Mrs. Molesworth was still at the window with her book, and looked
quickly up as the young man came in. Heathcote tossed his hat and stick
down and threw himself on the sofa.
“What has become of Rosamund?” she inquired, after a pause.
“I don’t know; she came in before I did. I went to the Piazza.”
“And what sort of a row had you to the Garden?”
“Just what I expected. It was no use; I didn’t think it would be.”
“Of course, if one starts on anything with _that_ sort of idea in one’s
head, it’s not to be wondered at,” said Mrs. Molesworth, greatly vexed.
“Well, I say!” he exclaimed, raising his voice and sitting up, “one
can’t do what one can’t; and I tell you she wouldn’t listen to a word I
said.”
“Hush, Heathcote! Don’t shout like that at me; please remember to whom
you are speaking,” said his mother, growing colder, as she always did,
in proportion to her anger.
“It’s enough to make any one shout, to be blamed because a fool of a
girl won’t marry me!” he cried, regardless of grammar.
“I fancy you didn’t take much trouble about it,” she said, shrugging her
shoulders, “I can quite believe it; you never take pains about anything
useful.”
“If I didn’t, so much the better, now that things have turned out so;
there’s that much trouble saved. And I’ll tell you what,” said
Heathcote, preparing to beat a retreat and delighted at having something
disagreeable to fire off as a parting shot--“I was down in the hall just
now, and I saw Rosamund give a letter to the porter to post to Sir
George.”
“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Molesworth sharply.
“What I say; it was addressed to Sir George Dawson. That’s plain
enough.”
His mother sat still, with her eyes fixed on the floor, as though she
were searching for something she had lost.
Heathcote picked his hat up from the table and put it on, lingering as
if he had more to say and slapping the tablecloth with his stick.
“I’ve a good mind to cut this beastly place and go to England,” he said.
At this moment Rosamund came in. Heathcote had had enough of domestic
discussion, so he left the room, not sorry to think that she was likely
to come in for her share of trouble. His was not one of those natures
which prefers to suffer alone.
Rose went and sat on the sofa that he had just left; she had a piece of
work in her hand, and she began to stitch at the _fleur-de-lys_ which
formed the pattern. For some time nothing could be heard in the room but
the loud ticking of a little travelling-clock, the sound of her own
sewing and the turning over of Mrs. Molesworth’s book-leaves. The
voices of gondoliers lounging about on the Riva mingled with the
occasional cry of the crab-seller, which floated up from below; and the
flashing wings of a pigeon shot now and then through the sunshine and
the blue air. The clock seemed to Rose to be ticking louder and louder,
in a kind of _crescendo_, and then dropping its fussy voice to a
whisper, as the minutes ran by and Mrs. Molesworth sat silent. Presently
she put her book down.
“The next time you write to Sir George, Rosamund, I shall be glad if you
will let me know of it; I had a message for him that might have gone in
your letter.”
The blood rushed into Rose’s face; she had no idea that any one knew
what she had done, and it flashed across her that Heathcote might have
seen her letter in the porter’s hand.
“I did not know that you corresponded with him,” said Mrs. Molesworth,
noticing her confusion, and inclined to spare her nothing. “May I ask
what you find to write to him about?”
The clock seemed to raise its voice almost to a scream.
“I had something particular to say to him,” faltered Rose.
“When a girl writes to a guardian whom she hardly knows, it generally
_is_ about something particular. I should have thought you would hardly
contemplate anything of much consequence without first consulting me,
considering that you are under my charge.”
Rose sat trying to collect her ideas and make up her mind to speak about
her letter, for, now that its existence had been discovered, she felt
sure that it would be better to do so.
“I will tell you why I wrote,” she said, without raising her head.
“Well?”
“Do you know what Heathcote said to me this morning?”
“He has just been speaking about it,” replied Mrs. Molesworth, who had
not expected the confession to begin with a question.
“This is the second time he has asked me,” said Rose, with gathering
excitement in her voice, “and I really can never, _never_ give any other
answer, Cousin Julia. You don’t know how dreadfully uncomfortable it
makes me, and how miserable I am--I never know when it is coming next. I
begged him before to understand that it is impossible for me ever to
think of him in that way; but it was no good. So I wrote to Sir George
and told him, and asked him if--whether there could not be some other
arrangement made. I can’t bear this much longer--indeed I can’t!”
