Rose grew very much better, almost quite well, next day. There was still
a little thrill about her of the pain past, but in the mean time nothing
had yet happened, no blank had been made in the circle of neighbors; and
though she was still as sorry as ever, she said to herself, for poor
Mrs. Wodehouse (which was the only reason she had ever given to herself
for that _serrement de cœur_), yet there were evident consolations in
that poor lady’s lot, if she could but see them. Edward would come back
again; she would get letters from him; she would have him still, though
he was away. She was his inalienably, whatever distance there might be
between them. This seemed a strong argument to Rose in favor of a
brighter view of the subject, though I do not think it would have
assisted Mrs. Wodehouse; and, besides, there were still ten days,
which--as a day is eternity to a child--was as good as a year at least
to Rose. So she took comfort, and preened herself like a bird, and came
again forth to the day in all her sweet bloom, her tears got rid of in
the natural way, her eyes no longer hot and heavy. She scarcely observed
even, or at least did not make any mental note of the fact, that she did
not see Edward Wodehouse for some days thereafter. “How sorry I am to
have missed them!” her mother said, on hearing that the young man and
his mother had called in her absence; and Rose was sorry too, but
honestly took the fact for an accident. During the ensuing days there
was little doubt that an unusual amount of occupation poured upon her.
She went with her father to town one morning to see the pictures in the
exhibitions. Another day she was taken by the same delightful companion
to the other side of the county to a garden party, which was the most
beautiful vision of fine dresses and fine people Rose had ever seen. I
cannot quite describe what the girl’s feelings were while she was going
through these unexpected pleasures. She liked them, and was pleased and
flattered; but at the same time a kind of giddy sense of something being
done to her which she could not make out,--some force being put upon
her, she could not tell what, or for why,--was in her mind. For the
first time in her life she was jealous and curious, suspecting some
unseen motive, though she could not tell what it might be.
On the fourth day her father and mother both together took her with them
to Mr. Incledon’s, to see, they said, a new picture which he had just
bought--a Perugino, or, it might be, an early Raphael. “He wants my
opinion--and I want yours, Rose,” said her father, flattering, as he
always did, his favorite child.
“And Mr. Incledon wants hers, too,” said Mrs. Damerel. “I don’t know
what has made him think you a judge, Rose.”
“Oh! how can I give an opinion--what do I know?” said Rose, bewildered;
but she was pleased, as what girl would not be pleased? To have her
opinion prized was pleasant, even though she felt that it was a subject
upon which she could pass no opinion. “I have never seen any but the
Raphaels in the National Gallery,” she said, with alarmed youthful
conscientiousness, as they went along, “and what can I know?”
“You can tell him if you like it; and that will please him as much as if
you were the first art critic in England,” said the rector. These words
gave Rose a little thrill of suspicion--for why should Mr. Incledon care
for her opinion?--and perplexed her thoughts much as she walked up the
leafy road to the gate of Whitton Park, which was Mr. Incledon’s grand
house. Her father expatiated upon the beauty of the place as they went
in; her mother looked preoccupied and anxious; and Rose herself grew
more and more suspicious, though she was surprised into some
exclamations of pleasure at the beauty and greenness of the park.
“I wonder I have never been here before,” she said; “how could it be? I
thought we had been everywhere when we were children, the boys and I.”
“Mr. Incledon did not care for children’s visits,” said her mother.
“And he was in the right, my dear. Children have no eye for beauty; what
they want is space to tumble about in, and trees to climb. This lovely
bit of woodland would be lost on boys and girls. Be thankful you did not
see it when you were incapable of appreciating it, Rose.”
“It is very odd, though,” she said. “Do you think it is nice of Mr.
Incledon to shut up so pretty a place from his neighbors--from his
friends?--for, as we have always lived so near, we are his friends, I
suppose.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the rector; but his wife said nothing. I do not
think her directer mind cared for this way of influencing her daughter.
She was anxious for the same object, but she would have attained it in a
different way.
