“Oh, Madam,” Jane cried, distracted, “do you know the carriage is waiting all this time? And the people of the hotel will be frightened. Come back, for goodness sake, come back!”
“The carriage,” she said, with a wondering air. “Is it the Highcourt carriage, and are we going home?”
CHAPTER LXI.
The day had come which Rosalind had looked forward to as the decisive moment. The day on which her life of submission was to be over, her independent action to begin. But to Rivers it was a day of almost greater import, the day on which he was to know, so far as she was concerned, what people call his fate. It was about noon when he set out from Aix, at a white heat of excitement, to know what was in store for him. He walked, scarcely conscious what he trod on, along the commonplace road; everything appeared to him as through a mist. His whole being was so absorbed in what was about to happen that at last his mind began to revolt against it. To put this power into the hands of a girl—a creature without experience or knowledge, though with all the charms which his heart recognized; to think that she, not much more than a child in comparison with himself, should thus have his fate in her hands, and keep his whole soul in suspense, and be able to determine even the tenor of his life. It was monstrous, it was ridiculous, yet true. If he left Bonport accepted, his whole career would be altered; if not— There was a nervous tremor in him, a quiver of disquietude, which he was not able conquer. To talk of women as wanting votes or freedom, when they had in their hands such unreasonable, such ridiculous, and monstrous power as this! His mind revolted though his heart obeyed. She would not, it was possible, be herself aware of the full importance of the decision she was about to make; and yet upon that decision his whole existence would turn. A great deal has been said about the subduing power of love, yet it was maddening to think that thus, in spite of reason and every dictate of good sense, the life of a man of high intelligence and mature mind should be at the disposal of a girl. Even while he submitted to that fate he felt in his soul the revolt against it. To young Roland it was natural and beautiful that it should be so, but to Rivers it was not beautiful at all; it was an inconceivable weakness in human nature—a thing scarcely credible when you came to think of it. And yet, unreasonable as it was, he could not free himself or assert his own independence. He was almost glad of this indignant sentiment as he hurried along to know his fate. When he reached the terrace which surrounded the house, looking back before he entered, he saw young Everard coming in at the gate below with an enormous bouquet in his hand. What were the flowers for? Did the fool mean to propitiate her with flowers? or had he—good heavens! was it possible to conceive that he had acquired a right to bring presents to Rosalind? This idea seemed to fill his veins with fire. The next moment he had entered into the calm of the house, which, so far as external appearances went, was so orderly, so quiet, thrilled by no excitement. He could have borne noise and confusion better. The stillness seemed to take away his breath.
And in another minute Rosalind was standing before him. She came so quickly that she must have been looking for him. There was an alarmed look in her eyes, and she, too, seemed breathless, as if her heart were beating more quickly than usual. Her lips were apart, as if already in her mind she had begun to speak, not waiting for any question from him. All this meant, must mean, a participation in his excitement. What was she going to say to him? It was in the drawing-room, the common sitting-room, with its windows open to the terrace, whence any one wandering about looking at the view, as every fool did, might step in at any moment and interrupt the conference. All this he was conscious of instantaneously, finding material in it both for the wild hope and the fierce despite which had been raging in him all the morning—to think not only that his fate was in this girl’s hands, but that any vulgar interruption, any impertinent caller, might interfere! And yet what did that matter if all was to go well?
“Mr. Rivers,” Rosalind said at once, with an eagerness which was full of agitation, “I have asked you to come—to tell you I am afraid you will be angry. I almost think you have reason to be angry. I want to tell you; it has not been my fault.”
He felt himself drop down from vague, sunlit heights of expectation, down, down, to the end of all things, to cold and outer darkness, and looked at her blankly in the sternness and paleness of a disappointment all the greater that he had said to himself he was prepared for the worst. He had hoped to cheat fate by arming himself with that conviction; but it did not stand him in much stead. It was all he could do to speak steadily, to keep down the impulse of rising rage. “This beginning,” he said, “Miss Trevanion, does not seem very favorable.”
“Oh, Mr. Rivers! If I give you pain I hope you will forgive me. Perhaps I have been thoughtless— I have so much to think of, so much that has made me unhappy—and now it has all come to a crisis.”
Rivers felt that the smile with which he tried to receive this, and reply to her deprecating, anxious looks, was more like a scowl than a smile. “If this is so,” he said, “I could not hope that my small affair should dwell in your mind.”
“Oh, do not say so. If I have been thoughtless it is not—it is not,” cried Rosalind, contradicting herself in her haste, “for want of thought. And when I tell you I have made up my mind, that is scarcely what I mean. It is rather that one thing has taken possession of me, that I cannot help myself. If you will let me tell you—”