“Dear me, Rosalind, I did not know you were listening so closely. Yes, to be sure he must know best. You know, Roland, gossip is a thing that she cannot abide. And she knows you and I have been gossiping about our neighbors. It is not so; it is really because I take a great interest; and you too, Roland.”
“Oh, no, I don’t take any interest,” cried Hamerton, hastily; “it was simple gossip on my part. If he were to lose ever so much time or money, or anything else, I shouldn’t care!”
“It is of no consequence to any of us,” Rosalind said. “I should think Mr. Rivers did what he pleased, without minding much what people say. And as for throwing the blame upon a girl! What could a girl have to do with it?” She stood still for a moment, holding out her hands in a sort of indignant appeal, and then turned to leave the room, taking no notice of the apologetic outburst from her aunt.
“I am sure I was not blaming any girl, Rosalind. I was only saying, if it was a girl; but to be sure, when one thinks of it, a girl couldn’t have anything to do with it,” came somewhat tremulously from Aunt Sophy’s lips. Miss Trevanion took no notice of this, but went away through the partial darkness, holding her head high. She had been awakened for the moment out of her dreams. The two who were left behind felt guilty, and drew together for mutual support.
“She thinks I mean her,” said Mrs. Lennox; “she thinks I was talking at her. Now I never talk at people, Roland, and really, when I began, I did think she had gone away. You don’t suppose I ever meant it was Rosalind?” she cried.
“But it is Rosalind,” said young Hamerton. “I can’t be deceived about it. We are both in the same box. She might make up her mind and put us out of our misery. No, I don’t want to be put out of my misery. I’d rather wait on and try, and think there was a little hope.”
“There must be hope,” cried Mrs. Lennox; “of course there is hope. Is it rational that she should care for a stranger with gray hair, and old enough to be her father, instead of you, whom she has known all her life? Oh, no, Roland, it is not possible. And even if it were, I should object, you may be sure. It may be fine to be a Times Correspondent, but what could he settle upon her? You may be sure he could settle nothing upon her. He has his mother and sister to think of. And then he is not like a man with money; he has only what he works for; there is not much in that that could be satisfactory to a girl’s friends. No, no, I will never give my consent to it; I promise you that.”
Roland shook his head notwithstanding. But he still took a little comfort from what Aunt Sophy said. Such words always afford a grain of consolation; though he knew that she was not capable of holding by them in face of any opposition, still there was a certain support even in hearing them said. But he shook his head. “If she liked him best I would not stand in their way,” he said; “that is the only thing to be guided by. Thank you very much, Mrs. Lennox; you are my only comfort. But still, you know, if she likes him best— I don’t think much of the gray hair and all that,” he added somewhat tremulously. “I’m not the man he is, in spite of his gray hair. And girls are just as likely as not to like that best,” said the honest young fellow. “I don’t entertain any delusion on the subject. I would not stand in her way, not a moment, if she likes him best.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Rosalind herself was much aroused by this discussion. She thought it unjust and cruel. She had done nothing to call for such a reproach. She had not attempted to make Mr. Rivers love her, nor to keep him from his work, nor to interfere in any way with his movements. She had even avoided him at the first—almost disliked him, she said to herself—and that she should be exposed to remark on his account was not to be borne. She retired to her room, full of lively indignation against her aunt and Roland, and even against Rivers, who was entirely innocent, surely, if ever man was. This was another phase, one she had not thought of, in the chapter of life which had begun by that wonder in her mind why she had no lover. She had been surprised by the absence of that figure in her life, and then had seen him appear, and had felt the elation, the secret joy, of being worshipped. But now the matter had entered into another phase, and she herself was to be judged as an independent actor in it; she, who had been only passive, doing nothing, looking on with curiosity and interest, and perhaps pleasure, but no more. What had she to do with it? She had no part in the matter: it was their doing, theirs only, all through. She had done nothing to influence his fate. She had conducted herself towards him no otherwise than she did to old Sir John, or Mr. Penworthy, the clergyman, both of whom were Rosalind’s good friends. If Mr. Rivers had taken up a different idea of her, that was his doing, not hers. She detain him, keep him from his business, interfere with his career! She thought Aunt Sophy must be mad, or dreaming. Rosalind was indignant to be made a party at all in the matter. It had thus entered a stage of which she had no anticipation. It had been pleasant inasmuch as it was entirely apart from herself, the attentions unsolicited, the admiration unsought. It was a new idea altogether that she should be considered accountable, or brought within the possibility of blame. What was she to do? Mr. Rivers was expected at the Elms that very evening, at one of Mrs. Lennox’s everlasting dinner-parties. Rosalind had not hitherto looked upon them as everlasting dinner-parties. She had enjoyed the lively flow of society, which Aunt Sophy (who enjoyed it very much) considered herself obliged to keep up for Rosalind’s sake, that she should have pleasant company and amusement. Now, however, Miss Trevanion was suddenly of opinion that she had hated them all along; that, above all, she had disliked the constant invitations to these men. It would be indispensable that she should put up with this evening’s party, which it was now much too late to elude. But after to-night she resolved that she would make a protest. She would say to Aunt Sophy that henceforward she must be excused. Whatever happened, she must disentangle herself from this odious position as a girl who was responsible for the feeling, whatever it was, entertained for her by a gentleman. It was preposterous, it was insupportable. Whatever he chose to think, it was his doing, and not hers at all.