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142 “I have done more for you, Rose. He is an adventurer, and I have tried to open your eyes and make you respect your family. You may accuse me of what you like. I have my conscience.”

“And the friendship of the Countess!” added Rose.

Juliana’s figure shook as if she had been stung.

“Go and be happy—don’t stay here and taunt me,” she said, with a ghastly look. “I suppose he can lie like his sister, and has told you all sorts of tales.”

“Not a word—not a word!” cried Rose. “Do you think my lover could tell a lie?”

The superb assumption of the girl, and the true portrait of Evan’s character which it flashed upon Juliana, were to the latter such intense pain, that she turned like one on the rack, exclaiming:

“You think so much of him? You are so proud of him? Then, yes! I love him too, ugly, beastly as I am to look at! Oh, I know what you think! I loved him from the first, and I knew all about him, and spared him pain. I did not wait for him to fall from a horse. I watched every chance of his being exposed. I let them imagine he cared for me. Drummond would have told what he knew long before—only he knew there would not be much harm in a tradesman’s son marrying me. And I have played into your hands, and now you taunt me!”

Rose remembered her fretful unkindness to Evan on the subject of his birth, when her feelings towards him were less warm. Dwelling on that alone, she put her arms round Juliana’s stiffening figure, and said: “I dare say I am much more selfish than you. Forgive me, dear.”

Staring at her, Juliana replied: “Now you are acting!”

“No,” said Rose, with a little effort to fondle her; “I only feel that I love you better for loving him.”

Generous as her words sounded, and were, Juliana intuitively struck to the root of them, which was comfortless. For how calm in its fortune, how strong in its love, must Rose’s heart be, when she could speak in this unwonted way!

“Go, and leave me, pray,” she said.

Rose kissed her burning cheek. “I will do as you wish, dear. Try and know me better, and be sister Juley as you used to be. I know I am thoughtless, and horridly vain and disagreeable sometimes. Do forgive me. I will love you truly.”

Half melting, Juliana pressed her hand.

“We are friends?” said Rose. “Good bye:” and her countenance lighted, and she moved away, so changed by her happiness! Juliana was jealous of a love strong as she deemed her own to overcome obstacles. She called to her: “Rose! Rose, you will not take advantage of what I have told you, and repeat it to any one?”

Instantly Rose turned with a glance of full contempt over her shoulder.

“To whom?” she asked.

“To any one.”

“To him? He would not love me long if I did!”

Juliana burst into fresh tears, but Rose walked into the sunbeams and the circle of the music.

Mounting Olympus, she inquired whether Ferdinand was within hail, as they were pledged to dance the first dance together. A few hints were given, and then Rose learnt that Ferdinand had been dismissed.

“And where is he?” she cried with her accustomed impetuosity. “Mama!—of course you did not accuse him—but, mama! could you possibly let him go with the suspicion that you thought him guilty of writing an anonymous letter?”

“Not at all,” Lady Jocelyn replied. “Only the handwriting was so extremely like, and he was the only person who knew the address and the circumstances, and who could have a motive—though I don’t quite see what it is—I thought it as well to part for a time.”

“But that’s sophistry!” said Rose. “You accuse or you exonerate. Nobody can be half guilty. If you do not hold him innocent you are unjust!”

Lady Jocelyn rejoined: “Yes? It’s singular what a stock of axioms young people have handy for their occasions.”

Rose loudly announced that she would right this matter.

“I can’t think where Rose gets her passion for hot water,” said her mother, as she ran down the ledge.

Two or three young gentlemen tried to engage her for a dance. She gave them plenty of promises, and hurried on till she met Evan, and, almost out of breath, told him the shameful injustice that had been done to her friend.

“Mama is such an Epicurean! I really think she is worse than papa. This disgraceful letter looks like Ferdinand’s writing, and she tells him so; and, Evan! will you believe that instead of being certain it’s impossible any gentleman could do such a thing, she tells Ferdinand she shall feel more comfortable if she doesn’t see him for some time? Poor Ferdinand! He has had so much to bear!”

Too sure of his darling to be envious now of any man she pitied, Evan said: “I would forfeit my hand on his innocence!”

“And so would I,” echoed Rose. “Come to him with me, dear. Or no,” she added, with a little womanly discretion, “perhaps it would not be so well—you’re not very much cast down by what happened at dinner?”

“My darling! I think of you.”

“Of me, dear? Concealment is never of any service. What there is to be known people may as well know at once. They’ll gossip for a month, and then forget it. Your mother is dreadfully outspoken, certainly; but she has better manners than many ladies—I mean people in a position: you understand me? But suppose, dear, this had happened, and I had said nothing to mama, and then we had to confess? Ah, you’ll find I’m wiser than you imagine, Mr. Evan.”

“Haven’t I submitted to somebody’s lead?”

“Yes, but with a sort of ‘under protest.’ I