Here, however, Mr. Incledon himself appeared with as much demonstration
of delight to see them as was compatible with the supposed accidental
character of the visit. Mr. Incledon was one of those men of whom you
feel infallibly certain that they must have been “good,” even in their
nurse’s arms. He was slim and tall, and looked younger than he really
was. He had a good expression, dark eyes, and his features, though not
at all remarkable, were good enough to give him the general aspect of a
handsome man. Whether he was strictly handsome or not was a frequent
subject of discussion on the Green, where unpleasant things had been
said about his chin and his eyebrows, but where the majority was
distinctly in his favor. His face was long, his complexion rather dark,
and his general appearance “interesting.” Nobody that I know of had ever
called him commonplace. He was interesting--a word which often stands
high in the rank of descriptive adjectives. He was the sort of man of
whom imaginative persons might suppose that he had been the hero of a
story. Indeed, there were many theories on the subject; and ingenious
observers, chiefly ladies, found a great many symptoms of this in his
appearance and demeanor, and concluded that a man so well off and so
well looking would not have remained unmarried so long had there not
been some reason for it. But this phase of his existence was over, so
far as his own will was concerned. If he had ever had any reason for
remaining unmarried, that obstacle must have been removed; for he was
now anxious to marry, and had fully made up his mind to do so at as
early a date as possible. I do not know whether it could be truly said
that he was what foolish young people call “very much in love” with
Rose Damerel; but he had decided that she was the wife for him, and
meant to spare neither pains nor patience in winning her. He had haunted
the rectory for some time, with a readiness to accept all invitations
which was entirely unlike his former habits; for up to the time when he
had seen and made up his mind about Rose, Mr. Incledon had been almost a
recluse, appearing little in the tranquil society of the Green, spending
much of his time abroad, and when at home holding only a reserved and
distant intercourse with his neighbors. He gave them a handsome heavy
dinner two or three times a year, and accepted the solemn return which
society requires; but no one at Dinglefield had seen more of his house
than the reception-rooms, or of himself than those grave festivities
exhibited. The change upon him now was marked enough to enlighten the
most careless looker-on; and the Perugino, which they were invited to
see, was in fact a pretence which the rector and his wife saw through
very easily, to make them acquainted with his handsome house and all its
advantages. He took them all over it, and showed the glory of it with
mingled complacency and submission to their opinion. Rose had never been
within its walls before. She had never sat down familiarly in rooms so
splendid. The master of the house had given himself up to furniture and
decorations as only a rich man can do; and the subdued grace of
everything about them, the wealth of artistic ornament, the size and
space which always impress people who are accustomed to small houses,
had no inconsiderable effect, at least upon the ladies of the party. Mr.
Damerel was not awed, but he enjoyed the largeness and the luxury with
the satisfaction of a man who felt himself in his right sphere; and Mr.
Incledon showed himself, as well as his house, at his best, and,
conscious that he was doing so, looked, Mrs. Damerel thought, younger,
handsomer, and more attractive than he had ever looked before. Rose felt
it, too, vaguely. She felt that she was herself somehow the centre of
all--the centre, perhaps, of a plot, the nature of which perplexed and
confused her; but the plot was not yet sufficiently advanced to give her
any strong sensation of discomfort or fear. All that it did up to the
present moment was to convey that sense of importance and pleasant
consciousness of being the first and most flatteringly considered, which
is always sweet to youth. Thus they were all pleased, and, being
pleased, became more and more pleasant to each other. Rose, I think,
forgot poor Mrs. Wodehouse altogether for the moment, and was as gay as
if she had never been sad.
The house was a handsome house, raised on a slightly higher elevation
than the rectory, surrounded by a pretty though not very extensive park,
and commanding the same landscape as that which it was the pride of the
Damerels to possess from their windows. It was the same, but with a
difference; or, rather, it was like a view of the same subject painted
by a different artist, dashed in in bolder lines, with heavier massing
of foliage, and one broad reach of the river giving a great centre of
light and shadow, instead of the dreamy revelations here and there of
the winding water as seen from the rectory. Rose gave an involuntary cry
of delight when she was taken out to the green terrace before the house,
and first saw the landscape from it, though she never would confess
afterwards that she liked it half so well as the shadowy distance and
softer, sweep of country visible from her old home. Mr. Incledon was as
grateful to her for her admiration as if the Thames and the trees had
been of his making and ventured to draw near confidentially and say how
much he hoped she would like his Perugino--or, perhaps, Raphael. “You
must give me your opinion frankly,” he said.
