In an easy house, where punctuality is not rampant, the hour before
dinner is pleasant to young people. The lady of the house is gone to
dress. If she is beginning to feel the weight of years, she perhaps
likes a nap before dinner, and in any case she will change her dress in
a leisurely manner and likes to have plenty of time; and the children
have been carried off to the nursery that their toilet may be attended
to, and no hurried call afterwards interfere with the tying of their
sashes. The young lady of the house is not moved by either of these
motives. Five minutes is enough for her, she thinks and says, and the
room is so cosey and the half light so pleasant, and it is the hour for
confidences. If she has another girl with her, they will drift into
beginnings of the most intimate narrative, which must be finished in
their own rooms after everybody has gone to bed; and if it is not a
girl, but the other kind of companion, those confidences are perhaps
even more exciting. Rosalind knew what Roland Hamerton wanted, vaguely:
she was, on the surface, not displeased with his devotions. She had no
intention of coming to so very decided a step as marriage, nor did she
for a moment contemplate him as the lover whose absence surprised her.
But he was nice enough. She liked well enough to talk to him. They were
like brother and sister, she would have said. “Roland--why, I have known
him all my life,” she would have exclaimed indignantly to any one who
had blamed her for “encouraging” this poor young man. Indeed, Rosalind
was so little perfect that she had already on several occasions defended
herself in this way, and had not the slightest intention of accepting
Roland, and yet allowed him to persuade her to linger and talk after
Aunt Sophy had gone up-stairs. This was quite unjustifiable, and a more
high-minded young woman would not have done it. But poor Rosalind,
though her life had been crossed by a strain of tragedy and though her
feelings were very deep and her experiences much out of the common, and
her mind capable and ready to respond to very high claims, was yet not
the ideal of a high-minded girl. It is to be hoped that she was
unacquainted with flirtation and above it, but yet she did not
dislike--so long as she could skilfully keep him from anything definite
in the way of a proposal, anything that should be compromising and
uncomfortable to sit and listen to--the vague adoration which was
implied in Hamerton’s talk, and to feel that the poor young fellow was
laying himself out to please her. It did please her, and it amused
her--which was more. It was sport to her, though it might be death to
him. She did not believe that there was anything sufficiently serious in
young Hamerton’s feelings or in his character to involve anything like
death, and she judged with some justice that he preferred the happiness
of the moment, even if it inspired him with false hopes, to the collapse
of all those hopes which a more conscientious treatment would have
brought about. Accordingly, Rosalind lingered in the pleasant twilight.
She sent her aunt’s butler, Saunders, away when he appeared to light the
lamps.
“Not yet, Saunders,” she said, “we like the firelight,” in a manner
which made Roland’s heart jump. It seemed to that deceived young man
that nothing but a flattering response of sentiment in her mind would
have made Rosalind, like himself, enjoy the firelight. “That was very
sweet of you,” he said.
“What was sweet of me?” The undeserved praise awakened a compunction in
her. “There is nothing good in saying what is true. I do like talking
by this light. Summer evenings are different, they are always a little
sad; but the fire is cheerful, and it makes people confidential.”
“If I could think you wanted me to be confidential, Rosalind!”
“Oh, I do; everybody! I like to talk about not only the outside, but
what people are really thinking of. One hears so much of the outside:
all the runs you have had, and how Captain Thornton jumps, and Miss
Plympton keeps the lead.”
“If you imagine that I admire Miss Plympton--”
“I never thought anything of the kind. Why shouldn’t you admire her?
Though she is a little too fond of hunting, she is a nice girl, and I
like her. And she is very pretty. You might do a great deal worse,
Roland,” said Rosalind, with maternal gravity, “than admire Ethel
Plympton. She is quite a nice girl, not only when she is on horseback.
But she would not have anything to say to you.”
