When Rose went up the creaking stairs to bed on that memorable night her
feelings were like those of some one who has just been overtaken by one
of the great catastrophes of nature--a hurricane or an earthquake--and
who, though escaped for the moment, hears the tempest gathering in
another quarter, and knows that this is but the first flash of its
wrath, and that he has yet worse encounters to meet. I am of Mr.
Incledon’s opinion--or rather of the doubt fast ripening into an opinion
in his mind--that he had made a mistake, and that possibly if he had
taken Rose herself “with the tear in her eye,” and pressed his suit at
first hand, he might have succeeded better; but such might-be’s are
always doubtful to affirm and impossible to prove. She sat down for a
while in her cold room, where the draughts were playing freely about,
and where there was no fire--to think; but as for thinking, that was an
impossible operation in face of the continued gleams of fancy which kept
showing now one scene to her, now another; and of the ringing echo of
her mother’s words which kept sounding through and through the
stillness. Self-indulgence--choosing her own pleasure rather than her
duty--what she liked instead of what was right. Rose was far too much
confused to make out how it was that these reproaches seemed to her
instinct so inappropriate to the question; she only felt it vaguely, and
cried a little at the thought of the selfishness attributed to her; for
there is no opprobrious word that cuts so deeply into the breast of a
romantic, innocent girl. She sat there pensive till all her faculties
got absorbed in the dreary sense of cold and bodily discomfort, and then
she rose and said her prayers, and untwisted her pretty hair and brushed
it out, and went to bed, feeling as if she would have to watch through
the long, dark hours till morning, though the darkness and loneliness
frightened her, and she dreaded the night. But Rose was asleep in half
an hour, though the tears were not dry on her eyelashes, and I think
slept all the long night through which she had been afraid of, and woke
only when the first gray of daylight revealed the cold room and a cold
morning dimly to her sight--slept longer than usual, for emotion tires
the young. Poor child! she was a little ashamed of herself when she
found how soundly she had slept.
“Mamma would not let me call you,” said Agatha, coming into her room;
“she said you were very tired last night; but do please come down now,
and make haste. There is such a basket of flowers in the hall from
Whitton, the man says. Where’s Whitton? Isn’t it Mr. Incledon’s place?
But make haste, Rose, for breakfast, now that you are awake.”
So she had no time to think just then, but had to hurry down-stairs,
where her mother met her with something of a wistful look, and kissed
her with a kind of murmured half apology. “I am afraid I frightened you
last night, Rose.”
“Oh, no, not frightened,” the girl said, taking refuge among the
children, before whom certainly nothing could be said; and then Agatha
and Patty surged into the conversation, and all gravity or deeper
meaning was taken out of it. Indeed, her mother was so cheerful that
Rose would almost have hoped she was to hear no more of it, had it not
been for the cluster of flowers which stood on the table and the
heaped-up bunches of beautiful purple grapes which filled a pretty
Tuscan basket, and gave dignity to the bread and butter. This was a sign
of the times which was very alarming; and I do not know why it was,
unless it might be by reason of her youth, that those delicate and
lovely things--fit offerings for a lover--never moved her to any thought
of what it was she was rejecting, or tempted her to consider Mr.
Incledon’s proposal as one which involved many delightful things along
with himself, who was not delightful. This idea, oddly enough, did not
find any place in her mind, though she was as much subject to the
influence of all that was lovely and pleasant as any girl could be.
The morning passed, however, without any further words on the subject,
and her heart had begun to beat easier and her excitement to calm down,
when Mrs. Damerel suddenly came to her, after the children’s lessons,
which was now their mother’s chief occupation. She came upon her quite
unexpectedly, when Rose, moved by their noiseless presence in the room,
and unable to keep her hands off them any longer, had just commenced, in
the course of her other arrangements (for Rose had to be a kind of upper
housemaid, and make the drawing-room habitable after the rough and ready
operation which Mary Jane called “tidying”), to make a pretty group upon
a table in the window of Mr. Incledon’s flowers. Certainly they made the
place look prettier and pleasanter than it had ever done yet, especially
as one stray gleam of sunshine, somewhat pale, like the girl herself,
but cheery, had come glancing in to light up the long, low, quaint room
and caress the flowers.
“Ah, Rose, they have done you good already!” said her mother; “you look
more like yourself than I have seen you for many a day.”
Rose took her hands from the last flower-pot as if it had burned her,
and stood aside, so angry and vexed to have been found at this
occupation that she could have cried.
