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 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. OLIPHANT, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 *• CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,' 
 "OMBRA," "MAY," 
 &c. &c. 
 
 ' Eose, thou hast thorns," said I, 
 
 " That prick who toucheth thee.'' 
 ' Yea, passer-by. 
 
 The unwary hand that plucks at me. 
 But I, although to sweetness born, 
 Whene'er the wild wind blows," 
 (Thus breathed the Rose) 
 Feel in my heart the angry thorn." 
 
 Song. 
 
 m TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1874. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 LOJfDON; 
 PRINTED BY MACDONAU) AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE, 
 BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.
 
 •Ik 
 
 55 
 
 
 A ROSE IN JFl^E, 
 
 s^- CHAPTER I. 
 
 "M 
 
 ART HA, Martha, tliou art careful 
 and troubled about many things. 
 
 .^ Let the child alone — she will never be 
 V5 
 
 young again if she should live a hundred 
 
 years !' 
 
 These words were spoken in the garden 
 of Dinglefield Rectory on a very fine sum- 
 mer day a few years ago. The speaker 
 
 t^,^ was Mr. Damerel, the Rector, a middle- 
 
 ^' aged man with very fine, somewhat worn 
 
 ^ features, a soft benignant smile, and, as 
 
 ;^ VOL. I. B
 
 2 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 everybody said who knew him, the most 
 charming manners in the world. He was 
 a man of very elegant mind as well as 
 manners. He did not preach often, but 
 when he did preach all the educated per- 
 sons in his congregation felt that they had 
 very choice fare indeed set before them. 
 I am afraid the poor folk liked the Curate 
 best, but then the Curate liked them best, 
 and it mattered very little to any man or 
 woman of refinement what sentiment ex- 
 isted between the cottagers and the Curate. 
 Mr. Damerel was perfectly kind and 
 courteous to everybody, gentle and simple, 
 who came in his way, but he was not fond 
 of poor people in the abstract. He dis- 
 liked everything that was unlovely, and 
 alas ! there are a great many unlovely things 
 in poverty.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 3 
 
 Tlie Rectory garden at Dinglefield is 
 a deligMful place. The house is on 
 the summit of a little hill, or rather 
 table-land, for in the front, towards the 
 Green, all is level and soft as becomes an 
 English village ; but on the other side the 
 descent begins towards the lower country, 
 and from the drawing-room windows and 
 the lawn, where Mr. Damerel now sat, the 
 view extended over a great plain, lighted 
 up with links of the river, and fading in- 
 to unspeakable hazes of distance, such as 
 were the despair of every artist, and the 
 delight of the fortunate people who lived 
 there, and were entertained day by day 
 with the sight of all the sunsets, the mid- 
 day splendours, the flying shadows, and 
 soft prolonged twilights. Mr. Damerel 
 was fond of saying that no place he knew 
 
 b2
 
 4 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 SO lent itself to idleness as this. "Idle- 
 ness ! I speak as ttie foolish ones speak/' 
 he would say, " for what occupation could 
 be more ennobling than to watch those 
 gleams and shadows — all nature spread 
 out before you, and demanding attention, 
 though so softly that only they who have 
 ears hear? I allow, my gentle Nature 
 here does not shout at you, and compel 
 your regard, like her who dwells among 
 the Alps, for instance. My dear, you are 
 always practical — but so long as you 
 leave me my landscape I want little more." 
 Thus the Rector would discourse. It 
 was very little more he wanted — only to 
 have his garden and lawn in perfect order, 
 swept and trimmed every morning like a 
 lady's boudoir, and refreshed with every 
 Tariety of flower: to have his table not
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. O 
 
 heavily loaded with vulgar English joints, 
 but daintily covered, and oh ! so daintily 
 served ; the linen always fresh, the crystal 
 always fine, the ladies dressed as ladies 
 should be : to have his wine, of which he 
 said he took very little, always fine, of 
 choice vintage, and with a bouquet which 
 rejoiced' the heart : to have plenty of new 
 books : to have quiet, undisturbed by the 
 noise of the children, or any other trouble- 
 some noise such as broke the harmony of na- 
 ture : and especially undisturbed by bills and 
 cares, such as, he declared, at once shorten 
 the life and take all pleasure out of it. 
 This was all he required : and surely never 
 man had tastes more moderate, more inno- 
 cent, more virtuous and refined. 
 
