Captain Wodehouse did not get admission to the White House that day
until the afternoon. He was not to be discouraged, though the messages
he got were of a depressing nature enough. “Mrs. Damerel was engaged,
and could not see him; would he come later?” “Mrs. Damerel was still
engaged--more engaged than ever.”
And while Mary Jane held the door ajar, Edward heard a voice raised
high, with an indignant tone, speaking continuously, which was the voice
of Mr. Incledon, though he did not identify it. Later still, Mrs.
Damerel was still engaged; but, as he turned despairing from the door,
Agatha rushed out, with excited looks, and with a message that if he
came back at three o’clock her mother would see him.
“Rose has come home, and oh! there has been such a business!” Agatha
whispered into his ear before she rushed back again. She knew a lover,
and especially a favored lover, by instinct, as some girls do; but
Agatha had the advantage of always knowing her own mind, and never would
be the centre of any imbroglio, like the unfortunate Rose.
“Are you going back to the White House again?” said Mrs. Wodehouse. “I
wonder how you can be so servile, Edward. I would not go, hat in hand,
to any girl, if I were you; and when you know that she is engaged to
another man, and he a great deal better off than you are! How can you
show so little spirit? There are more Roses in the garden than one, and
sweeter Roses, and richer, would be glad to have you. If I had thought
you had so little proper pride, I should never have wished you to come
here.”
“I don’t think I have any proper pride,” said Edward, trying to make a
feeble joke of it; “I have to come home now and then to know what it
means.”
“You were not always so poor-spirited,” said his mother; “it is that
silly girl who has turned your head. And she is not even there; she has
gone up to town to get her trousseau and choose her wedding silks, so
they say; and you may be sure, if she is engaged like that, she does not
want to be reminded of you.”
“I suppose not,” said Edward, drearily; “but as I promised to go back, I
think I must. I ought at least to bid them good-by.”
“Oh! if that is all,” said Mrs. Wodehouse, pacified, “go, my dear; and
mind you put the very best face upon it. Don’t look as if it were
anything to you; congratulate them, and say you are glad to hear that
any one so nice as Mr. Incledon is to be the gentleman. Oh! if I were in
your place, I should know what to say! I should give Miss Rose something
to remember. I should tell her I hoped she would be happy in her grand
house, and was glad to hear that the settlements were everything they
ought to be. She would feel that, you may be sure; for a girl that sets
up for romance and poetry and all that don’t like to be supposed
mercenary. She should not soon forget her parting with me.”
“Do you think I wish to hurt and wound her?” said Edward. “Surely not.
If she is happy, I will wish her more happiness. She has never harmed
me--no, mother. It cannot do a man any harm, even if it makes him
unhappy, to think of a woman as I think of Rose.”
“Oh! you have no spirit,” cried Mrs. Wodehouse; “I don’t know how a son
of mine can take it so easily. Rose, indeed! Her very name makes my
blood boil!”
But Edward’s blood was very far from boiling as he walked across the
Green for the third time that day. The current of life ran cold and low
in him. The fiery determination of the morning to “have it out” with
Mrs. Damerel, and know his fate and Rose’s fate, had fallen into a
despairing resolution at least to see her for the last time, to bid her
forget everything that had passed, and try himself to forget. If her
fate was sealed, and no longer in her own power to alter, that was all a
generous man could do; and he felt sure, from the voices he had heard,
and from the air of agitation about the house, and from Agatha’s hasty
communication, that this day had been a crisis to more than himself. He
met Mr. Incledon as he approached the house. His rival looked at him
gravely without a smile, and passed him with an abrupt “good morning.”
Mr. Incledon had not the air of a triumphant lover, and there was
something of impatience and partial offence in his look as his eyes
lingered for a moment upon the young sailor; so it appeared to Edward,
though I think it was rather regret, and a certain wistful envy that was
in Mr. Incledon’s eyes. This young fellow, not half so clever, or so
cultivated, or so important as himself, had won the prize which he had
tried for and failed. The baffled man was still disturbed by unusual
emotion, but he was not ungenerous in his sentiments; but then the other
believed that he himself was the failure, and that Mr. Incledon had
succeeded, and interpreted his looks, as we all do, according to the
commentary in our own minds. Edward went on more depressed than ever
after this meeting. Just outside the White House he encountered Mr.
