‘Think! why that is what I am thinking all day long: and I don’t like it. I will ask Rose to appoint me her land-agent.’
‘I will appoint you mine,’ he said. ‘Anne, we have been coming to this moment all these three years. Don’t send me away without thinking it over again. Do you remember all that long time ago how I complained that I had been forestalled; that I had not been given a chance? And for two years I have not dared to say a word. But see the change in my life. I have given up all I used to care for. I have thought of nothing but Mount and you—you and Mount. It does not matter which name comes first; it means one thing. Now that you are free, it is not Rose’s land-agent but mine that you ought to be. I am not your love,’ he said, a deep colour rising over his face, ‘but you are mine, Anne. And, though it sounds blasphemy to say so, love is not everything; life is something; and there is plenty for us to do—together.’
His voice broke off, full of emotion, and for a moment or two she could not command hers. Then she said, with a tremor in her tone—‘Heathcote—you are poor and I am poor. Two poverties together will not do the old place much good.’
‘Is that all you know, Anne——still? They will make the old place holy; they will make it the beginning of better things to come. But if it is not possible still to sacrifice those other thoughts—I can wait, dear,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘I can wait.’
Then there was a little pause, full of fate. After a time she answered him clearly, steadily. ‘There is no question of sacrifice: but wait a little, Heathcote, wait still a little.’ Then she said with something that tried to be a laugh, ‘You are like the Rector; you are frightened lest I should be an old maid.’
And then in his agitation he uttered a cry of alarm as genuine as the Rector’s, but more practical. ‘That you shall not be!’ he cried suddenly, grasping her arm in both his hands. Anne did not know whether to be amused or offended. But after awhile they went on quietly together talking, if not of love, yet of what Heathcote called life—which perhaps was not so very different in the sense in which the word was at present employed.
Two days after was Rose’s birthday. Mr. Loseby came over in great state from Hunston, and the friends of the family were all gathered early, the Ashleys and Heathcote coming to luncheon, with Fanny Woodhead and her sister, while a great party was to assemble in the evening. Rose herself, oddly enough, had resisted this party, and done everything she could against it, which her mother had set down to simple perversity, with much reason on her side. ‘Of course we must have a party,’ Mrs. Mountford said. ‘Could anything be more ridiculous? A coming of age and no rejoicing! We should have had a party under any circumstances, even if you had not been so important a person.’ Rose cried when the invitations were sent out. There were traces of tears and a feverish agitation about her as the days went on. Two or three times she was found in close conversation with Mr. Loseby, and once or twice he had the look of urging something upon her which she resisted. Mrs. Mountford thought she knew all about this. It was, no doubt his constant appeal about the provision to be made for Anne. This was a point upon which the sentiments of Rose’s mother had undergone several changes. At one time she had been very willing that a division of the property should take place, not, perhaps, a quite equal division, but sufficiently so to content the world, and give everybody the impression that Rose ‘had behaved very handsomely!’ but at another time it had appeared to her that to settle upon Anne the five hundred a year which had been her allowance as the guardian of her sister’s interests, would be a very sufficient provision. She had, as she said, kept herself aloof from these discussions latterly, declaring that she would not influence her daughter’s mind—that Rose must decide for herself. And this, no doubt, was the subject upon which Mr. Loseby dwelt with so much insistence. Mrs. Mountford did not hesitate to say that she had no patience with him. ‘I suppose it is always the same subject,’ she said. ‘My darling child, I won’t interfere. You must consult your own heart, which will be your best guide. I might be biassed, and I have made up my mind not to interfere.’ Rose was excited and impatient, and would scarcely listen to her mother. ‘I wish nobody would interfere,’ she cried; ‘I wish they would leave us alone, and let us settle it our own way.’