“My dear,” said her mother, going up to her, “I do not know that Mr.
Incledon will be here to-day; but if he comes I must give him an answer.
Have you reflected upon what I said to you? I need not tell you again
how important it is, or how much you have in your power.”
Rose clasped her hands together in self-support, one hand held fast by
the other, as if that slender grasp had been something worth clinging
to. “Oh! what can I say?” she cried; “I--told you; what more can I say?”
“You told me! Then, Rose, everything that I said to you last night goes
for nothing, though you must know the truth of it far, far better than
my words could say. Is it to be the same thing over again--always over
again? Self, first and last, the only consideration? Everything to
please yourself; nothing from higher motives? God forgive you, Rose!”
“Oh, hush, hush! it is unkind--it is cruel. I would die for you if that
would do any good!” cried Rose.
“These are easy words to say; for dying would do no good, neither would
it be asked of you,” said Mrs. Damerel impatiently. “Rose, I do not ask
this in ordinary obedience, as a mother may command a child. It is not a
child but a woman who must make such a decision; but it is my duty to
show you your duty, and what is best for yourself as well as for others.
No one--neither man nor woman, nor girl nor boy--can escape from duty to
others; and when it is neglected some one must pay the penalty. But
you--you are happier than most. You can, if you please, save your
family.”
“We are not starving, mamma,” said Rose, with trembling lips; “we have
enough to live upon--and I could work--I would do anything”--
“What would your work do, Rose? If you could teach--and I don’t think
you could teach--you might earn enough for your own dress; that would be
all. Oh, my dear! listen to me. The little work a girl can do is
nothing. She can make a sacrifice of her own inclination--of her fancy
but as for work, she has nothing in her power.”
“Then I wish there were no girls!” cried Rose, as many a poor girl has
done before her, “if we can do nothing but be a burden--if there is no
work for us, no use for us, but only to sell ourselves. Oh, mamma,
mamma! do you know what you are asking me to do?”
“I know a great deal better than you do, or you would not repeat to me
this vulgar nonsense about selling yourself. Am I likely to bid you sell
yourself? Listen to me, Rose. I want you to be happy, and so you would
be--nay, never shake your head at me--you would be happy with a man who
loves you, for you would learn to love him. Die for us! I have heard
such words from the lips of people who would not give up a morsel of
their own will--not a whim, not an hour’s comfort”--
“But I--I am not like that,” cried Rose, stung to the heart. “I would
give up anything--everything--for the children and you!”
“Except what you are asked to give up; except the only thing which you
can give up. Again I say, Rose, I have known such cases. They are not
rare in this world.”
“Oh, mamma, mamma!”
“You think I am cruel. If you knew my life, you would not think so; you
would understand my fear and horror of this amiable self-seeking which
looks so natural. Rose,” said her mother, dropping into a softer tone,
“I have something more to say to you--perhaps something that will weigh
more with you than anything I can say. Your father had set his heart on
this. He spoke to me of it on his death-bed. God knows! perhaps he saw
then what a dreary struggle I should have, and how little had been done
to help us through. One of the last things he said to me was, ‘Incledon
will look after the boys.’”
“Papa said that?” said Rose, putting out her hands to find a prop. Her
limbs seemed to refuse to support her. She was unprepared for this new,
unseen antagonist. “Papa? How did he know?”
The mother was trembling and pale, too, overwhelmed by the recollection
as well as by her anxiety to conquer. She made no direct answer to
Rose’s question, but took her hand within both of hers, and continued,
with her eyes full of tears: “You would like to please _him_, Rose--it
was almost the last thing he said--to please him, and to rescue me from
anxieties I can see no end to, and to secure Bertie’s future. Oh, Rose!
you should thank God that you can do so much for those you love. And you
would be happy, too. You are young, and love begets love. He would do
everything that man could do to please you. He is a good man, with a
kind heart; you would get to love him; and, my dear, you would be happy,
too.”
“Mamma,” said Rose, with her head bent down and some silent tears
dropping upon Mr. Incledon’s flowers--a flush of color came over her
downcast face, and then it grew pale again; her voice sounded so low
that her mother stooped towards her to hear what she said--“mamma, I
should like to tell you something.”
Mrs. Damerel made an involuntary movement--a slight instinctive
withdrawal from the confidence. Did she guess what it was? If she did
so, she made up her mind at the same time not to know it. “What is it,
dear?” she said tenderly but quickly. “Oh, Rose! do you think I don’t
understand your objections? But, my darling, surely you may trust your
mother, who loves you more than all the world. You will not reject it--I
know you will not reject it. There is no blessing that is not promised
to those that deny themselves. He will not hurry nor press you, dear.