Her lips quivered, and she burst into tears, hiding her face in her
hands.
“I am so very unhappy,” she sobbed, drying her eyes and trying to
control herself. “I can’t help it!”
Mrs. Molesworth was not altogether a hard-hearted woman, and Rose’s
trouble might possibly have touched her, had it not been that she was a
trifle alarmed at the turn things had taken. She was always angry when
she was alarmed, and she generally looked round for some one on whom to
vent her anger. That person was now, unfortunately, at her very elbow.
“So that is what you have been writing about,” she said. “I must say I
admire the quick way in which you settle your actions. And you
determined upon taking that step this morning?”
“No, not quite this morning,” answered Rose, who was checking her tears.
“I made up my mind some time ago that if he said anything more I would
write.”
“And you expected him to do so? You seem to have set a very high price
upon yourself,” said Mrs. Molesworth.
“At any rate, I was not wrong,” replied the girl, stung by the last
remark.
“You are indeed shrewd!” exclaimed Mrs. Molesworth. “What good
calculations on the strength of his feelings. He must have had great
encouragement to make him so persevering.”
This was more than Rosamund could endure. To be supposed to have
encouraged Heathcote, whom she almost loathed, when the aim of her life
was to escape him! It was too much.
She sprang to her feet.
“Yes,” she cried, clasping her hands together; “and I see whom it has
come from! Do you think I don’t know why he has not given it up long
ago? or that I don’t understand who has urged him on? Oh, it is
horrible! But if I hadn’t a penny in the world, all this would never
have happened. I know it so well. And this morning I have written and
concealed nothing--nothing! I have told Sir George everything.”
Mrs. Molesworth was horrified. She looked at Rosamund for a moment,
feeling as if she were dreaming.
“Go,” she said at last; “go to your room, and leave me: and, when you
have asked my pardon for what you have said, I will speak to you
again--not before.”
In after times, when life had changed for Rosamund, she often thought,
looking back at the days which followed, that they were the most
dreadful she had ever spent. Her cousin was not a woman to whom
forgiveness was easy, and, even had her offence been a smaller one, she
would have found it hard to forget it herself or to allow the girl to do
so; her anger knew no bounds, and she hardly noticed or spoke to her.
She was angry with Heathcote too; so, after a couple of days spent by
him in sulking, by his mother in unabating displeasure, and by Rose in
silent misery, he announced his intention of going to England. Mrs.
Molesworth was not sorry that he should do so, for she had realised at
last that her wishes would never be fulfilled; it would be a good thing,
she thought, should Sir George Dawson write to her about his ward, to be
able to mention casually that her son was not with them. It would make
Rosamund’s statements sound less probable.
When Rose found that he was really going, she was sincerely thankful,
even though his departure would entail a _tête-à-tête_ with Mrs.
Molesworth; and it was with a lightened heart that she saw him embark
for the station on the following Saturday afternoon, with his
portmanteaux behind him in the boat.
“Pray get ready in good time to go to Mr. Hopton’s,” said Mrs.
Molesworth’s voice at her elbow, as she was watching the departing
gondola.
Rosamund looked round, rather surprised; for it was the first time that
her cousin had spoken to her for days.
“I will,” she replied. “Do you think I ought to change my dress, Cousin
Julia?”
“You had better consult yourself,” was the reply; “it is more natural
to you than to consult me.”
Rose went upstairs disappointed, and began getting ready to go out; she
put on a soft-looking, straw-coloured dress and a hat with yellow
poppies in it, and, having given a final glance in the glass, went
downstairs to the door to wait for Mrs. Molesworth. She stood on the
doorstep, looking out at the gleaming water and shading her eyes with
her hand. The porter’s grey kitten, which was parading about with its
tail in the air and that manner of grave aimlessness common to kittens,
came and rubbed itself on her skirt; and she stooped down and stroked
the absurd little creature that purred and sidled against her, causing a
young man who chanced to be passing to stop and look at the picture they
made.