Nolan, going out to walk with the children. “Now that the gale is over,
the little boats are going out for a row,” said the curate, looking at
him with a smile. It was not like Mr. Nolan’s usual good nature, poor
Edward thought. He was ushered in at once to the drawing-room, where
Mrs. Damerel sat in a great chair, leaning back, with a look of weakness
and exhaustion quite out of keeping with her usual energy. She held out
her hand to him without rising. Her eyes were red, as if she had been
shedding tears, and there was a flush upon her face. Altogether, her
appearance bewildered him; no one in the world had ever seen Mrs.
Damerel looking like this before.
“I am afraid you will think me importunate, coming back so often,” he
said, “but I felt that I must see you. Not that I come with much hope;
but still it is better to know the very worst, if there is no good to
hear.”
“It depends on what you think worst or best,” she said. “Mr. Wodehouse,
you told me you were promoted--are captain now, and you have a ship?”
“Commander: and alas! under orders for China, with ten days’ more
leave,” he said, with a faint smile; “though perhaps, on the whole, that
may be best. Mrs. Damerel, may I not ask--for Rose? Pardon me for
calling her so--I can’t think of her otherwise. If it is all settled and
made up, and my poor chance over, may I not see her, only for a few
minutes? If you think what a dismal little story mine has been--sent
away without seeing her a year ago, then raised into sudden hope by our
chance meeting the other morning, and now, I suppose, sentenced to
banishment forever”--
“Stay a little,” she said; “I have had a very exciting day, and I am
much worn out. Must you go in ten days?”
“Alas!” said Wodehouse, “and even my poor fortnight got with such
difficulty--though perhaps on the whole it is better, Mrs. Damerel.”
“Yes,” she said, “have patience a moment; things have turned out very
differently from what I wished. I cannot pretend to be pleased, scarcely
resigned to what you have all done between you. You have nothing to
offer my daughter, nothing! and she has nothing to contribute on her
side. It is all selfish inclination, what you liked, not what was best,
that has swayed you. You had not self-denial enough to keep silent; she
had not self-denial enough to consider that this is not a thing for a
day but for life; and the consequences, I suppose, as usual, will fall
upon me. All my life I have had nothing to do but toil to make up for
the misfortunes caused by self-indulgence. Others have had their will
and pleasure, and I have paid the penalty. I thought for once it might
have been different, but I have been mistaken, as you see.”
“You forget that I have no clue to your meaning--that you are speaking
riddles,” said Wodehouse, whose depressed heart had begun to rise and
flutter and thump against his young breast.
“Ah; that is true,” said Mrs. Damerel, rising with a sigh. “Well, I wash
my hands of it; and for the rest you will prefer to hear it from Rose
rather than from me.”
He stood in the middle of the room speechless when she closed the door
behind her, and heard her soft steps going in regular measure through
the still house, as Rose had heard them once. How still it was! the
leaves fluttering at the open window, the birds singing, Mrs. Damerel’s
footsteps sounding fainter, his heart beating louder. But he had not
very long to wait.
Mr. Nolan and the children went out on the river, and rowed up that
long, lovely reach past Alfredsbury, skirting the bank, which was pink
with branches of the wild rose and sweet with the feathery flowers of
the Queen of the Meadows. Dick flattered himself that he pulled an
excellent bow, and the curate, who loved the children’s chatter, and
themselves, humored the boy to the top of his bent. Agatha steered, and
felt it an important duty, and Patty, who had nothing else to do, leaned
her weight over the side of the boat, and did her best to capsize it,
clutching at the wild roses and the meadow-queen. They shipped their
oars and floated down with the stream when they had gone as far as they
cared to go, and went up the hill again to the White House in a perfect
bower of wild flowers, though the delicate rose blossoms began to droop
in the warm grasp of the children before they got home. When they rushed
in, flooding the house all through and through with their voices and
their joyous breath and their flowers, they found all the rooms empty,
the drawing-room silent, in a green repose, and not a creature visible.