Rose, say I may give him a kind answer when he comes?”
Rose’s head was swimming, her heart throbbing in her ears and her
throat. The girl was not equal to such a strain. To have the living and
the dead both uniting against her--both appealing to her in the several
names of love and duty against love--was more than she could bear. She
had sunk into the nearest chair, unable to stand, and she no longer felt
strong enough, even had her mother been willing to hear it, to make that
confession which had been on her lips. At what seemed to be the
extremity of human endurance, she suddenly saw one last resource in
which she might still find safety, and grasped at it, scarcely aware
what she did. “May I see Mr. Incledon myself if he comes?” she gasped,
almost under her breath.
“Surely, dear,” said her mother, surprised; “of course that would be the
best--if you are able for it, if you will think well before you decide,
if you will promise to do nothing hastily. Oh, Rose! do not break my
heart!”
“It is more likely to be my own that I will break,” said the girl, with
a shadow of a smile passing over her face. “Mamma, will you be very
kind, and say no more? I will think, think--everything that you say; but
let me speak to him myself, if he comes.”
Mrs. Damerel looked at her very earnestly, half suspicious, half
sympathetic. She went up to her softly and put her arms round her, and
pressed the girl’s drooping head against her breast. “God bless you, my
darling!” she said, with her eyes full of tears; and kissing her
hastily, went out of the room, leaving Rose alone with her thoughts.
If I were to tell you what these thoughts were, and all the confusion of
them, I should require a year to do it. Rose had no heart to stand up
and fight for herself all alone against the world. Her young frame ached
and trembled from head to foot with the unwonted strain. If there had
been indeed any one--any one--to struggle for; but how was she to stand
alone and battle for herself? Everything combined against her; every
motive, every influence. She sat in a vague trance of pain, and, instead
of thinking over what had been said, only saw visions gleaming before
her of the love which was a vision, nothing more, and which she was
called upon to resign. A vision--that was all; a dream, perhaps, without
any foundation. It seemed to disperse like a mist, as the world melted
and dissolved around her--the world which she had known--showing a new
world, a dreamy, undiscovered country, forming out of darker vapors
before her. She sat thus till the stir of the children in the house
warned her that they had come in from their daily walk to the early
dinner. She listened to their voices and noisy steps and laughter with
the strangest feeling that she was herself a dreamer, having nothing in
common with the fresh, real life where all the voices rang out so
clearly, where people said what they meant with spontaneous outcries and
laughter, and there was no concealed meaning and nothing beneath the
sunny surface; but when she heard her mother’s softer tones speaking to
the children, Rose got up hurriedly, and fled to the shelter of her
room. If anything more were said to her she thought she must die.
Happily Mrs. Damerel did not know that it was her voice, and not the
noise of the children, which was too much for poor Rose’s over-strained
nerves. She sent word by Agatha that Rose must lie down for an hour and
try to rest; and that quiet was the best thing for her headache, which,
of course, was the plea the girl put forth to excuse her flight and
seclusion. Agatha, for her part, was very sorry and distressed that Rose
should miss her dinner, and wanted much to bring something up-stairs for
her, which was at once the kindest and most practical suggestion of all.
The bustle of dinner was all over and the house still again in the
dreary afternoon quiet, when Agatha, once more, with many precautions,
stole into the room. “Are you awake?” she said; “I hope your head is
better. Mr. Incledon is in the drawing-room, and mamma says, please, if
you are better will you go down, for she is busy; and you are to thank
him for the grapes and for the flowers. What does Mr. Incledon want,
coming so often? He was here only yesterday, and sat for hours with
mamma. Oh! what a ghost you look, Rose! Shall I bring you some tea?”
“It is too early for tea. Never mind; my head is better.”
“But you have had no dinner,” said practical Agatha; “it is not much
wonder that you are pale.”
Rose did not know what she answered, or if she said anything. Her head
seemed to swim more than ever. Not only was it all true about Mr.
Incledon, but she was going to talk to him, to decide her own fate
finally one way or other. What a good thing that the drawing-room was so
dark in the afternoon that he could not remark how woe-begone she
looked, how miserable and pale!
He got up when she came in, and went up to her eagerly, putting out his
hands. I suppose he took her appearance as a proof that his suit was
progressing well; and, indeed, he had come to-day with the determination
to see Rose, whatever might happen. He took her hand into both of his,
and for one second pressed it fervently and close. “It is very kind of
you to see me. How can I thank you for giving me this opportunity?” he
said.
