mr. Damerel, suddenly rousing himself up. “This is out of
the question: I say nothing against Incledon; but if you have been so
foolishly romantic as to encourage a beggar like young Wodehouse”--
“I have not encouraged him. I disapprove of it as much as you can do,”
said Mrs. Damerel, with a flush on her cheek; “but whether Rose will
agree with us I dare not say.”
“Oh, Rose!” said her husband, dropping into his easy tone; “Rose is a
child; she will follow whatever lead is given to her. I am not afraid of
Rose. You must speak to her, and show her which way you intend her mind
to go; be very plain and unequivocal; an unawakened mind always should
be treated in the plainest and most distinct way.”
“But, Herbert--you have more influence than I have ever had over her.
Rose is more your companion than mine. I am not sure that it is the best
thing for her, so far as practical life is concerned”--
“My dear,” said Mr. Damerel, benignly, “Rose has nothing to do with
practical life. You women are always excessive, even in your virtues. I
do not mean to throw any doubt upon your qualities as the most excellent
of wives; but you have not the discrimination to perceive that duties
that suit you admirably would be quite out of place in her. It is a
matter of natural fitness. The practical is adapted to forty, but not to
nineteen. Let the child alone, my love, to enjoy her youth.”
“I think you argue like a Jesuit, Herbert,” said Mrs. Damerel; “but
whether you are right or wrong on this point does not affect what I
ask--which is, that you would speak to her. She is much more likely to
attend to you than to me.”
“Who--I?” said Mr. Damerel, with a fretful line in his fine forehead.
“It is totally out of the question, Martha. _I_ speak to Rose about her
lovers! It would be quite indelicate, in the first place; and in the
second, it would be most disagreeable to me.”
“But still we have a duty to our child, even if it is disagreeable,”
said his wife, not willing to give up her object without a struggle.
“My dear Martha, spare me! I knew you would say something about duty.
You are very didactic, my love, by nature; but this, you must remember,
is rather a reversal of positions between you and me. Let Rose see,” he
continued, once more relaxing in tone, “that her path is quite clear
before her. Incledon is a very good fellow; he will be of use to me in
many ways. Nothing could be more desirable. There is a new box of books
which I must look over, Martha; do not let me detain you. You will
manage the matter admirably, I am sure, in your own sensible way.”
And the rector lighted his wife’s candle, and opened the door for her
with a suavity and almost gallantry which would have brought tears to
the eyes of the parish, had they been there to see. “How perfect Mr.
Damerel’s behavior is to that rather common-place wife!” Such was the
kind of thing people said. He went to look over his box of books from
the London library after his talk, with much amusement in his mind as to
Rose’s lovers. He thought his child perfect as a child; but the idea
that a serious man like Incledon should think of her in the serious
position of a wife, tickled the rector’s fancy. He thought over the
matter as he glanced at the books which had been unpacked for him,
leaving nothing for his delicate ivory hands to do but turn the volumes
over. There was an agreeable and a disagreeable side to it. Incledon,
for one thing, would be a capable referee in all money matters, and
would help to arrange about the boys and get them on in the world, which
was a great relief to think of; for ere now Mr. Damerel had felt the
painful reflection thrust upon him, that some time or other he must do
something about the boys. The other side of the question was, that he
would lose the society of his Rose in June, his pretty companion, whose
ornamental presence lent a new charm to his pretty house. He shrugged
his shoulders a little over this, saying to himself that it must be
sooner or later, and that, after all, he had done without Rose for many
years, and had been much of a sufferer in consequence. It was the way of
the world; and then he smiled again at the thought of Rose in the
serious position of Mr. Incledon’s wife.
Mrs. Damerel had very different feelings on the subject as she went
up-stairs with the candle he had so politely lighted for her, in her
hand. I am afraid she was not so softened as she ought to have been by
his charming politeness, which made her slightly angry, and she was
deeply disturbed by the task he had thrown back upon her. Mrs. Damerel
knew that girls were not so easily moulded as their fathers sometimes
think. She felt by instinct that, according to all precedent, Wodehouse,
who was young and gay and penniless, must be the favorite. She knew,
too, that to endeavor to turn the current in favor of the other was
almost enough to decide matters against him; and, beyond all this, Mrs.
Damerel felt it hard that everything that was painful and disagreeable
should be left on her shoulders. Rose was separated from her; she was
her father’s companion; she was being trained to prefer refined but
useless leisure with him to the aid and sympathy which her mother had a
right to look for; yet, when it came to be needful to do any
disagreeable duty for Rose, it was the mother who had to put herself in
the breach. It was hard upon Mrs. Damerel. All the reproof, the
unpleasant suggestions of duty, the disagreeable advice, the apparent
exactions to come from her side; while nothing but indulgence, petting,
and fondness, and unlimited compliance with every desire she had, should
be apparent on the side of the father. I think Mrs. Damerel was right,
and that hers was a very hard case indeed.