At last the all-important day arrived. The bells were rung in the little church at Lilford very early, and woke Rose with a sound of congratulation, to a day which was as bright as her life, full of sunshine and freshness, the sky all blue and shining, the country gay with its autumn robes, every tree in a holiday dress. Presents poured in upon her on all sides. All her friends, far and near, had remembered, even those who were out of the way, too far off to be invited for the evening festivities, what a great day it was in Rose’s life. But she herself did not present the same peaceful and brilliant aspect. Mrs. Worth had not this time been successful about her dress. She was in a flutter of many ribbons as happened to be the fashion of the moment, and her round and blooming face was full of agitation, quite uncongenial to its character. There were lines of anxiety in her soft forehead, and a hot feverish flush upon her cheeks. When the Ashleys arrived they were called into the library where the family had assembled—a large sunny room filled at one end with a great bow-window, opening upon the lawn, which was the favourite morning-room of the family. At the upper end, at the big writing-table which was generally Anne’s throne of serious occupation, both the sisters were seated with Mr. Loseby and his blue bag. Mr. Loseby had been going over his accounts, and Anne had brought her big books, while Rose between them, like a poor little boat bobbing up and down helplessly on this troubled sea of business, gave an agitated attention to all they said to her. Mrs. Mountford sat at the nearest window with her worsted work, as usual counting her stitches, and doing her best to look calm and at her ease, though there was a throb of anxiety which she did not understand in her mind, for what was there to be anxious about? The strangers felt themselves out of place at this serious moment, all except the old Rector, whose interest was so strong and genuine that he went up quite naturally to the table, and drew his chair towards it, as if he had a right to know all about it. Heathcote Mountford stood against the wall, near Mrs. Mountford, and made a solemn remark to her now and then about nothing at all, while Charley and Willie stood about against the light in the bow-window, mentally leaning against each other, and wishing themselves a hundred miles away.
The group at the table was a peculiar one: little Rose in the centre, restless, uneasy, a flush on her face, clasping and unclasping her hands, turning helplessly from one to the other: Mr. Loseby’s shining bald head stooped over the papers, its polished crown turned towards the company as he ran on in an unbroken stream of explanation and instruction, while Anne on the other side, serene and fair, sat listening with far more attention than her sister. Anne had never looked so much herself since all these troubles arose. Her countenance was tranquil and shining as the day. She had on (the Curate thought) the very same dress of white cashmere, easy and graceful in its long sweeping folds, which she wore at Lady Meadowlands’ party; but as that was three years ago, I need not say the gown was not identically the same. A great quietness was in Anne’s mind. She was pleased, for one thing, with the approbation she had received. Mr. Loseby had declared that her books were kept as no clerk in his office could have kept them. Perhaps this was exaggerated praise, and bookkeeping is not an heroic gift, but yet the approbation pleased her. And she had executed her father’s trust. Whatever might be the next step in her career, this, at least, was well ended, and peace was in her face and her heart. She made a little sign of salutation to Charley and Willie as they came in, smiling at them with the ease that befitted their fraternal relations. A soft repose was about her. Her time of probation, her lonely work, was over. Was there now, perhaps, a brighter epoch, a happier life to begin?
But Rose was neither happy nor serene; her hot hands kept on a perpetual manœuvring, her face grew more and more painfully red, her ribbons fluttered with the nervous trembling in her—now and then the light seemed to fail from her eyes. She could scarcely contain herself while Mr. Loseby’s voice went on. Rose scarcely knew what she wanted or wished. Straight in front of her lay the packet directed in her father’s hand to Mr. Loseby, the contents of which she knew, but nobody else knew. Fifty times over she was on the point of covering it with her sleeve, slipping it into her pocket. What was the use of going on with all this farce of making over her fortune to her, if that was to be produced at the end? or was it possible, perhaps, that it was not to be produced? that this nightmare, which had oppressed her all the time, had meant nothing after all? Rose was gradually growing beyond her own control. The room went round and round with her; she saw the figures surrounding her darkly, scarcely knowing who they were. Mr. Loseby’s voice running on seemed like an iron screw going through and through her head. If she waited a moment longer everything would be over. She clutched at Anne’s arm for something to hold fast by—her hour had come.