forth to him, smiling, speaking freshly and lightly, and with the colour on her cheeks which showed that she had done her part? How could he retract a step?
“I have told mama, Evan. That’s over. She heard it first from me.”
“And she?”
“Dear Evan, if you are going to be sensitive, I’ll run away. You that fear no danger, and are the bravest man I ever knew! I think you are really trembling. She will speak to papa, and then-and then, I suppose, they will both ask you whether you intend to give me up, or no. I’m afraid you’ll do the former.”
“Your mother—Lady Jocelyn listened to you, Rose? You told her all?”
“Every bit.”
“And what does she think of me?”
“Thinks you very handsome and astonishing, and me very idiotic and natural, and that there is a great deal of bother in the world, and that my noble relations will lay the blame of it on her. No, dear, not all that: but she talked very sensibly to me, and kindly. You know she is called a philosopher: nobody knows how deep-hearted she is, though. My mother is true as steel. I can’t separate the kindness from the sense, or I would tell you all she said. When I say, kindness, I don’t mean any ‘Oh, my child,’ and tears, and kisses, and maundering, you know. You mustn’t mind her thinking me a little fool. You want to know what she thinks you? She said nothing to hurt you, Evan, and we have gained ground so far, and now we’ll go and face our enemies. Uncle Mel expects to hear about your appointment, in a day or two, and”
“Oh, Rose!” Evan burst out.
“What is it?”
“Why must I owe everything to you?”
“Why, dear? Why, because, if you do, it’s very much better than your owing it to anybody else. Proud again?”
Not proud: only second fiddle.
“You know, dear Evan, when two people love, there is no such thing as owing between them.”
“Rose, I have been thinking. It is not too late. I love you, God knows! I did in Portugal: I do now—more and more. But Oh, my bright angel!” he ended the sentence in his breast.
“Well? but—what?”
Evan sounded down the meaning of his “but.” Stripped of the usual heroics, it was, “what will be thought of me?” not a small matter to any of us. He caught a distant glimpse of the little bit of bare selfishness, and shrunk from it.
“Too late,” cried Rose. “The battle has commenced now, and, Mr. Harrington, I will lean on your arm, and be led to my dear friends yonder. Do they think that I am going to put on a mask to please them? Not for anybody! What they are to know they may as well know at once.”
She looked in Evan’s face.
“Do you hesitate?”
He felt the contrast between his own and hers; between the niggard spirit of the beggarly receiver, and the high bloom of the exalted giver. Nevertheless, he loved her too well not to share much of her nature, and wedding it suddenly, he said:
“Rose; tell me, now. If you were to see the place where I was born, could you love me still?”
“Yes, Evan.”
“If you were to hear me spoken of with contempt”
“Who dares?” cried Rose. “Never to me!”
“Contempt of what I spring from, Rose. Names used . . . . Names are used . . . .”
“Tush!—names!” said Rose, reddening. “How cowardly that is! Have you finished? Oh, faint heart! I suppose I’m not a fair lady, or you wouldn’t have won me. Now, come. Remember, Evan, I conceal nothing; and if anything makes you wretched here, do think how I love you.”
In his own firm belief he had said everything to arrest her in her course, and been silenced by transcendant logic. She thought the same.
Leaning on his arm, Rose made up to the conclave under the maple.
The voices hushed as they approached.
“Capital weather,” said Rose. “Does Harry come back from London to-morrow—does anybody know?”
“Not awaah,” Laxley was heard to reply.
Rose had not relinquished Evan’s arm. She clung to it ostentatiously, with her right hand stuck in her side.
“Do you find support necessary?” inquired Mrs. Shorne.
“No, aunt,” Rose answered, immoveably.
“Singular habit!” Mrs. Shorne interjected.
“No habit at all, aunt. A whim.”
“More suitable for public assemblies, I should think.”
“Depends almost entirely upon the gentleman; doesn’t it, aunt?”
Anger at her niece’s impertinence provoked the riposte:
“Yes, upon its being a gentleman.”
Mrs. Shorne spoke under her breath, but there was an uneasy movement through the company after she had spoken. Seymour Jocelyn screwed his moustache: Mr. George Uploft tugged at his waistcoat: Laxley grimaced: and the ladies exchanged glances: all very quietly and of the lightest kind—a mere ruffle of the surface. It was enough for Evan.
“I want to speak a word to you, Rose,” said Mrs. Shorne.
“With the greatest pleasure, my dear aunt:” and Rose walked after her.
“My dear Rose,” Mrs. Shorne commenced, “your conduct requires that I should really talk to you most seriously. You are probably not aware of what you are doing. Nobody likes ease and natural familiarity more than I do. I am persuaded it is nothing but your innocence. You are young to the world’s ways, and perhaps a little too headstrong, and vain.”
“Conceited and wilful,” added Rose.
“If you like the words better. But I must say—I do not wish to trouble your father—you know