‘Only that you will shield me from papa’s anger—that you will say it was all your fault. For papa is dreadful when he gets in a temper.’
‘If you should be discovered—which is not at all likely—I promise you that, rather than give you back into papa’s clutches, I will carry you straight off to Rooklands and marry you with a special licence. Will that satisfy you? Would you consent to be my wife, Rosa?’
‘Yes!’ she replied, and earnestly, for she had been captivated by the manner and appearance of Frederick Darley for some weeks past, and this was not the first meeting by many that they had held without the knowledge of her father.
‘That’s my own Damask Rose,’ he exclaimed triumphantly; ‘give me a kiss, dear, just one to seal the contract; there’s no one looking!’ He held up his face towards her as he spoke—his handsome insouciant face with its bright eyes and smile, and she stooped hers to meet it, and give the embrace he petitioned for.
But someone was looking. Almost as Rosa’s lips met Darley’s a frightened look came into her eyes, and she uttered a note of alarm.
‘What is it, darling?’
‘It’s my brother George! He’s coming this way. Oh! go, Mr Darley—pray go across the field and let me canter on to meet him.’ He would have stayed to remonstrate, but the girl pushed him from her, and thinking discretion the better part of valour, he jumped over a neighbouring stile and walked away in the direction she had indicated, whilst she, with a considerable degree of agitation, rode on to make what excuses she best could for the encounter to her brother. George Murray was sauntering along the hedge-row switching the leaves off the hazel bushes as he went, and apparently quite unsuspicious of anything being wrong. But the first question he addressed to his sister went straight to the point.
‘Who was that fellow that was talking to you just now, Rosa?’
She knew it would be of no use trying to deceive him, so she spoke the truth.