“But I never saw any Raphaels except those in the National Gallery,”
said Rose, blushing with pleasure, and shamefacedness, and conscientious
difficulty. It did not occur to the girl that her opinion could be thus
gravely asked for by a man fully aware of its complete worthlessness as
criticism. She thought he must have formed some mistaken idea of her
knowledge or power. “And I don’t--love them--very much,” she added, with
a little hesitation and a deeper blush, feeling that his momentary good
opinion of her must now perish forever.
“What does that mean?” said Mr. Incledon. He was walking on with her
through, as she thought, an interminable vista of rooms, one opening
into the other, towards the shrine in which he had placed his picture.
“There is something more in it than meets the ear. It does not mean that
you don’t like them”--
“It means--that I love the photograph of the San Sisto, that papa gave
me on my birthday,” said Rose.
“Ah! I perceive; you are a young critic to judge so closely. We have
nothing like that, have we? How I should like to show you the San Sisto
picture! Photographs and engravings give no idea of the original.”
“Oh, please don’t say so!” said Rose, “for so many people never can see
the original. I wish I might some time. The pictures in the National
Gallery do not give me at all the same feeling; and, of course, never
having seen but these, I cannot be a judge; indeed, I should not dare to
say anything at all. Ah, ah!”
Rose stopped and put her hands together, as she suddenly perceived
before her, hung upon a modest gray-green wall with no other ornament
near, one of those very youthful, heavenly faces, surrounded by tints as
softly bright as their own looks, which belong to that place and period
in which Perugino taught and Raphael learned--an ineffable sweet ideal
of holiness, tenderness, simplicity, and youth. The girl stood
motionless, subdued by it, conscious of nothing but the picture. It was
doubly framed by the doorway of the little room in which it kept court.
Before even she entered that sacred chamber, the young worshipper was
struck dumb with adoration. The doorway was hung with silken curtains of
the same gray-green as the wall, and there was not visible, either in
this soft surrounding framework, or in the picture itself, any
impertinent accessory to distract the attention. The face so tenderly
abstract, so heavenly human, looked at Rose as at the world, but with a
deeper, stronger appeal; for was not Mary such a one as she? The girl
could not explain the emotion which seized her. She felt disposed to
kneel dawn, and she felt disposed to weep, but did neither; only stood
there, with her lips apart, her eyes abstract yet wistful, like those in
the picture; and her soft hands clasped and held unconsciously, with
that dramatic instinct common to all emotion, somewhere near her heart.
“You _have_ said something,” said Mr. Incledon, softly, in her ear,
“more eloquent than I ever heard before. I am satisfied that it is a
Raphael now.”
“Why?” said Rose, awakening with great surprise out of her momentary
trance, and shrinking back, her face covered with blushes, to let the
others pass who were behind. He did not answer her except by a look,
which troubled the poor girl mightily, suddenly revealing to her the
meaning of it all. When the rest of the party went into the room, Rose
shrank behind her mother, cowed and ashamed, and instead of looking at
the picture, stole aside to the window and looked out mechanically to
conceal her troubled countenance. As it happened, the first spot on
which her eye fell was the little cottage at Ankermead, upon which just
the other evening she had looked with Edward Wodehouse. All he said came
back to her, and the evening scene in which he said it, and the soft,
indescribable happiness and sweetness that had dropped upon her like the
falling dew. Rose had not time to make any question with herself as to
what it meant; but her heart jumped up in her bosom and began to beat,
and a sudden, momentary perception of how it all was flashed over her.
Such gleams of consciousness come and go when the soul is making its
first experiences of life. For one second she seemed to see everything
clearly as a landscape is seen when the sun suddenly breaks out; and
then the light disappeared, and the clouds re-descended, and all was
blurred again. Nevertheless, this strange, momentary revelation agitated
Rose almost more than anything that had ever happened to her before; and
everything that was said after it came to her with a muffled sound, as
we hear voices in a dream. A longing to get home and to be able to think
took possession of her. This seemed for the moment the thing she most
wanted in the world.
“If ever I have a wife,” Mr. Incledon said, some time after, “this shall
be her boudoir. I have always intended so; unless, indeed, she is
perverse as my mother was, who disliked this side of the house
altogether, and chose rooms which looked out on nothing but the park and
the trees.”