The Wodehouses came hastily to the rectory the very next day to intimate
the sad news of Edward’s approaching departure. His mother fairly broke
down, and cried bitterly. “I hoped to have had him with me so much
longer,” she said; “and now he must go off about this slave-trade. Oh!
why should we take it upon us to look after everybody, when they don’t
want to be looked after? If those poor African wretches cared as much
for it as we suppose, wouldn’t they take better care of themselves? What
have we to do, always interfering? When I think of my boy, who is all I
have in the world, going out to that dreadful coast, to risk his life
for the sake of some one he never saw or heard of”--
“My dear lady, we cannot be altogether guided by private motives,” said
the rector; “we must take principle for something. Were we to permit the
slave-trade, we should depart from all our traditions. England has
always been the guardian of freedom.”
“Oh, Mr. Damerel!” said the poor lady, with tears in her eyes, “freedom
is all very well to talk about, and I suppose it’s a great thing, to
have; but what is freedom to these poor savages, that it should cost me
and other women our boys?”
“It will not cost you your boy,” said Mrs. Damerel; “he will come back.
Don’t take the gloomiest view of the question. He has been there before,
and it did not hurt him; why should it now?”
“Ah! who can tell that?” said poor Mrs. Wodehouse, drying her eyes. She
was a woman who liked the darker side of all human affairs, and she felt
it almost an insult to her when any one prognosticated happiness. Her
son was doing all he could to bear up under the depressing influence of
her predictions and his regret at leaving her, and disappointment in
having his holiday shortened--along with a deeper reason still which he
said nothing about. He tried to be as cheerful as he could; but when he
turned to Rose and met the one piteous look the girl gave him, and saw
her lip quiver--though he did not know whether it was out of sympathy
with his mother, or from any personal feeling of her own--he very nearly
broke down. He had still ten days to make his preparations for leaving,
and before that time he thought to himself he must surely find out
whether Rose cared anything for him more than she did for the others
whom she had known like him almost all her life. He looked anxiously
into her face when he shook hands with her; but Rose, feeling, she could
not tell why, more inclined to cry than she had ever been before,
without any reason, as she said, would not meet his looks. “This is not
my farewell visit,” he said, with an attempt at a laugh. “I don’t know
why I should feel so dismal about it; I shall see you all again.”
“Oh, many times, I hope!” said Mrs. Damerel, who could not help feeling
kindly towards the poor young fellow, notwithstanding her conspiracy
against his interests. The rector did not commit himself in this foolish
way, but took leave of the young sailor solemnly. “However that may be,”
he said, “God bless you, Edward; I am sure you will do your duty, and be
a credit to all that wish you well.”
This address chilled poor Wodehouse more and more. Was it his dismissal?
He tried to bear up against that too, talking of the garden party he was
coming to on Wednesday, and of the repeated visits he still hoped for;
but, somehow, from the moment he received the rector’s blessing he
believed in these farewell visits and the explanations they might give
rise to, no more. When he went away with his mother, Rose ran up-stairs
on some pretext, and her father and mother were left alone.
“Martha,” said the rector, “your usual careful solicitude failed you
just now. You as good as asked him to come back; and what could possibly
be so bad for Rose?”
“How could I help it?” she said. “Poor boy, he must come again, at least
to say good-by.”
“I don’t see the necessity. It will only make mischief. Rose is quite
cast down, whether from sympathy or from feeling. We should take care
not to be at home when he calls again.”
Mr. Damerel said this in so even a voice that it was delightful to hear
him speak, and he went out and took his seat under the lime-trees as a
man should who has discharged all his duties and is at peace and in
favor with both God and man. Rose did not venture to face her mother
with eyes which she felt were heavy, and therefore stole out of doors
direct and went to her father, who was always indulgent. How good and
tender he was, never finding fault! If perhaps, as Rose was beginning to
fear, it must be confessed that he was deficient in energy--a gentle
accusation which the fondest partisan might allow--yet, to balance this,
how good he was, how feeling, how tender! No one need be afraid to go to
him. He was always ready to hear one’s story, to forgive one’s mistakes.
Rose, who did not want to be catechised, stole across the lawn and sat
down on the grass without a word. She did not care to meet anybody’s
look just at that moment. She had not cried; but the tears were so very
near the surface, that any chance encounter of looks might have been
more than she could bear.
Mr. Damerel did not speak all at once. He took time, the more cunningly
to betray her; and then he entered upon one of his usual conversations,
to which poor Rose gave but little heed. After a while her monosyllabic
answers seemed to attract his curiosity all at once.
“You are not well,” he said; “or sorry, is it? Sorry for poor Mrs.
Wodehouse, who is going to lose her son?”
“Oh yes, papa! Poor old lady--she will be so lonely when he is away.”