“Oh, no! not kind; I wished it,” said Rose, breathlessly, withdrawing
her hand as hastily as he had taken it; and then, fearing her strength,
she sat down in the nearest chair, and said, falteringly, “Mr. Incledon,
I wanted very much to speak to you myself.”
“And I, too,” he said--her simplicity and eagerness thus opened the way
for him and saved him all embarrassment--“I, too, was most anxious to
see you. I did not venture to speak of this yesterday, when I met you. I
was afraid to frighten and distress you; but I have wished ever since
that I had dared”--
“Oh, please do not speak so!” she cried. In his presence Rose felt so
young and childish, it seemed impossible to believe in the extraordinary
change of positions which his words implied.
“But I must speak so. Miss Damerel, I am very conscious of my
deficiencies by your side--of the disparity between us in point of age
and in many other ways; you, so fresh and untouched by the world, I
affected by it, as every man is more or less; but if you will commit
your happiness to my hands, don’t think, because I am not so young as
you, that I will watch over it less carefully--that it will be less
precious in my eyes.”
“Ah! I was not thinking of my happiness,” said Rose; “I suppose I have
no more right to be happy than other people--but oh! if you would let me
speak to you! Mr. Incledon, oh! why should you want me? There are so
many girls better, more like you, that would be glad. Oh! what is there
in me? I am silly; I am not well educated, though you may think so. I am
not clever enough to be a companion you would care for. I think it is
because you don’t know.”
Mr. Incledon was so much taken by surprise that he could do nothing but
laugh faintly at this strange address. “I was not thinking either of
education or of wisdom, but of you,--only you,” he said.
“But you know so little about me; you think I must be nice because of
papa; but, papa himself was never satisfied with me. I have not read
very much. I know very little. I am not good for anywhere but home. Mr.
Incledon, I am sure you are deceived in me. This is what I wanted to
say. Mamma does not see it in the same light; but I feel sure that you
are deceived, and take me for something very different from what I am,”
said Rose, totally unconscious that every word she said made Mr.
Incledon more and more sure that he had done the very thing he ought to
have done, and that he was not deceived.
“Indeed, you mistake me altogether,” he said. “It is not merely because
you are a piece of excellence--it is because I love you, Rose.”
“Love me! Do you love me?” she said, looking at him with wondering eyes;
then drooping with a deep blush under his gaze--“but I--do not love
you.”
“I did not expect it; it would have been too much to expect; but if you
will let me love you, and show you how I love you, dear!” said Mr.
Incledon, going up to her softly, with something of the tenderness of a
father to a child, subduing the eagerness of a lover. “I don’t want to
frighten you; I will not hurry nor tease; but some time you might learn
to love me.”
“That is what mamma says,” said Rose, with a heavy sigh.
Now this was scarcely flattering to a lover. Mr. Incledon felt for the
moment as if he had received a downright and tolerably heavy blow; but
he was in earnest, and prepared to meet with a rebuff or two. “She says
truly,” he answered, with much gravity. “Rose,--may I call you Rose?--do
not think I will persecute or pain you; only do not reject me hastily.
What I have to say for myself is very simple. I love you--that is all;
and I will put up with all a man may for the chance of winning you, when
you know me better, to love me in return.”
These were almost the same words as those Mrs. Damerel had employed; but
how differently they sounded; they had not touched Rose’s heart at all
before; but they did now with a curious mixture of agitation and terror,
and almost pleasure. She was sorry for him, more than she could have
thought possible, and somehow felt more confidence in him, and freedom
to tell him what was in her heart.
“Do not answer me now, unless you please,” said Mr. Incledon. “If you
will give me the right to think your family mine, I know I can be of use
to them. The boys would become my charge, and there is much that has
been lost which I could make up had I the right to speak to your mother
as a son. It is absurd, I know,” he said, with a half-smile; “I am about
as old as she is; but all these are secondary questions. The main thing
is--you. Dear Rose, dear child, you don’t know what love is”--
“Ah!” the girl looked up at him suddenly, her countenance changing. “Mr.
Incledon, I have not said all to you that I wanted to say. Oh, do not
ask me any more! Tell mamma that you have given it up! or I must tell
you something that will break my heart.”
“I will not give it up so long as there is any hope,” he said; “tell
me--what is it? I will do nothing to break your heart.”
