CHAPTER XXX.
[A CLOSE OBSERVER].
When Rose and Lettice went their way, the three cavaliers found their occupation gone. They stood an instant looking after the retreating fair, then turned to face one another; but there was no satisfaction in view of the witnesses of their discomfiture--each felt small, rather, and perhaps a little ridiculous. The only plaster for their grazed self-love was absence from the witnesses; and accordingly each turned on his heel, going off in quest of some new interest, and diverging as widely from the other two as was possible.
Joseph strolled despondently back toward the stunted grove, to which twice already he had bent his steps, but had not reached. He had borne up bravely enough under Rose's disclosure at the moment. In the thick of the fight one generally does bear up. The excitement of combat stirs the blood, and blows fall scarcely heeded on him who struggles hard to have his way. It is when the battle is over, that the wounds begin to smart, when the stricken have leisure to feel them. And Joseph was wounded sore. It crushed him to think that anything could be said in derogation of the peerless one whom he had found to fit into' the long-vacant shrine, where the beloved of his youth had sat, and whose memory, still hovering there, had made it a holy place. There seemed impiety in associating the new avatar of his love with the ribald vulgarities of the divorce court, in dragging the blossom of his worship through its noisome mire. Yet was she the less precious because her lines had fallen haplessly? Does a jewel lose worth for having fallen in the kennel? He told himself this, and repeated it over and over. He vowed that her need of sympathy and support, was a claim the more upon his honour, and that the claim should be satisfied; but still it was painful to think that the name of his wife to be, had been bandied from mouth to mouth as one of the motley crew who shock chaste ears with their clamour to be relieved from obligations which if was their own free choice to undertake. It dimmed the bright promise of that future in which he had been basking so unsuspiciously, but it should not appal him. He would steadfastly look forward to all being well; his own faith and hope would of themselves contribute to a happy consummation; and for Rose, how much she must have suffered!--how much she needed him!
He had reached the grove at last. His feet were on the turf, and he was strolling upwards through the trees, buried in deep and not too sweet reflections.
"Alone, Joseph?" There was much in the tone to irritate. It contained a suggestion of pity, combined with the "I thought as much," or "I told you so," with which intimate friends are wont to rub up our little sorenesses, and make them smart. It was his sister-in-law who spoke--Susan--who already had expressed her disapproval of his intended change in life, and who could not be expected to regret any little unsmoothness in the current of his love. She had risen from a corner of shade in which she had been encouraging the faltering advances of Walter Petty to closer intimacy with her girl Margaret. The two seemed fairly well tackled in conversation, now, and she felt free to devote a little attention to Joseph and his concerns. She took his arm, and accommodated her pace to his for a little turn, ignoring the sudden tightening of his features into an impatient frown.
"'The course of true love,' &c.--you know the rest, Joseph. Where there is disparity, one must be prepared for little contretemps. One cannot expect young girls to accommodate themselves at once to the steady jog-trot of their seniors. They would not be so attractive, I daresay, if one could. She certainly----"
"What are you talking about, Susan?"
"You do not know, eh? Or rather you think I do not know? I have seen everything--more than you have yourself. I was sitting up here in the shade, when you were called away a while ago."
"Yes, I was called away. It was annoying, I confess; but I got back when I had completed my little matter of business. I see nothing in that which calls for your condolence."
"Of course not, dear Joseph. It was far too cleverly arranged for that. She certainly is clever--an accomplished actress. I only hope it may answer, and that you may not find her out to be too clever by half. A good many people have seen as well as me. It was very well done--quite dramatic, in fact; or rather, pantomimic--for they were far too judicious to raise their voices and be overheard."
"Enough, Susan. I detest insinuations. Who are they whose private affairs you have been watching and prying into? Do you know that you have been accusing yourself of eavesdropping, mitigated only by your inability to hear what was said? It is scarcely the pursuit I should have expected a ladylike person to take up."
"You are rude, Joseph; but I forgive you. One must not expect people to accept disenchantment with an equable mind."
"You speak riddles. I am in no mood for guessing them."
"Just what I say. You are upset, Joseph, and I am truly sorry."
"I am not upset. I am perfectly well and happy, Susan. It is you who are absurd. You have your girls' hands to dispose of. It is occupation enough for any woman. See you do it wisely; and leave me to bestow my own in peace. I decline your interference."
"You are blind, Joseph. There are a score of people in this wood. Every one of them must have seen. It is only you, the one who ought to know, who have not, and do not know. I insist on telling you. You may not like it, but it is my duty."
"Always a duty--when a woman wants to be provoking."
"I forgive the gibe. The young person you have chosen to devote yourself to, has a lover."
"Certainly. The lady you stigmatise as a person has me; and I mean to marry her."
"You and another. Ha! you did not know that! I can read it in your face. Your back was scarcely turned, when out there bounced from behind a tree--a man!--that tall slim young fellow you must have noticed at the Beach any time this last week. He has been devoting himself to that little spare woman with the blue veil whom nobody seems to mind. People said they were engaged, and wondered at one with his good looks bestowing himself so cheaply. Well, as I was saying, out he bounced upon Miss--what's her name?--Miss Hillyard; and I can tell you their interview was an animated one. How the colour of both came and went! There must a great deal have taken place between them. How he gesticulated! She was comparatively calm. He is an ardent fellow, I can tell you, Joseph. Better have an eye on him."
