A CLOSE OBSERVER.
When Rose and Lettice went their way, the three cavaliers found their
occupation gone. They stood an instant looking after the retreating
fair, then turned to face one another; but there was no satisfaction
in view of the witnesses of their discomfiture--each felt small,
rather, and perhaps a little ridiculous. The only plaster for their
grazed self-love was absence from the witnesses; and accordingly each
turned on his heel, going off in quest of some new interest, and
diverging as widely from the other two as was possible.
Joseph strolled despondently back toward the stunted grove, to which
twice already he had bent his steps, but had not reached. He had borne
up bravely enough under Rose's disclosure at the moment. In the thick
of the fight one generally does bear up. The excitement of combat
stirs the blood, and blows fall scarcely heeded on him who struggles
hard to have his way. It is when the battle is over, that the wounds
begin to smart, when the stricken have leisure to feel them. And
Joseph was wounded sore. It crushed him to think that anything could
be said in derogation of the peerless one whom he had found to fit
into' the long-vacant shrine, where the beloved of his youth had sat,
and whose memory, still hovering there, had made it a holy place.
There seemed impiety in associating the new avatar of his love with
the ribald vulgarities of the divorce court, in dragging the blossom
of his worship through its noisome mire. Yet was she the less precious
because her lines had fallen haplessly? Does a jewel lose worth for
having fallen in the kennel? He told himself this, and repeated it
over and over. He vowed that her need of sympathy and support, was a
claim the more upon his honour, and that the claim should be
satisfied; but still it was painful to think that the name of his wife
to be, had been bandied from mouth to mouth as one of the motley crew
who shock chaste ears with their clamour to be relieved from
obligations which if was their own free choice to undertake. It dimmed
the bright promise of that future in which he had been basking so
unsuspiciously, but it should not appal him. He would steadfastly look
forward to all being well; his own faith and hope would of themselves
contribute to a happy consummation; and for Rose, how much she must
have suffered!--how much she needed him!
He had reached the grove at last. His feet were on the turf, and he
was strolling upwards through the trees, buried in deep and not too
sweet reflections.
"Alone, Joseph?" There was much in the tone to irritate. It contained
a suggestion of pity, combined with the "I thought as much," or "I
told you so," with which intimate friends are wont to rub up our
little sorenesses, and make them smart. It was his sister-in-law who
spoke--Susan--who already had expressed her disapproval of his
intended change in life, and who could not be expected to regret any
little unsmoothness in the current of his love. She had risen from a
corner of shade in which she had been encouraging the faltering
advances of Walter Petty to closer intimacy with her girl Margaret.
The two seemed fairly well tackled in conversation, now, and she felt
free to devote a little attention to Joseph and his concerns. She took
his arm, and accommodated her pace to his for a little turn, ignoring
the sudden tightening of his features into an impatient frown.
"'The course of true love,' &c.--you know the rest, Joseph. Where
there is disparity, one must be prepared for little _contretemps_. One
cannot expect young girls to accommodate themselves at once to the
steady jog-trot of their seniors. They would not be so attractive, I
daresay, if one could. She certainly----"
"What are you talking about, Susan?"
"You do not know, eh? Or rather you think I do not know? I have seen
everything--more than you have yourself. I was sitting up here in the
shade, when you were called away a while ago."
"Yes, I was called away. It was annoying, I confess; but I got back
when I had completed my little matter of business. I see nothing in
that which calls for your condolence."
"Of course not, dear Joseph. It was far too cleverly arranged for
that. She certainly is clever--an accomplished actress. I only hope it
may answer, and that you may not find her out to be too clever by
half. A good many people have seen as well as me. It was very well
done--quite dramatic, in fact; or rather, pantomimic--for they were
far too judicious to raise their voices and be overheard."
"Enough, Susan. I detest insinuations. Who are they whose private
affairs you have been watching and prying into? Do you know that you
have been accusing yourself of eavesdropping, mitigated only by your
inability to hear what was said? It is scarcely the pursuit I should
have expected a ladylike person to take up."
"You are rude, Joseph; but I forgive you. One must not expect people
to accept disenchantment with an equable mind."
"You speak riddles. I am in no mood for guessing them."
"Just what I say. You are upset, Joseph, and I am truly sorry."
"I am not upset. I am perfectly well and happy, Susan. It is you who
are absurd. You have your girls' hands to dispose of. It is occupation
enough for any woman. See you do it wisely; and leave me to bestow my
own in peace. I decline your interference."
"You are blind, Joseph. There are a score of people in this wood.
Every one of them must have seen. It is only you, the one who ought to
know, who have not, and do not know. I insist on telling you. You may
not like it, but it is my duty."
"Always a duty--when a woman wants to be provoking."
"I forgive the gibe. The young person you have chosen to devote
yourself to, has a lover."
"Certainly. The lady you stigmatise as a person has me; and I mean to
marry her."
"You and another. Ha! you did not know that! I can read it in your
face. Your back was scarcely turned, when out there bounced from
behind a tree--a man!--that tall slim young fellow you must have
noticed at the Beach any time this last week. He has been devoting
himself to that little spare woman with the blue veil whom nobody
seems to mind. People said they were engaged, and wondered at one with
his good looks bestowing himself so cheaply. Well, as I was saying,
out he bounced upon Miss--what's her name?--Miss Hillyard; and I can
tell you their interview was an animated one. How the colour of both
came and went! There must a great deal have taken place between them.
