“It is;” replied Rose, “that you must endeavour to forget me, not as your old and dearly attached companion, for that would wound me deeply, but as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have.”
There was a pause, during which Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears, Harry still retained the other.
“And your reasons, Rose,” he said, at length, in a low voice; “your reasons for this decision?”
“You have a right to know them,” rejoined Rose. “You can say nothing to after my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it alike to others and to myself.”
“To yourself?”
“Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself that I. a friendless, portion-less girl, with a blight upon my name. should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world.”
“If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—” Harry began.
“They do not,” replied Rose, colouring deeply.
“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say but that, dear Rose; say but that, and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!”
“If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,” rejoined Rose, “I could have—”
“Have received this declaration very differently?” said Harry. “Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose.”
“I could,” said Rose. “Stay!” she added, disengaging her hand, “why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it will be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met today, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation would have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!”
“Another word, Rose.” said Harry. “Your reason in your own words. From your own lips, let me hear it!”
“The prospect before you,” answered Rose, firmly, “is a brilliant one. All the honours to which great talents and powerful connexions can help men in public life, are in store for you. But those connexions are proud; and will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life, nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother’s place. In a word,” said the young lady, turning away as her temporary firmness forsook her, “there is a stain upon my name which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no, blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me.”
“One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!” cried Harry, throwing himself before her. “lf I had been less—less fortunate, the world would call it—if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny—if I had been poor, sick, helpless—would you have turned from me then? Or had my probable advancement to riches and honour given this scruple birth?”
“Do not press me to reply,” answered Rose. “The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.”
“If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,” retorted Harry, “it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose! in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo, answer me this one question!”
“Then, if your lot had been differently cast,” rejoined Rose, “if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me—if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds—I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.”
Busy recollections of old hopes cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered, and they relieved her.
“I cannot help this weakness, and it make my purpose stronger,” said Rose, extending her hand. “I must leave you now, indeed.”
“I ask one promise,” said Harry. “Once, and only once more—say within a year, but it may be much sooner—I may speak to you again on this subject for the last time.”
“Not to press me to alter my right determination,” replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; “it will be useless.”
“No,” said Harry; “to hear you repeat it, if you will—finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet whatever of station or fortune I may possess, and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it.”
“Then let it be so,” rejoined Rose; “it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.”
She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom and, imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Is a very short one, and may appear of no great importance
in its place, but it should be read notwithstanding, as
sequel to the last and a key to one that will
follow when its time arrives.
“AND SO YOU ARE RESOLVED TO BE MY TRAVELLING, COMPANION this morning, eh?” said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-tabte. “Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!”
“You will tell me a different tale one of these days,” said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason.
“I hope I may have good cause to do so,” replied Mr. Losberne, “though I confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go on your road to. London. And at night you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring, the consequence of which is that young Oliver-here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?”
“I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir,” rejoined Oliver.
“That’s a fine fellow,” said the doctor; “you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry, has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?”
“The great nobs,” replied Harry, “under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into Parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There’s something in that: Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.”
Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, “We shall see,” and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out to see it packed.
“Oliver,” said Harry Maylie, in a low voice. “let me speak a word with you.”
Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him, much surprised at the mixture. of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed.
“You can write well now?” said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.
“I hope so. sir.” replied Oliver.
“I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me—say once a fortnight, every alternate Monday, to the General Post Office in London. Will you?”
“Oh! certainly. sir ; I shall be proud to do it,” exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission.
“I should like to know how—how my mother and Miss Maylie are,” said the young man; “and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take and what you talk about, and whether she—they, I mean—seem happy and quite well. You understand me?”
“Oh! quite, sir, quite,” replied Oliver.
“I would rather you did not mention it to them,” said Harry, hurrying over his words, “because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener. and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you.”
Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him with many assurances of his regard and protection.
The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage.
“Drive on!” he cried, “hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me today.”
“Halloa!” cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postilion; “something very short of flying will keep pace with
ine.
Do you hear?”
Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road almost hidden in a cloud of dust, now wholly disappearing and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects or the intricacies of the way permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen that the gazers dispersed.
And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.
“He seems in high spirits and happy,” she said, at length. “I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.”
Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose’s face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.
CHAPTER XXXVII
In which the reader may perceive a contrast not
uncommon in matrimonial cases.
MR. BUMBLE SAT IN THE WORKHOUSE PARLOUR WITH HIS EYES moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun which were sent back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought: and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy network, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that the insects brought to mind some painful passage in his own past life.
Nor was Mr. Bumble’s gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs. The laced coat and the cocked hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs, but they were not
the
breeches. The coat was wide-skirted, and in that respect like
the
coat, but, oh, how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
There are some promotions in life which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, acquire peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform, a bishop his silk apron, a counsellor his silk gown, a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace—what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff had all three descended.
“And to-morrow two months it was done!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. “It seems a age.”
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh.
“I sold myself,” said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of reflection, “for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot, with a small quantity of second-hand furniture and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!”
“Cheap!” cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: “you would have been dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows that!”
Mr. Bumble turned and encountered the face of his interesting consort, who, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overhead of his complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.