"You need not, I assure you, entertain your cousin with an account of how I grieve; and remember, believe me, I take good care to prevent any woman's caprice from having power over me a second time."
"You do quite right," replied Rose—"quite right." They walked on together until they arrived within sight of the cottage door, but neither spoke.
"I have a great deal to do—much to prepare. I must wish you good-night. Good-bye, and a kinder—temper." She faltered.
"Going," said Edward—"going away in such haste; and to part thus. There must be some mistake. I have watched you narrowly, suspiciously, as men do who have been once deceived; and I have seen no trace of unwomanly ambition in you; I little thought you would, on the slightest hint, so willingly embrace the first opportunity of entering into the sphere I thought you dreaded—as I do."
"I told you Helen was ill."
"A megrim—a whim—a"—
"You do her wrong; she has been a mother, and her child is dead."
"A blow to her ambition," said Edward, so coldly that Rose (such is human nature) breathed more freely. Was it possible, then—could it be possible—that his feelings had been excited not by the remembrance of Helen, but the thought of her own departure? Yet still her simple sense of justice urged her to say, "Again you do her wrong; Helen has a great deal of feeling."
"For herself," he answered tersely, "I dare say she has."
"I did not think you could be so unjust and ungenerous," replied Rose; "but you are out of sorts to-night, and will be sorry before morning. You were always hasty, Edward. Good-night—good-bye."