But while Agatha rushed up-stairs, calling upon her mother and Rose, Mr.
Nolan saw a sight from the window which set his mind at rest. Two young
figures together, one leaning on the other--two heads bent close,
talking too low for any hearing but their own. The curate looked at them
with a smile and a sigh. They had attained the height of blessedness.
What better could the world give them? and yet the good curate’s sigh
was not all for the disappointed, nor his smile for their happiness
alone.
The lovers were happy; but there are drawbacks to every mortal felicity.
The fact that Edward had but nine days left, and that their fate must
after that be left in obscurity, was, as may be supposed, a very serious
drawback to their happiness. But their good fortune did not forsake
them; or rather, to speak more truly, the disappointed lover did not
forsake the girl who had appealed to him, who had mortified and tortured
him, and promised with all the unconscious cruelty of candor to marry
him if he told her to do so. Mr. Incledon went straight to town from the
White House, intent on finishing the work he had begun. He had imposed
on Mrs. Damerel as a duty to him, as a recompense for all that he had
suffered at her hands, the task of receiving Wodehouse, and sanctioning
the love which her daughter had given; and he went up to town to the
Admiralty, to his friend whose unfortunate leniency had permitted the
young sailor to return home. Mr. Incledon treated the matter lightly,
making a joke of it. “I told you he was not to come home, but to be sent
off as far as possible,” he said.
“Why, what harm could the poor young fellow do in a fortnight?” said my
lord. “I find I knew his father--a fine fellow and a good officer. The
son shall be kept in mind, both for his sake and yours.”
“He has done all the harm that was apprehended in his fortnight,” said
Mr. Incledon, “and now you must give him an extension of leave--enough
to be married in. There’s nothing else for it. You ought to do your best
for him, for it is your fault.”
Upon which my lord, who was of a genial nature, laughed and inquired
into the story, which Mr. Incledon related to him after a fashion, in a
way which, amused him hugely. The consequence was that Commander
Wodehouse got his leave extended to three months, and was transferred
from the China station to the Mediterranean. Mr. Incledon never told
them who was the author of this benefit, though I think they had little
difficulty in guessing. He sent Rose a _parure_ of pearls and
turquoises, simple enough for her youth and the position she had
preferred to his, and sent the diamonds which had been reset for her
back to his bankers; and then he went abroad. He did not go back to
Whitton, even for necessary arrangements, but sent for all he wanted;
and after that morning’s work in the White House, returned to
Dinglefield no more for years.
After this there was no possible reason for delay, and Rose was married
to her sailor in the parish church by good Mr. Nolan, and instead of any
other wedding tour went off to cruise with him in the Mediterranean. She
had regained her bloom, and merited her old name again before the day of
the simple wedding. Happiness brought back color and fragrance to the
Rose in June; but traces of the storm that had almost crushed her never
altogether disappeared, from her heart at least, if they did from her
face. She cried over Mr. Incledon’s letter the day before she became
Edward Wodehouse’s wife. She kissed the turquoises when she fastened
them about her pretty neck. Love is the best, no doubt; but it would be
hard if to other sentiments, less intense, even a bride might not spare
a tear.
As for the mothers on either side, they were both indifferently
satisfied. Mrs. Wodehouse would not unbend so much for months after as
to say anything but “Good morning” to Mrs. Damerel, who had done her
best to make her boy unhappy; and as for the marriage, now that it was
accomplished after so much fuss and bother, it was after all nothing of
a match for Edward. Mrs. Damerel, on her side, was a great deal too
proud to offer any explanations except such as were absolutely necessary
to those few influential friends who must be taken into every one’s
confidence who desires to keep a place in society. She told those
confidants frankly enough that Edward and Rose had met accidentally, and
that a youthful love, supposed to be over long ago, had burst forth
again so warmly that nothing could be done but to tell Mr. Incledon; and
that he had behaved like a hero. The Green for a little while was very
angry at Rose; the ladies shook their heads at her, and said how very,
very hard it was on poor Mr. Incledon. But Mr. Incledon was gone, and
Whitton shut up, while Rose still remained with all the excitement of a
pretty wedding in prospect, and “a perfect romance” in the shape of a
love-story. Gradually, therefore, the girl was forgiven; the richer
neighbors went up to town and bought their presents, the poorer ones
looked over their stores to see what they could give, and the girls made
pieces of lace for her, and pin-cushions, and antimacassars; and thus
her offence was condoned by all the world. Though Mrs. Damerel asked but
a few people to the breakfast, the church was crowded to see the
wedding, and all the gardens, in the parish cut their best roses for its
decoration; for this event occurred in July, the end of the rose season.