How he gesticulated! She was comparatively calm. He is an ardent
fellow, I can tell you, Joseph. Better have an eye on him."
Joseph did not know exactly what to say. He felt himself disloyal in
listening; but still he was interested, and if he waited to hear more,
he fancied he should be better able to defend Rose.
"The lady he had left--her with the blue veil--seemed to take her
squire's sudden desertion in very bad part. She started and looked
shocked at his departure, then bent forward where she sat, and looked,
and listened. They were within a few yards of her, and she must have
heard all that passed. The disillusion must have been terrible. I saw
her head bow lower and lower, as though all fortitude were deserting
her; and soon she seemed utterly crushed. She buried her head in her
lap, and clasped her hands above it--a most pitiable spectacle.
"But that was not the worst. He certainly must be a man without pity
or a spark of feeling. He actually had the cruelty to lead the other a
little to one side, where she could have a view of the discarded
rival. Was it not barbarous? This was too much for the other. It stung
her into something like proper self-respect. As soon as the other
turned away--and I will do the Hillyard girl the justice to say that
she betrayed no sign of gratification at her rival's confusion--she
jumped to her feet with a little cry, tied on her hat, and ran away up
the hill, as if to hide herself among the trees. Then Miss Rose seemed
suddenly to remember about you. She dismissed her admirer with the
peremptory assurance of an old hand, who knows exactly what she means
to do, and strolled calmly across the sands to meet you coming back to
her. She must have managed very well. I saw her leaning on your arm as
friendly as possible--a clever girl, but a sad handful, I should
imagine, for the man whose doubtful fortune it may be to get her for a
wife."
"And now you have done, Susan, with your romance? Let me congratulate
you on your talent for 'putting that and that together,' and producing
a coherent fiction from true premisses, which might do credit to the
author of the 'Arabian Nights.'"
"And pray, if the premisses are true, and nothing of my own is added,
how can you venture to suppose that my inferences are astray? You are
infatuated, Joseph Naylor."
"My good creature, the young lady has told me of this interview with
the tall young man which you have described so graphically. It must
indeed have been exciting and full of emotion, but you have entirely
failed to catch its true import; and, as far as I can see, there is no
reason why you should understand it, either you or any of the twenty
other eavesdroppers you mention, who have been gratuitously
interesting themselves in what does not concern them. Miss Hillyard is
suffering from violent headache in consequence of what occurred, and
has returned to the village to lie down. On second thoughts, I believe
I shall follow her, and try if she will not let me drive her back to
the Beach at once. That will be better than encountering the twenty
pairs of curious eyes during the evening, who will want to watch her
every movement, and piece a romance out of every time she looks at her
watch. Goodbye, Susan. Accept thanks for kind intentions on my
account; but do, pray, be more charitable in future. Good-bye,
Margaret. I am going back at once, and shall be asleep when you get
home. Kiss me good-night, child."
Margaret rose to pay the dutiful salute. Joseph kissed her on the
cheek, and finding his lips so conveniently near her ear, he
whispered--
"Walter's buggy will be the first in the line. He will be waiting. Get
down before the others. Jump in; and God bless you!"
Margaret changed colour violently. Her mother, looking on, was
surprised to see an embrace from an old uncle, produce signs of
emotion. "It must be because of the young man sitting by," she thought
sapiently, and drew happy auguries from the circumstance. Those close
observers are so often astray!
When Joseph reached the inn at Blue Fish Creek, he sent up a little
note to Rose, asking if she would not rather come home now in quiet,
than wait through the racket of the evening, to be followed by a
riotous journey after dark with the rest in their overflowing high
spirits. Rose consented, and they drove home forthwith.
How different were Joseph's feelings now, from what they had been in
the morning! Then, everything was bathed in sunshine and hope. The
bare supposition that aught could go amiss did not once cross his
mind. Now, he could not say what had befallen him, but a cloud had
come down and enveloped him, and blotted out the future, and every
certainty from his view, chilling his hopes and even his desires as
with an untimely frost. The ring lay forgotten in his pocket. It did
not occur to him to offer it again. If he had, the probability is that
it would have been accepted, though perhaps without the enthusiasm
which would have made the acceptance of value in his eyes.
Another phase of feeling had arisen in Rose's mind since her walk with
Lettice. Her friend had betrayed a presentiment, that now Gilbert had
had speech of her, he would win her back; and Rose revolted at the
idea of figuring before her friends as a repentant naughty child. No;
she had made her choice, and she would show that she could hold to it.
She might not be happy in the future, but at least she could be
steadfast. And truly, the man beside her as she drove, so truthful and
so good, deserved all the duty and devotion she could devote to him.
If she did not love as once she might have loved, at least he should
never know it. She would be but the more dutiful on that account; she
would even--what seemed the hardest thing of all to her headstrong
nature--even obey him.
She was very near to him then, if Joseph had but known; but he did
not. The old doubleness between his wife of long ago, and this heir to
her place in his regard, had arisen anew within him, and it was still
the older god who held the shrine. He felt regretfully tender and
considerate to his companion by his side, but the enthusiasm of the
morning was wanting.
They spoke little to one another as they travelled along. Rose was
pale and had a splitting headache, and Joseph was consideration
itself. He forbore to disturb her, assisted her to alight when they
arrived at Clam Beach, and expressed a hope that she would be better
in the morning, when they parted and she went up-stairs.