“That is just as well,” said the young man, “for hers is not the sort of
shrine I should ever worship at. The kind of girl I like doesn’t hunt,
though she goes like a bird when it strikes her fancy. She is the queen
at home, she makes a room like this into heaven. She makes a man feel
that there’s nothing in life half so sweet as to be by her, whatever she
is doing. She would make hard work and poverty and all that sort of
thing delightful. She is--”
“A dreadful piece of perfection!” said Rosalind, with a slightly
embarrassed laugh. “Don’t you know nobody likes to have that sort of
person held up to them? One always suspects girls that are too good. But
I hope you sometimes think of other things than girls,” she added, with
an air of delightful gravity and disapproval. “I have wanted all this
long time to know what you were going to do; and to find instead only
that hyperbolical fiend, you know, that talks of nothing but ladies, is
disappointing. What would you think of me,” Rosalind continued, turning
upon him with still more imposing dignity, “if I talked to you of
nothing but gentlemen?”
“Rosalind!--that’s blasphemy to think of; besides that I should feel
like getting behind a hedge and shooting all of them,” the young man
cried.
“Yes, it is a sort of blasphemy; you would all think a girl a dreadful
creature if she did so. But you think you are different, and that it
doesn’t matter; that is what everybody says; one law for men and one for
women. But I, for one, will never give in to that. I want to know what
you are going to do.”
“And suppose,” he cried, “that I were to return the question, since you
say there must not be one law for men and one for women. Rosalind, what
are you going to do?”
“I?” she said, and looked at him with surprise. “Alas! you know I have
my work cut out for me, Roland. I have to bring up the children; they
are very young, and it will be a great many years before they can do
without me; there is no question about me. Perhaps it is a good thing to
have your path quite clear before you, so that you can’t make any
mistake about it,” she added, with a little sigh.
“But, Rosalind, that is completely out of the question, don’t you know.
Sacrifice yourself and all your life to those children--why, it would be
barbarous; nobody would permit it.”
“I don’t know,” said Rosalind, “who has any right to interfere. You
think Uncle John, perhaps? Uncle John would never think of anything so
foolish. It is much less his business than it is mine; and you forget
that I am old enough to judge for myself.”
“Rosalind, you can’t really intend anything so dreadful! Oh, at present
you are so young, you are all living in the same house, it does not make
so much difference. But to sacrifice yourself, to give up your own life,
to relinquish everything for a set of half--”
“You had better not make me angry,” she said. He had sprung to his feet
and was pacing about in great excitement, his figure relieved against
the blaze of the fire, while she sat in the shadow at one side,
protected from the glow. “What am I giving up? In the first place, I
know nothing that I am giving up; and I confess that it amuses me,
Roland, to see you so excited about my life. I should like to hear what
you are going to do with your own.”
“Can’t you understand?” he cried, hastily and in confusion, “that the
one might--that the one might--involve perhaps--” And here the young man
stopped and looked helplessly at her, not daring to risk what he had for
the uncertainty of something better. But it was very hard, when he had
gone so far, to refrain.
“Might involve perhaps-- No, I can’t understand,” Rosalind said, almost
with unconcern. “What I do understand is that you can’t hunt forever if
you are going to be any good in life. And you don’t even hunt as a man
ought that means to make hunting his object. Do something, Roland, as if
you meant it!--that is what I am always telling you.”
“And don’t I always tell you the same thing, that I am no hero. I can’t
hold on to an object, as you say. What do you mean by an object? I want
a happy life. I should like very well to be kind to people, and do my
duty and all that, but as for an object, Rosalind! If you expect me to
become a reformer or a philanthropist or anything of that sort, or make
a great man of myself--”
Rosalind shook her head softly in her shadowed corner. “I don’t expect
that,” she said, with a tone of regret. “I might have done so, perhaps,
at one time. At first one thinks every boy can do great things, but that
is only for a little while, when one is without experience.”
“You see you don’t think very much of my powers, for all you say,” he
cried, hastily, with the tone of offence which the humblest can scarcely
help assuming when taken at his own low estimate. Roland knew very well
that he had no greatness in him, but to have the fact acknowledged with
this regretful certainty was somewhat hard.
