“I am sure I have never had a single thought but for my children.”
“Well, well! In the morning we shall perhaps understand things better. Trouble, like a turbid river, runs itself clear in the night.”
They talked thus for hours, but nothing further was reached. And Rose was just as wretched and restless. As they passed through the dining-room, which was under Rose’s room, they heard her slowly pacing up 158 and down the floor, though it was then long past midnight. For Rose’s conscience was still very quick, and she was quite capable of estimating the sin and folly of her afternoon’s escapade, so that the tide of self-reproach went on rising, until she could not struggle against it. A disgust of all things, but especially of herself, darkened both the past and the future; and she felt the wretchedness of a combat where defeat had followed defeat, until her thoughts were all remorse. Those few hours of the past afternoon—dull enough while she possessed them—returned to her memory only to make her feel how much more they might have given. She had disappointed and deceived her mother to obtain them, and what had they brought her? Nothing but an intolerable shame and remorse.
Spiritually, she felt a prostration worse than death. She told herself that she had prayed, that she had asked God to help her, and that he had not done so. If God had so willed, it need not have been thus with her. But alas! accusing God brought her no comfort; her conscience continually reminded her of what she had done, and what she had left undone—of her selfishness—her lost time—her idle languors—her hypocrisy—her rebellion against God,—all these sins she realized, and she hated herself for them.
Still, this very activity of despair was hopeful; for it is not despair, but the sombre inertia of despondency, that is fatal to improvement. It was the happiest thing in the world for Rose that she was capable of being unhappy. For when she met with herself thus, she felt the need of meeting with God. If she had suffered less, she might have been content to leave God in heaven; but this utter sense of misery and weakness made her at last fall humbly before “the Father 159 which is in heaven,” and murmur, “Have mercy upon me!” And with that prayer, she slept.
Very early in the morning Antony called on Mr. Filmer. But there was no need to apologize for the hour. Mr. Filmer was possessed by the necessity for rapid action, and he welcomed Antony the more warmly for his promptitude.
“I am a lover, Mr. Filmer,” said Antony, “and you know lovers run ahead of the clock. I love Miss Filmer most sincerely, and I desire to make her my wife. Of course, this desire implies the means to support her in the position to which she has been accustomed, and I have therefore brought you this schedule of my income to examine.”
Mr. Filmer lifted the paper and read its contents with the caution and respect the circumstances warranted. He laid it down with an air of pleasure and astonishment. “This is an extraordinary record of property for so young a man as you are, Mr. Van Hoosen.”
“I have had extraordinary good fortune, sir. As you see, my share in the hotel, of itself, insures Miss Filmer’s adequate support; and I am desirous to make over to her absolutely, for her own use in any way she wishes, the income from the Aladdin Reef mine. It is now worth from eight to ten thousand dollars yearly. I only ask that our marriage may not be delayed, as I desire to go to Europe early in April; and if I could take Rose with me, I should count myself the most fortunate man in the world.”
“You have my full consent to all you desire, Mr. Van Hoosen. Perhaps I ought to say something about Rose. Do you know my daughter well enough to make her your wife? She is not without faults, sir.”