Mrs. Filmer then rose in a hurried, preoccupied manner, but at the door she turned, and with her eyes still on her shopping list said, “Do not wait lunch for me. I may go into Cousin Martha’s for lunch. I shall be near her house; and, Rose, I would not read much; your eyes look like one of your bad headaches.”
“Mamma cares for nothing but the house and the bills!” thought Rose, as the parlor door closed upon her. “One would imagine such an offer as Antony’s was worth a little talking about. But she always did dislike Antony—from the first—and I am sure I do not know why, unless because he is Yanna’s brother. Well, Yanna is tiresome; that is the truth! No wonder mamma does not like her. And what Harry sees in such a cold, stately, pious girl, I cannot understand! I think I will go and make myself look a little pretty. One likes to leave a fine impression, even on a lover that is to be refused. But shall I say ‘No’ to Antony? To have millions of money! and diamonds to my heart’s content! and the finest wedding of the 166 season! and a year’s European travel! and how the Greyson, and the Helper, and the Manton girls will envy me! and lots of others—and Dick! I do not care a cent for Dick! he sneaked away like a dog when Antony spoke to me. I hate Dick! I shall never notice him again. He will doubtless get an invitation to my wedding from some one, and if he feels heart-sick, it will serve him right.”
To this soliloquy she slowly mounted the stairs to her room, and there she stood a few minutes, considering. The result of this reflection was the withdrawal from her drawers of an exquisite gown of pale gray cashmere, and a little tippet of Delhi mull and Valenciennes lace. The ineffable softness and repose of this combination pleased her. “I look my sweetest in this gown,” she thought, “and Antony has never seen it; but it will suit him, I know.”
Indeed, the dress affected Antony like a contrition and a confession. She looked, oh! she looked everything he could desire or imagine! And as Rose was always sensibly affected by the dress she wore, she naturally toned herself to her lovely and gentle appearance. The dress was in every way a fortunate one. It put Rose in the proper mood, and it gave Antony the proper courage. The one advantage reacted on the other; and Rose suffered her heart and her best instincts to lead her. For Antony brought to this question all the force of his character; he pleaded eloquently, with love in his eyes and on his tongue; nor did he neglect such material advantages as his wealth and his ability to grant her every one of her wishes gave him. He was perhaps disappointed that they had so much influence; but he was a patient, self-relying man, and he told himself that he must be grateful 167 for Rose as she was, and trust to the future for the Rose that he foresaw as possible.
So he took things on their present level, and talked so enthusiastically that Rose caught the mood from him, and their happy faces, leaning towards each other, shone with the thought of the joy before them. For Antony’s desire—like all strong hopes—had fulfilled itself by its own energy. His love found its way to his face and to his gestures, made him expressive and impressive, and gave him that quality few can resist, which we call “presence.”
So they knew not how time went, until Mrs. Filmer came home, weary and cold and heart-anxious from a round of profitless shopping and visits. The first glimpse of the lovers was joyfully reassuring. She gave a little gasp of relief, and had some difficulty to preserve her usual equanimity. Indeed, she could not do so, when Antony, holding Rose’s hand, came to her and begged a little love for himself and a blessing on her daughter’s love for him. She was compelled to sit down and cry a little, but she said her tears were tears of happiness; and she was very gentle, and lovable, and sympathetic.
Then they went together to Mr. Filmer’s study. But this day he was neither reading nor writing; he was simply waiting the logic of events. And oh, how welcome were the intruders! for when the load fell from his heart, he knew by the release how heavy it had been. He rose and met them half-way; he kissed his daughter and his wife, and shook hands with Antony; and then, while the tears were in his eyes, and the smile on his lips, he said, with a little dramatic gesture:
“Still in immortal youth, Arcadia smiles!”