[Illustration: THE GIRL STOOD MOTIONLESS, SUBDUED BY IT.]
“I hope, as everything is ready for her, the lady will soon appear,”
said Mrs. Damerel; while poor little Rose suddenly felt her heart stop
in its beating, and flutter and grow faint.
“Ah!” said Incledon, shaking his head, “it is easier to gild the cage
than to secure the bird.”
How glad she was when they were out again in the open air, walking home!
How delightful it was to be going home, to get off this dangerous
ground, to feel that there was a safe corner to fly to! Nobody said
anything to her, fortunately for Rose, but let her walk off her
excitement and the flutter of terror and dismay which had come over her.
“Easier to gild the cage than to secure the bird.” The poor little bird
felt already as if she had been caught in some snare; as if the fowler
had got his hand upon her, and all her flutterings would be of no avail.
How little she had thought that this was what was meant by their
flattering eagerness to have her opinion about the Perugino! She kept
close to her mother till they got safely out of the park, for Mr.
Incledon attended them as far as the gates, and Rose was so much
startled that she did not feel safe near him. It seemed to her that the
plot must be brought to perfection at once, and that there was no escape
except in keeping as far off as possible. She resolved to herself as she
went along that she would never approach him if she could help it, or
let him speak to her. Her sensations were something like those with
which a startled hare might, I suppose, contemplate from beneath her
couch of fern the huntsman gathering the hounds which were to run her
down. Rose had no sense of satisfaction such as an older woman might
have felt, in the love of so important a personage as Mr. Incledon. She
was neither flattered nor tempted by the thought of all the good things
she might have at her disposal as his wife--his beautiful house, his
wealth, his consequence, even his Perugino, though that had drawn the
very heart out of her breast--none of these things moved her. She was
neither proud of his choice, nor dazzled by his wealth. She was simply
frightened, neither more nor less--dead frightened, and eager to escape
forever out of his way.
It was now afternoon, the most languid hour of the day, and the village
roads were very hot, blazing, and dusty, after the soft shade of Whitton
Park. Mr. Damerel, who was not much of a pedestrian, and hated dust, and
abhorred all the irritations and weariness of excessive heat, came along
somewhat slowly, skirting the houses to get every scrap of shade which
was possible. They were thus quite close to a row of cottages when Mr.
Nolan came out from the door of one so suddenly as almost to stumble
over his rector.
“Just like a shot from a cannon is an Irishman’s exit from a visit,”
said Mr. Damerel, peevishly, though playfully. “Nolan, you salamander,
you who never feel the heat, you may at least have some pity upon me.”
“You are the very man I want,” said the curate, whose brow was clouded
with care. “The poor creature’s dying. You’ll go and say a word to her?
I was going to your house, wondering would I find ye? and lo! Providence
puts ye here.”
“I hope I shall feel as much obliged to Providence as you do,” said the
rector still more peevishly. “What is it? Who is it? What do you want?”
“Sure it’s only a poor creature dying--nothing to speak about in this
dreary world” said good Mr. Nolan; “but she has a fancy to see you. I
have done all I could to pacify her; but she says she knew you in her
better days.”
“It is old Susan Aikin,” said Mrs. Damerel, in answer to her husband’s
inquiring look. “She has always wanted to see you; but what good could
you do her? and she has had a bad fever, and it is a miserable place.”
“Not that you’ll think twice of that,” said Nolan hurriedly, “when it’s
to give a bit of comfort to a dying creature that longs to see you;”
though indeed it would puzzle the world to tell why, he added in his
heart.
“Certainly not,” said the rector--a quantity of fine wrinkles, unseen on
ordinary occasions, suddenly appearing like a net-work on his forehead.
His voice took a slightly querulous tone, in spite of the readiness with
which he replied. “You need not wait,” he said, turning to his wife and
daughter. “Go on gently, and perhaps I may overtake you if it is nothing
important. What is it, Nolan; a case of troubled conscience? Something
on her mind?”
“Nothing but a dyin’ fancy,” said Mr. Nolan. “She’s harped on it these
three days. No, she’s a good soul enough; there’s no story to tell; and
all her duties done, and life closing as it ought. It’s but a whim; but
they will all take it as a great favor,” said the curate, seeing that
his superior officer looked very much in the mind to turn and fly.