When Rosamund raised her head, she found Robert Blundell’s eyes fixed
upon her and the kitten.
“Isn’t it a dear little thing?” she said, her mind so much taken up by
the little creature that she forgot to be surprised at his sudden
appearance.
“Very,” replied he, picking up the grey mass and letting it climb up
his broad chest till it reached his shoulder. “I was looking at you both
as I came by; it seemed almost a pity to disturb you.”
“Oh! I often see it,” said Rose simply.
“And I don’t often see you,” added Robert; “at least, not as often as I
should like. Do you remember the day we went with Mrs. Wylde to the
Lido? How delightful that was! Where are you going now?”
“We are going out to tea with Mr. Hopton. Do you know him?”
“Yes, I do, a little,” said Blundell, frowning slightly. “Are you all
going?”
“Cousin Julia and I are. Heathcote left this afternoon; he has gone back
to England. I don’t think he cares much for this kind of life. One must
either hate this place or like it very much, don’t you think?”
“Which do you do?” he inquired.
“I like it,” she said; “only I haven’t half seen it yet. And I think I
shall like it better,” she added.
“Ah,” said Robert, wondering whether Heathcote’s departure had anything
to do with the last sentence, “I am enchanted with it.”
“Have you often been here before?”
“This is my third stay,” he answered, putting up his hand to stay the
cat, which was turning round and round upon his shoulder, whisking its
tail into his eyes.
“Give it to me,” said the girl.
He bent down--an unnecessary proceeding, for Rosamund was nearly as tall
as himself--and she took the kitten, an act which it resented by
springing away and darting into the house.
“Your cat hasn’t learned to take the ups and downs of life calmly,”
remarked Robert, laughing, as the grey tail whisked round the corner.
“You must try to teach it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know how to do that myself,” she said.
“It’s not an easy thing to learn, neither is the learning pleasant,”
said the young man gravely.
“No,” replied Rose, looking away, and not quite liking the turn the talk
had taken. The subject was too real to her.
This did not escape Blundell, and he made a movement as though he would
go.
“Well, I hope you’ll like your tea-party,” he said. “Hopton has very
pretty rooms, I believe--not that I have ever been in them myself; but I
hear they are worth seeing.”
As he continued his way, he smiled, thinking what an amusing thing it
was to observe how people acted and reacted upon each other, and to
watch, when occasion permitted, the different complications going on
among his fellow creatures. This particular complication, into which
Lena Wylde had given him a glimpse, interested him immensely, indeed,
more than anything he had seen for some time, and he hoped with all his
heart that Rosamund would not be sacrificed to Mrs. Molesworth’s
ambition for her unprepossessing son.
He was quite sure that the girl would be miserable; how could she be
otherwise, he asked himself, with such a life-companion as Heathcote
Molesworth? And especially a girl like Rose--for he was by this time
certain that she was no ordinary person. What an attractive picture she
made when she played with the cat in the doorway!
While Robert was thus employed, Mrs. Molesworth and Rose were being
rowed up the Grand Canal. The elder woman leaned back under her parasol
in stately silence, critically surveying the occupants of each boat as
it passed and ignoring her companion, though they sat in the close
proximity inevitable to two persons occupying the two best seats in a
gondola. About half-way to the Rialto they struck into a little canal,
and went gliding along a lane of green water; under bridges where
chattering girls leaned over the parapet to watch them shoot silently
out from below; round corners, from behind which came the deep cries of
unseen but approaching oarsmen, whose craft swung past them with a swish
of water and half an inch to spare; past _fondamentas_ where bareheaded
women sat conversing at the top of their voices with distant neighbours;
and under the shadow of a red wall from which a fringe of mauve wistaria
dipped almost into the water. Finally they stopped at the dark doorway
which formed the entrance to Maurice Hopton’s apartment.
Hopton had no intention of letting the smallest advantage slip for want
of a little trouble; he knew that, if he invited no other guests but
the two women to tea, he would have to devote himself to Mrs.
Molesworth, and consequently have little opportunity for talk with Rose.
