"Good God!" he exclaimed. "It is my hair!"
It was her father's.
CHAPTER VIII.
WOMAN'S CAPRICE.
Quelque raison qu'on trouve à l'amour qui nous dompte,
On trouve à 1'avouer toujours un peu de honte.
On s'en defend d'abord; mais de l'air qu'on s'y prend
On fait connoitre assez que notre cœur se rend.
MOLIERE.—Tartuffe.
We left Rose pondering over her lover's letter, and her own uneasiness at having by her hints called forth a delightful declaration. We return to her after the lapse of half an hour, and find her in the same state. At length the dinner-bell rings.
The volume of Leopardi lies on the table: will she take it down with her?
There is a fact in human nature which will be familiar to many, but which I am unable to explain, and that is the occasional impulse which forces us to act diametrically opposite to our wishes. It is a sudden spasm of wilfulness, wholly irrational, but wholly irresistible. I know that, in my own case, I have refused advantageous offers—declined invitations to pleasant excursions—entirely in obedience to this impulse of wilfulness—which I have regretted the instant afterwards, when either circumstances or my pride made the regret unavailing. No reason, no gratification of any vanity, indolence, or temper has been at the bottom of this. The impulse has been purely wilful and irrational—motiveless, were not the motive enveloped in the very impulse.
I call attention to this fact, as a fact, because it helps me to explain Rose's sudden resolution not to take down the volume of Leopardi. Perhaps, in her case, there may have been some acknowledged influence derived from her annoyance at that passage in Julius's letter, which threw the onus of the situation upon her. Perhaps she might have been secretly anxious to show him that she was not so ready to throw herself into his arms as he might suppose. I know not how it may be; all I know is, that with a sudden effort she walked down stairs, came into the drawing-room, saw the death-like paleness of her miserable lover, whose hopes had been thus scattered by a blow, seated herself upon a vis-à-vis, and joined in the conversation as if nothing had occurred.
It is easy to say that Julius was prepared for this, that his own diffidence had perpetually taught him to expect it; he had thought so, too, and yet he was not prepared. We sophisticate with ourselves quite as much as with others. We say we are prepared for an event which, if it occurs, takes us with the suddenness of a blow to a blind man. And Julius, when he saw Rose enter without the token, felt as if a grave had suddenly yawned at his feet. "Marmaduke was right!" he said, and instantly turned over the leaves of the "Book of Beauty," which was on the table.