“She is not so very old,” he said, amused; “not so old as I am, and I
don’t feel myself a Methuselah. It is very good of you to be so
sympathizing, my dear.”
“Oh, papa, who could help it?” said Rose, almost feeling as if her
father would approve the shedding of those tears which made her eyes so
hot and heavy. She plucked a handful of grass and played with it, her
head held down and the large drops gathering; and her heart, poor child,
for the moment, in the fulness of this first trouble, felt more heavy
than her eyes.
“Yes, it is a pity for Mrs. Wodehouse,” said Mr. Damerel, reflectively;
“but, on the other hand, it would be very selfish to regret it for
Edward. He has not a penny, poor fellow, and not much influence that I
know of. He can only get his promotion by service, and in this point of
view his friends ought to be glad he is going. Look across Ankermead,
Rose; how soft the shadows are! the most delicate gray with silvery
lights. If you were a little more ambitious as an artist, you might get
your sketch-book and try that effect.”
Rose smiled a wan little smile in answer to this invitation, and looking
down upon the landscape, as he told her to do, saw nothing but a
bluish-green and yellow mist through the prismatic medium of the big
tear, which next moment, to her terror and misery, came down, a huge,
unconcealable wet blot, upon her light summer dress. She was herself so
struck by consternation at the sight that, instead of making any attempt
to conceal it, she looked up at him, her lips falling apart, her eyes
growing larger and larger with fright and wonder, half appealing to him
to know what it could mean, half defying observation. Mr. Damerel saw
that it was necessary to abandon his usual rule of indulgence.
“You are too sympathetic, my dear,” he said. “If any one but me saw this
they might say such feeling was too strong to be lavished on Mrs.
Wodehouse. Don’t let us hear any more of it. Have you finished
‘Balaustion’? You have no book with you to-day.”
“No, papa--I came out--the other way”--
“What does that mean? Not through the drawing-room, where you left it,
and where your mother was? I think you were right, Rose,” said Mr.
Damerel, dropping back in his chair with his easy smile; “your mother
has little patience with Mrs. Wodehouse’s despairs and miseries. You had
better keep your sympathy to yourself in her presence. Look here; I want
this read aloud. My eyes ache; I was up late last night.”
Rose took the book obediently, and read. She saw the white page and
letters clear without any prismatic lights. Her tears were all driven
away, forced back upon her heart as if by a strong wind. She read, as
Milton’s daughters might have read his Latin, if they did not understand
it, as some people say--not missing a word nor seeing any meaning in
one; going on as in a dream, with a consciousness of herself, and the
scene, and her father’s look, and not a notion what she was reading
about. It was very good mental discipline, but so sharp that this poor
soft child, utterly unused to it, not knowing why she should suddenly be
subjected to such fierce repression, wretched and sick at heart, and
sorry and ashamed, never forgot it all her life. She read thus for about
an hour, till her father stopped her to make some notes upon the margin
of the book; for he was one of those elegantly studious persons who
weave themselves through the books they read, and leave volumes of notes
on every possible subject behind them. He had been entering into every
word, though Rose had not understood a syllable; and he smiled and
discoursed to her about it, while she kept silent, terrified lest he
should ask some question, which would betray her inattention. Rose had
been learning smilingly, with happy bewilderment, for some months back,
to consider herself an independent individual. She felt and realized it
without any difficulty to-day. She stood quite alone in all that bright
scene; apart from the real world and the ideal both--neither the lawn,
nor the book, nor the landscape, nor her father’s talk having power to
move her; frightened at herself--still more frightened for him, and for
the tone, half sarcastic, half reproving, which for the first time in
her life she had heard in his voice; and without even the satisfaction
of realizing the new sentiment which had come into her mind. She
realized nothing except that sudden dismay had come over her, that it
had been checked summarily; that her tears, driven back, were filling
her head and her heart with confusing pain; that there was something
wrong in the strange new emotion that was at work within her--and this
without even the melancholy sweetness of knowing what it was.
Poor Rose in June! It was the first storm that had ever disturbed her
perfect blossom. She began to get better after a while, as at her age it
is easy to do, and gradually came out of her mist and was restored to
partial consciousness. By the evening of that day she was nearly herself
again, though much subdued, remembering that she had been very unhappy,
as she might have remembered a very bad headache, with great content,
yet wonder that it should be gone or almost gone. The cessation of the
active pain gave her a kind of subdued happiness once more, as relief
always does--which the heart never feels to be negative, but positive.
What a thing ease is, after we are once conscious of having lost it even
for an hour! This brought Rose’s color back and her smile. All mental
pain, I suppose, is spasmodic; and the first fit, when not too well
defined nor hopeless in character, is often as brief as it is violent.
Rose got better; her mind accustomed itself to the shadow which for one
short interval had covered it with blackness. She began to perceive that
it did not fill all earth and heaven, as she had at first supposed.