When they arrived, rather later than the hour he had named, they found
the room in possession of ten or a dozen people, and quite a chatter of
voices going on. The place seemed rather dark to them, after the glaring
sunshine outside, and for a moment they could hardly distinguish the
slim figure of their host as he came forward to meet them. There was a
lull in the talk and laughter and subdued rattle of teacups as Mrs.
Molesworth’s tall presence appeared in the doorway, and one or two old
ladies put up their long-handled lorgnettes to examine the new-comers.
“You did not tell me you expected any one but ourselves,” said Mrs.
Molesworth rather stiffly, for she did not like surprises.
“There are only a few,” replied Maurice; “and there is one person whom I
asked especially to meet you--Professor Baumschwein, author of ‘The
Influence of the Jews upon the Domestic Architecture of Venice’; I
remember you told me the other day that you had read it. He is most
anxious to be presented to you, and I have promised him half an hour’s
real intellectual joy. I hope I may make you acquainted, when you have
had some tea.”
“Certainly,” she replied, a good deal mollified, “I shall be very
pleased.”
A short time afterwards, Mrs. Molesworth being installed in a cool
corner, and deeply interested in the conversation of Professor
Baumschwein, who, with a fat forefinger raised, was pouring out his
mind, Maurice, knowing full well that he was likely to talk on for the
next hour, looked round for Rosamund; and, not seeing her in the room,
stepped out on to the balcony.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “here you are, and all by yourself, too.”
“It is so pretty,” explained Rose, “I couldn’t resist coming to look
out.”
“But there is no reason why you should stand,” observed he, pulling out
a basket chair which stood inside the window. “I shall follow your
example for a little. It’s certainly much nicer than being in the room.
How you seem to appreciate beauty!”
“One can’t help it here.”
“I’m glad you think that. To me there is nothing like this old place for
loveliness. I should like to go about a little with you and show you the
things I love best. Mrs. Molesworth is always ready to do anything in
that way. How you will enjoy the pictures here. You _are_ fond of
pictures, aren’t you?”
“Fond of them? I should think so!” said the girl earnestly.
Maurice moved his chair a little nearer.
“Somehow, you and I have never talked much to each other of the things
we both feel most deeply. I wonder why?” he said, looking at her from
under his long eyelashes.
“I don’t know,” answered she. “Cousin Julia is so clever, you see, that
she is naturally a much better person to go about with than I am. You
used to enjoy Florence with her, didn’t you?”
“We must make up for lost time, you and I,” said he, without taking his
eyes off her; “and we will go and see all sorts of things. You look as
if a little--what shall I say?--sympathy, companionship, would be good
for you. Don’t think me rude, but sometimes it seems to me as if you
hadn’t much. You looked so sad when I came out here a minute ago; I am
sure you were thinking of something not altogether happy, although you
said you were enjoying the view. Now, weren’t you?”
“Perhaps,” said Rose faintly.
“Ah, I thought so. I am _so_ sorry for you,” said the young man, in his
slow, soft voice.
“But it’s nothing--nothing at all!” exclaimed Rosamund, feeling that she
had confessed too much, when in reality she had said nothing. “One’s
little worries are such trifles compared to some things people have to
suffer.”
“Little things are not always trifles, and you ought to have everything
to make you happy,” he said, looking into her eyes, and noticing how
pretty their colour was. “At any rate, we seem not to have understood
each other before; let us be friends now.”
And he held out his hand.
Rosamund flushed a little, but put her hand into his. It seemed the only
thing to do.
“You are very kind,” she said.
“Kind?” exclaimed he. “I only wish I could help you.”
“Oh, _please_, never mind me,” she said hurriedly. “I am quite ashamed
to think you should have noticed anything--that I was annoyed.”
“I notice lots of things you don’t imagine,” he answered--“about you,
especially. If we are going to be friends, you won’t mind that, will
you?”
“Why should I?” asked Rose.
Maurice was silent. At the moment he could find nothing suitable as a
reply. Her simplicity puzzled him. From the lips of a more experienced
woman the words would have sounded like a rebuff.
Rosamund, who was aware that Lena Wylde had met Maurice and detested
him, felt sure that her friend did not know what a kind-hearted fellow
he really was.