“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say but that, Rose; say but that, and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!”
“If I could have done so without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,” rejoined Rose, “I could have——”
“Have received this declaration very differently?” said Harry, with great eagerness. “Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose.”
“I could,” said Rose. “Stay,” she added, disengaging her hand, “why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness notwithstanding; for it will be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! for as we have met to-day, we meet no more: but in other relations than those in which this conversation would have placed us, may we be long and happily intwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from where all is truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!”
“Another word, Rose,” said Harry. “Your reason in your own words. From your own lips let me hear it.”
“The prospect before you,” answered Rose, firmly, “is a brilliant one; all the honours to which great talents and powerful connexions can help men in public life are in store for you. But those connexions are proud, and I will neither mingle with such as hold in scorn the mother who gave me life, nor bring disgrace or failure upon the son of her who has so well supplied that mother’s place. In a word,” said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, “there is a stain upon my name which the world visits on innocent heads: I will carry it into no blood but my own, and the reproach shall rest alone on me.”
“One word more, Rose—dear Rose! one more!” cried Harry, throwing himself before her. “If I had been less, less fortunate, as the world would call it,—if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny,—if I had been poor, sick, helpless,—would you have turned from me then? or has my probable advancement to riches and honour given this scruple birth?”
“Do not press me to reply,” answered Rose, “the question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, unkind, to urge it.”
“If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,” retorted Harry, “it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the dreary path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves us beyond all else. Oh, Rose! in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment,—in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo,—answer me that one question!”
“Then, if your lot had been differently cast,” rejoined Rose; “if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in some humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds, I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.”