Joseph did not know exactly what to say. He felt himself disloyal in listening; but still he was interested, and if he waited to hear more, he fancied he should be better able to defend Rose.
"The lady he had left--her with the blue veil--seemed to take her squire's sudden desertion in very bad part. She started and looked shocked at his departure, then bent forward where she sat, and looked, and listened. They were within a few yards of her, and she must have heard all that passed. The disillusion must have been terrible. I saw her head bow lower and lower, as though all fortitude were deserting her; and soon she seemed utterly crushed. She buried her head in her lap, and clasped her hands above it--a most pitiable spectacle.
"But that was not the worst. He certainly must be a man without pity or a spark of feeling. He actually had the cruelty to lead the other a little to one side, where she could have a view of the discarded rival. Was it not barbarous? This was too much for the other. It stung her into something like proper self-respect. As soon as the other turned away--and I will do the Hillyard girl the justice to say that she betrayed no sign of gratification at her rival's confusion--she jumped to her feet with a little cry, tied on her hat, and ran away up the hill, as if to hide herself among the trees. Then Miss Rose seemed suddenly to remember about you. She dismissed her admirer with the peremptory assurance of an old hand, who knows exactly what she means to do, and strolled calmly across the sands to meet you coming back to her. She must have managed very well. I saw her leaning on your arm as friendly as possible--a clever girl, but a sad handful, I should imagine, for the man whose doubtful fortune it may be to get her for a wife."
"And now you have done, Susan, with your romance? Let me congratulate you on your talent for 'putting that and that together,' and producing a coherent fiction from true premisses, which might do credit to the author of the 'Arabian Nights.'"
"And pray, if the premisses are true, and nothing of my own is added, how can you venture to suppose that my inferences are astray? You are infatuated, Joseph Naylor."
"My good creature, the young lady has told me of this interview with the tall young man which you have described so graphically. It must indeed have been exciting and full of emotion, but you have entirely failed to catch its true import; and, as far as I can see, there is no reason why you should understand it, either you or any of the twenty other eavesdroppers you mention, who have been gratuitously interesting themselves in what does not concern them. Miss Hillyard is suffering from violent headache in consequence of what occurred, and has returned to the village to lie down. On second thoughts, I believe I shall follow her, and try if she will not let me drive her back to the Beach at once. That will be better than encountering the twenty pairs of curious eyes during the evening, who will want to watch her every movement, and piece a romance out of every time she looks at her watch. Goodbye, Susan. Accept thanks for kind intentions on my account; but do, pray, be more charitable in future. Good-bye, Margaret. I am going back at once, and shall be asleep when you get home. Kiss me good-night, child."
Margaret rose to pay the dutiful salute. Joseph kissed her on the cheek, and finding his lips so conveniently near her ear, he whispered--
"Walter's buggy will be the first in the line. He will be waiting. Get down before the others. Jump in; and God bless you!"
Margaret changed colour violently. Her mother, looking on, was surprised to see an embrace from an old uncle, produce signs of emotion. "It must be because of the young man sitting by," she thought sapiently, and drew happy auguries from the circumstance. Those close observers are so often astray!
When Joseph reached the inn at Blue Fish Creek, he sent up a little note to Rose, asking if she would not rather come home now in quiet, than wait through the racket of the evening, to be followed by a riotous journey after dark with the rest in their overflowing high spirits. Rose consented, and they drove home forthwith.
How different were Joseph's feelings now, from what they had been in the morning! Then, everything was bathed in sunshine and hope. The bare supposition that aught could go amiss did not once cross his mind. Now, he could not say what had befallen him, but a cloud had come down and enveloped him, and blotted out the future, and every certainty from his view, chilling his hopes and even his desires as with an untimely frost. The ring lay forgotten in his pocket. It did not occur to him to offer it again. If he had, the probability is that it would have been accepted, though perhaps without the enthusiasm which would have made the acceptance of value in his eyes.
Another phase of feeling had arisen in Rose's mind since her walk with Lettice. Her friend had betrayed a presentiment, that now Gilbert had had speech of her, he would win her back; and Rose revolted at the idea of figuring before her friends as a repentant naughty child. No; she had made her choice, and she would show that she could hold to it. She might not be happy in the future, but at least she could be steadfast. And truly, the man beside her as she drove, so truthful and so good, deserved all the duty and devotion she could devote to him. If she did not love as once she might have loved, at least he should never know it. She would be but the more dutiful on that account; she would even--what seemed the hardest thing of all to her headstrong nature--even obey him.
She was very near to him then, if Joseph had but known; but he did not. The old doubleness between his wife of long ago, and this heir to her place in his regard, had arisen anew within him, and it was still the older god who held the shrine. He felt regretfully tender and considerate to his companion by his side, but the enthusiasm of the morning was wanting.
They spoke little to one another as they travelled along. Rose was pale and had a splitting headache, and Joseph was consideration itself. He forbore to disturb her, assisted her to alight when they arrived at Clam Beach, and expressed a hope that she would be better in the morning, when they parted and she went up-stairs.