“A whim,” he said, querulously. “You know I am not careless of other
people’s feelings--far from it, I hope; but my own organization is
peculiar, and to undergo this misery for a whim--you said a whim”--
“But the creature’s dying!”
“Pah! what has dying to do with it? Death is a natural accident. It is
not meritorious to die, or a thing to which every other interest should
yield and bow. But, never mind,” the rector added, after this little
outbreak; “it is not your fault--come, I’ll go.”
Rose and her mother had lingered to hear the end of the discussion; and
just as the rector yielded thus, and, putting as good a grace as
possible on the unwillingly performed duty, entered, led by Mr. Nolan,
the poor little cottage, the ladies were joined by Mrs. Wodehouse and
her son, who had hurried up at sight of them. Mrs. Wodehouse had that
reserved and solemn air which is usual to ladies who are somewhat out of
temper with their friends. She was offended, and she meant to show it.
She said “Good morning” to Mrs. Damerel, instead of “How do you do?” and
spoke with melancholy grandeur of the weather, and the extreme heat, and
how a thunderstorm must be on its way. They stood talking on these
interesting topics, while Rose and Edward found themselves together. It
seemed to Rose as if she was seeing him for the first time after a long
absence or some great event. The color rushed to her face in an
overwhelming flood, and a tide of emotions as warm, as tumultuous, as
bewildering, rushed into her heart. She scarcely ventured to lift her
eyes when she spoke to him. It seemed to her that she understood now
every glance he gave her, every tone of his voice.
“I almost feared we were not to meet again,” he said hurriedly; “and
these last days run through one’s fingers so fast. Are you going out
to-night?”
“I do not think so,” said Rose, half afraid to pledge herself, and still
more afraid lest her mother should hear and interpose, saying, “Yes,
they were engaged.”
“Then let me come to-night. I have only four days more. You will not
refuse to bid a poor sailor good-by, Miss Damerel? You will not let them
shut me out to-night?”
“No one can wish to shut you out,” said Rose, raising her eyes to his
face for one brief second.
I do not think Edward Wodehouse was so handsome as Mr. Incledon. His
manners were not nearly so perfect; he could not have stood comparison
with him in any respect except youth, in which he had the better of his
rival; but oh, how different he seemed to Rose! She could not look full
at him; only cast a momentary glance at his honest, eager eyes; his
face, which glowed and shone with meaning. And now she knew what the
meaning was.
“So long as _you_ don’t!” he said, eagerly, yet below his breath; and
just at this moment Mrs. Damerel put forth her hand and took her
daughter by the arm.
“We have had a long walk, and I am tired,” she said. “We have been to
Whitton to see a new picture, and Mr. Incledon has so many beautiful
things. Come, Rose. Mr. Wodehouse, I hope we shall see you before you go
away.”
“Oh, yes, I hope so,” the young sailor faltered, feeling himself
suddenly cast down from heaven to earth. He said nothing to her about
that evening, but I suppose Mrs. Damerel’s ears were quick enough to
hear the important appointment that had been made.
“My dear Rose, girls do not give invitations to young men, nor make
appointments with them, generally, in that way.”
“I, mamma?”
“Don’t be frightened. I am not blaming you. It was merely an accident;
but, my dear, it was not the right kind of thing to do.”
“Must I not speak to Mr. Wodehouse?” she asked, half tremblingly, half
(as she meant it) satirically. But poor Rose’s little effusion of (what
she intended for) gall took no effect whatever. Mrs. Damerel did not
perceive that any satire was meant.
“Oh, you may speak to him! You may bid him good-by, certainly; but
I--your papa--in short, we have heard something of Mr. Wodehouse
which--we do not quite like. I do not wish for any more intimacy with
them, especially just now.”
“Do you mean you have heard some harm of him?” said Rose, opening her
eyes with a sudden start.
“Well, perhaps not any harm; I cannot quite tell what it was; but
something which made your papa decide--in short, I don’t want to take
too much notice of the Wodehouses as a family. They do not suit your
papa.”
Rose walked on with her mother to the rectory gate, silent, with her
heart swelling full. She did not believe that her father had anything to
do with it. It was not he who was to blame, whatever Mrs. Damerel might
say.