Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/448

12, 1860.] talks and laughs with Drummond, and Jenny does not altogether like it, even though she is not playing to the ear of William Harvey, for whom billiards have such attractions; but, at the close of the performance, Rose is quiet enough, and the Countess observes her sitting alone, pulling the petals of a flower in her lap, on which her eyes are fixed. Is the doe wounded? The damsel of the disinterested graciousness is assuredly restless. She starts up and goes out upon the balcony to breathe the night-air, mayhap regard the moon, and no one follows her.

Had Rose been guiltless of offence, Evan might have left Beckley Court the next day, to cherish his outraged self-love. Love of woman is strongly distinguished from pure egotism when it has got a wound: for it will not go into a corner complaining, it will fight its duel on the field or die. Did the young lady know his origin, and scorn him? He resolved to stay and teach her that the presumption she had imputed to him was her own mistake. And from this Evan graduated naturally enough the finer stages of self-deception downward.

A lover must have his delusions, just as a man must have a skin. But here was another singular change in Evan. After his ale-prompted speech in Fallowfield, he was nerved to face the truth in the eyes of all save Rose. Now that the truth had enmeshed his beloved, he turned to battle with it; he was prepared to deny it at any moment; his burnt flesh was as sensitive as the Countess’s. Let Rose accuse him, and he would say, “This is true, Miss Jocelyn—what then?” and behold Rose confused and dumb! Let not another dare suspect it. For the fire that had scorched him was in some sort healing, though horribly painful; but contact with the general air was not to be endured—was death! This, I believe, is common in cases of injury by fire.

So it befell that Evan, meeting Rose the next morning, was playfully asked by her what choice he had made between the white and the red; and he, dropping on her the shallow eyes of a conventional smile, replied that, unable to decide and form a choice, he had thrown both away; at which Miss Jocelyn gave him a look in the centre of his brows, let her head slightly droop, and walked off.

“She can look serious as well as grimace,” was all that Evan allowed himself to think, and he strolled out on the lawn with the careless serenity of lovers when they fancy themselves heart-free.

Rose, whipping the piano in the drawing-room, could see him go to sit by Mrs. Evremonde, till they were joined by Drummond, when he left her and walked with Harry, and apparently shadowed that young gentleman’s unreflective face; after which Harry was drawn away by the appearance of that dark star, the Countess de Saldar, whom Rose was beginning to detest. Jenny glided by William Harvey’s side, far off. Rose, the young Queen of Friendship, was left deserted on her music-stool for a throne, and when she ceased to hammer the notes she was insulted by a voice that cried from below: “Go on, Rose, it’s nice to hear you in the sun,” causing her to close her performances and the instrument vigorously.

Rose was much behind her age: she could not tell what was the matter with her. In these little torments young people have to pass through they gain a rapid maturity. Let a girl talk with her own heart an hour, and she is almost a woman. Rose came down stairs dressed for riding. Laxley was doing her the service of smoking one of her rose-trees. Evan stood disengaged, prepared for her summons. She did not notice him, but beckoned to Laxley drooping over a bud, while the curled smoke floated from his lips.

“The very gracefullest of chimney-pots—is he not?” says the Countess to Harry, whose immense guffaw fails not to apprise Laxley that something has been said of him, and he steps towards Rose red and angry, for in his dim state of consciousness absence of the power of retort is the prominent feature, and when anything is said of him all he can do is silently to resent it. Probably this explains his conduct to Evan. Some youths have an acute memory for things that have shut their mouths.

“Come for a ride, Ferdinand?” said Rose, jauntily.

“Don’t mean to say you’re going alone?” he answered.

“Of course I am.”

“Oh! I thought—"

“Don’t think, please, Ferdinand; you’re nicer when you don’t.”

Rose marched on to the lawn, not glancing at Evan, whom she approached.

“Do you snub everybody in that way?” said Laxley.

“I tell them my ideas,” Rose coolly replied.

The Countess observed to Harry that his dear friend Mr. Laxley appeared, by the cast of his face, to be biting a sour apple.

“Grapes, you mean?” laughed Harry. “Never mind! she’ll bite at him when he comes in for the title.”

“Anything crude will do,” rejoined the Countess. “Why are you not courting Mrs. Evremonde, naughty Don?”

“Oh! she’s occupied—castle’s in possession. Besides—!” and Harry tried hard to look sly.

“Come, and tell me about her,” said the Countess.

Rose, Laxley, and Evan were standing close together.

“You really are going alone, Rose?” said Laxley.

“Didn’t I say so?—unless you wish to join us?” She turned upon Evan.

“I am at your disposal,” said Evan.

Rose nodded briefly.

“I think I’ll smoke the trees,” said Laxley, imperceptibly huffing.

“You won’t come, Ferdinand?”

“I only offered to fill up the gap. One does as well as another.”

Rose flicked her whip, and then declared she would not ride at all, and, gathering up her skirts, hurried back to the house.

As Laxley was turning away, Evan stood before him, and spoke sharply:

“Which of us two is to leave this house?”

Laxley threw up his head, and let his eyes