“That is quite a different matter,” said Rosalind. “Only a few men (I
see now) can be great. I know nobody of that kind,” she added, with once
more that tone of regret, shaking her head. “But you can always do
something, not hang on amusing yourself, for that is all you ever do, so
far as I can see.”
“What does your Uncle John do?” he cried; “you have a great respect for
him, and so have I; he is just the best man going. But what does he do?
He loafs about; he goes out a great deal when he is in town; he goes to
Scotland for the grouse, he goes to Homburg for his health, he comes
down and sees you, and then back to London again. Oh, I think that’s all
right, but if I am to take him for my example--and I don’t know where I
could find a better--”
“There is no likeness between your case and his. Uncle John is old, he
has nothing particular given him to do; he is--well, he is Uncle John.
But you, Roland, you are just my age.”
“I’m good five years older, if not more.”
“What does that matter? You are my own age, or, according to all rules
of comparison between boys and girls, a little younger than me. You have
got to settle upon something. I am not like many people,” said Rosalind,
loftily; “I don’t say do this or do that; I only say, for Heaven’s sake
do something, Roland; don’t be idle all your life.”
“I should not mind so much if you did say do this or do that. Tell me
something to do, Rosalind, and I’ll do it for your sake.”
“Oh! that is all folly; that belongs to fairy tales--a shawl that will
go through a ring, or a little dog that will go into a nutshell, or a
golden apple. They are all allegories, I suppose; the right thing,
however, is to do what is right for the sake of what is right, and not
because any one in particular tells you.”
“Shall I set up in chambers, and try to get briefs?” said Roland. “But
then I have enough to live on, and half the poor beggars at the bar
haven’t; and don’t you think it would be taking an unfair advantage,
when I can afford to do without and they can’t, and when everybody knows
there isn’t half enough business to keep all going? I ask you, Rosalind,
do you think that would be fair?”
Here the monitress paused, and did not make her usual eager reply. “I
don’t know that it is right to consider that sort of thing, Roland. You
see, it would be good for you to try for briefs, and then probably the
other men who want them more might be--cleverer than you are.”
“Oh, very well,” cried Roland, who had taken a chair close to his
adviser, springing up with natural indignation; “if it is only by way of
mortification, as a moral discipline, that you want me to go in for bar
work.”
She put out her hand and laid it on his arm. “Oh, no! it would only be
fair competition. Perhaps you would be cleverer than they--than _some_
of them.”
“That’s a very doubtful perhaps,” he cried, with a laugh. But he was
mollified and sat down again--the touch was very conciliatory. “The
truth is,” he said, getting hold of the hand, which she withdrew very
calmly after a moment, “I am in no haste; and,” with timidity, “the
truth is, Rosalind, that I shall never do work anyhow by myself. If I
had some one with me to stir me up and keep me going, and if I knew it
was for her interest as well as for my own--”
“You mean if you were to marry?” said Rosalind, in a matter-of-fact
tone, rising from her chair. “I don’t approve of a man who always has to
be stirred up by his wife; but marry by all means, Roland, if you think
that is the best way. Nobody would have the least objection; in short, I
am sure all your best friends would like it, and I, for one, would give
her the warmest welcome. But still I should prefer, you know, first to
see you acting for yourself. Why, there is the quarter chiming, and I
promised to let Saunders know when we went to dress. Aunt Sophy will be
down-stairs directly. Ring the bell, and let us run; we shall be late
again. But the firelight is so pleasant.” She disappeared out of the
room before she had done speaking, flying up-stairs to escape the
inevitable response, and left poor Roland, tantalized and troubled, to
meet the gloomy looks of Saunders, who reminded him that there was but
twelve minutes and a half to dress in, and that Mrs. Lennox was very
particular about the fish. Saunders took liberties with the younger
visitors, and he too had known young Mr. Hamerton all his life.