Dinglefield church overflowed with roses, and the bridesmaids’ dresses
were trimmed with them, and every man in the place had some sort of a
rosebud in his coat. And thus it was, half smothered in roses, that the
young people went away.
Mr. Incledon was not heard of for years after; but quite lately he came
back to Whitton married to a beautiful Italian lady, for whose sake it
was, originally, as Rumor whispered, that he had remained unmarried so
long. This lady had married and forsaken him nearly twenty years before,
and had become a widow about the time that he left England. I hope,
therefore, that though Rose’s sweet youth and freshness had attracted
him to her, and though he had regarded her with deep tenderness, hoping
perhaps for a new, subdued, yet happy life through her means, there had
been little passion in him to make his wound bitter after the
mortification of the moment. The contessa was a woman of his own age,
who had been beautiful, and was magnificent, a regal kind of creature,
at home amid all the luxuries which his wealth provided, and filling a
very different position from anything that could have been attainable by
Rose. They dazzle the people on the Green when they are at Whitton, and
the contessa is as gracious and more inaccessible than any queen. She
smiles at them all benignly, and thinks them an odd sort of gentle
savages, talking over their heads in a voice which is louder and rounder
than suits with English notions. And it is reported generally that Mr.
Incledon and his foreign wife are “not happy.” I cannot say anything
about this, one way or another, but I am sure that the happiness he
shares with the contessa must be something of a very different character
from that which he would have had with Rose; higher, perhaps, as mere
love (you all say) is the highest; but different--and in some things,
perhaps, scarcely so homely-sweet.
When Rose heard of this, which she did in the harbor of an Italian port,
she was moved by interest so true and lively that her husband was almost
jealous. She read her mother’s letter, over and over, and could not be
done talking of it. Captain Wodehouse after a while had to go on shore,
and his wife sat on the deck while the blue waves grew bluer and bluer
with evening under the great ship, and the Italian sky lost its bloom of
sunset, and the stars came out in the magical heavens. What a lovely
scene it was, the lights in the houses twinkling and rising tier on
tier, the little lamps quivering at the mastheads, the stars in the sky.
Rose shut her soft eyes, which were wet,--was it with dew?--and saw
before her not the superb Genoa and the charmed Italian night, but the
little Green with its sunburnt grass and the houses standing round, in
each one of which friendly eyes were shining. She saw the green old
drawing-room of the White House, and the look he cast upon her as he
turned and went away. That was the day when the great happiness of her
life came upon her; and yet she had lost something, she could not tell
what, when Mr. Incledon went away. And now he was married, and to his
old love, some one who had gone before herself in his heart, and came
after her, and was its true owner. Rose shed a few tears quite silently
in the soft night, which did not betray her. Her heart contracted for a
moment with a strange pang--was she jealous of this unknown woman? “God
bless him!” she said to herself, with a little outburst of emotion. Did
not she owe him all she had in the world? good right had Rose to bid
“God bless him!” nevertheless there was an undisclosed shade of feeling
which was not joy in his happiness, lingering in her heart.
“Do you think we could find out who this contessa is?” she said to her
husband, when he returned. “I hope she is a good woman, and will make
him happy.”
“Yes,” said Captain Wodehouse, “he is a good fellow, and deserves to be
happy; and now you can be comfortable, my dear, for you see he has
consoled himself,” he added, with a laugh.
* * * * *
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_THE QUEEN OF THE REGIMENT._
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_In Furniture, Upholstery, and other Details_.
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_Hartford Courant._
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_NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION._
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