She made a pause. It was hard to say it, and yet, perhaps, easier to him
than it would be to face her mother and make this tremendous confession.
She twisted her poor little fingers together in her bewilderment and
misery, and fixed her eyes upon them as if their interlacing were the
chief matter in hand. “Mr. Incledon,” she said, very low, “there was
some one else--oh, how can I say it!--some one--whom I cared for--whom I
can’t help thinking about.”
“Tell me,” said Mr. Incledon, bravely quenching in his own mind a not
very amiable sentiment; for it seemed to him that if he could but secure
her confidence all would be well. He took her hand with caressing
gentleness, and spoke low, almost as low as she did. “Tell me, my
darling; I am your friend, confide in me. Who was it? May I know?”
“I cannot tell you who it was,” said Rose, with her eyes still cast
down, “because he has never said anything to me; perhaps he does not
care for me; but this has happened: without his ever asking me, or
perhaps wishing it, I cared for him. I know a girl should not do so, and
that is why I cannot--cannot! But,” said Rose raising her head with
more confidence, though still reluctant to meet his eye, “now that you
know this you will not think of me any more, Mr. Incledon. I am so sorry
if it makes you at all unhappy; but I am of very little consequence; you
cannot be long unhappy about me.”
“Pardon me if I see it in quite a different light,” he said. “My mind is
not at all changed. This is but a fancy. Surely a man who loves you, and
says so, should be of more weight than one of whose feelings you know
nothing.”
“I know about my own,” said Rose, with a little sigh; “and oh, don’t
think, as mamma does, that I am selfish! It is not selfishness; it is
because I know, if you saw into my heart, you would not ask me. Oh, Mr.
Incledon, I would die for them all if I could! but how could I say one
thing to you, and mean another? How could I let you be deceived?”
“Then, Rose, answer me truly; is your consideration solely for me?”
She gave him an alarmed, appealing look, but did not reply.
“I am willing to run the risk,” he said, with a smile, “if all your fear
is for me; and I think you might run the risk too. The other is an
imagination; I am real, very real,” he added, “very constant, very
patient. So long as you do not refuse me absolutely, I will wait and
hope.”
Poor Rose, all her little art was exhausted. She dared not, with her
mother’s words ringing in her ears, and with all the consequences so
clearly before her, refuse him absolutely, as he said. She had appealed
to him to withdraw, and he would not withdraw. She looked at him as if
he were the embodiment of fate, against which no man can strive.
“Mr. Incledon,” she said, gravely and calmly, “you would not marry any
one who did not love you?”
“I will marry you, Rose, if you will have me, whether you love me or
not,” he said; “I will wait for the love, and hope.”
“Oh, be kind!” she said, driven to her wits’ end. “You are free, you can
do what you please, and there are so many girls in the world besides me.
And I cannot do what I please,” she added, low, with a piteous tone,
looking at him. Perhaps he did not hear these last words. He turned from
her with I know not what mingling of love, and impatience, and wounded
pride, and walked up and down the darkling room, making an effort to
command himself. She thought she had moved him at last, and sat with her
hands clasped together, expecting the words which would be deliverance
to her. It was almost dark, and the firelight glimmered through the low
room, and the dim green glimmer of the twilight crossed its ruddy rays,
not more unlike than the two who thus stood so strangely opposed to each
other. At last, Mr. Incledon returned to where Rose sat in the shadow,
touched by neither one illumination nor the other, and eagerly watching
him as he approached her through the uncertain gleams of the ruddy
light.
“There is but one girl in the world for me,” he said, somewhat hoarsely.
“I do not pretend to judge for any one but myself. So long as you do not
reject me, I will hope.”
And thus their interview closed. When he had got over the disagreeable
shock of encountering that indifference on the part of the woman he
loved, which is the greatest blow that can be given to a man’s vanity,
Mr. Incledon was not at all down-hearted about the result. He went away
with half a dozen words to Mrs. Damerel, begging her not to press his
suit, but to let the matter take its course. “All will go well if we are
patient,” he said, with a composure which, perhaps, surprised her; for
women are apt to prefer the hot-headed in such points, and Mrs. Damerel
did not reflect that, having waited so long, it was not so hard on the
middle-aged lover to wait a little longer. But his forbearance at least
was of immediate service to Rose, who was allowed time to recover
herself after her agitation, and had no more exciting appeals addressed
to her for some time. But Mr. Incledon went and came, and a soft,
continued pressure, which no one could take decided objection to, began
to make itself felt.