 The little scene to which I have thus 
 abruptly introduced the reader took place
 
 6 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 in tlie most delicious part of tlie garden. 
 The deep stillness of noon was over the 
 sunshiny world; part of the lawn was 
 brilliant in light ; the very insects were 
 subdued out of their buzz of activity by 
 the spell of the sunshine ; but here, under 
 the lime-tree, there was grateful shade, 
 where everything took breath. Mr. Da- 
 rner el was seated in a chair which had been 
 made expressly for him, and which com- 
 bined the comfort of soft cushions with 
 such a rustic appearance as became its 
 habitation out of doors ; under his feet was 
 a soft Persian rug in colours blended with 
 all the harmony which belongs to the 
 Eastern loom ; at his side a pretty carved 
 table, with a raised rim, with books upon 
 it, and a thin Venice glass containing a 
 rose.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 7 
 
 Another Rose, tlie Rose of my story, 
 "was half- sitting, lialf -reclining on the grass 
 at his feet — a pretty light figure in a soft 
 mnslin dress, almost white, with bits of 
 soft rose-coloured ribbon here and there. 
 She was the eldest child of the house. 
 Her features I do not think were at all re- 
 markable, but she had a bloom so soft, 
 so delicate, so sweet, that her father's fond 
 title for her, " a Rose in June," was every- 
 where acknowledged as appropriate. A 
 rose of the very season of roses was this 
 Rose. Her very smile, which came and 
 went like breath, never away for two min- 
 utes together, yet never lasting beyond 
 the time you took to look at her, was 
 flowery too, I can scarcely tell why. For 
 my own part, she always reminded me not 
 so much of a garden-rose in its glory, as of
 
 8 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 a branch, of wild roses all blooming and 
 smiling from the bough, here pink, here 
 white, here with a dozen ineffable tints. 
 Her hair was light-brown, with the least 
 little curl in the world just about 
 her forehead, but shining like satin on 
 her pretty head ; her eyes, too, were 
 brown, with a dancing gleam of light 
 in each ; the delicate eyebrows curved, 
 the eyelashes curved, the lips curved, all 
 wavy and rounded. Life and light shone 
 out of the girl, and sweet, unconscious 
 happiness. In all her life she had never 
 had any occasion to ask herself was she 
 happy. Of course she was happy ! Did 
 not she live, and was not that enough ? 
 
 Rose Damerel was the last dainty orna- 
 ment of his house in which her father 
 delighted most. He had spoiled her
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 9 
 
 lessons wlien slie was younger because of 
 his pleasure in lier and lier pretty looks, 
 and lie interfered now almost altogether 
 witli that usefulness in a house which is 
 demanded by every principle of duty from 
 the eldest daughter of a large family ; for 
 alas ! there was a large family, a thing 
 which was the cause of all trouble to the 
 Damerels. Had there been only Rose, 
 and perhaps one brother, how much more 
 pleasantly would everything have gone ! 
 In that case there might have been fewer 
 lines in the brow of the third person 
 whom Mr. Damerel spoke to, but whom 
 the reader has not yet seen. 
 
 What Mrs. Damerel was like in her 
 June of life, when she married her hus- 
 band, and was a Rose too, like her daugh- 
 ter, it is difficult to tell. Life, which
 
 10 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 often makes so little real change, brings 
 out much that is latent both of good and 
 evil. I have said she was a Rose, like her 
 daughter — and so, indeed, she was still, 
 so far as formal documents went ; but, 
 somehow or other, the name had gone 
 from her. She had acquired from her 
 husband, at first in joke and loving banter 
 of her early cares of housekeeping, while 
 they were still no more than married 
 lovers, the name of Martha, and by de- 
 grees that name had so fastened to her, 
 that no one recognised her by any other. 
 Nobody out of her own family knew that 
 it was not her name, and of course the 
 children^ some of whom were indignant 
 at the change, could not set it right. In 
 her letters she signed herself '' R. M. 
 Damerel " — never Rose : and her corre-
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 11 
 
 spondents took it for granted tliat the 
 ''M" stood for Martha. 
 
 That she was careful and troubled about 
 many things was the Rector's favourite 
 joke. '' My careful wife — my anxious 
 wife," he called her, and, poor soul, not 
 without a cause. For it stands to reason 
 that when a man must not be disturbed 
 about bills, for example, his wife must 
 be, and doubly ; when a man cannot bear 
 the noise of children, his wife must, and 
 doubly ; and even when a clergyman dis- 
 likes poverty, and unlovely cottages, and 
 poor rooms, which are less sweet than the 
 lawn and the roses, why his wife must, 
 and make up for his fastidiousness. She 
 had eight children, and a husband of the 
 most refined tastes of any clergyman in 
 England, and an income — not so much as
 
 12 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 might have been desired. Alas ! how few 
 of us have so much as might be desired ! 
 Good rich people, you who have more 
 money than you want, how good you 
 ^ught to be to us, out of pure gratitude 
 to heaven for the fact that you can pay 
 your bills when you like, and never need 
 to draw lines on your forehead with think- 
 ing which is imperative, and which will 
 wait ! 
 
 Mrs. Damerel was welldressed — she 
 could not help it — for that was one of 
 the Rector's simple luxuries. Fortunately, 
 in summer it is not so difficult to be well- 
 dressed at a small cost. She had on (if 
 anyone cares to know) a dress of that 
 light brown linen which everybody has 
 taken to wearing of late, over an old 
 black silk petticoat, which, having been
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 13 
 
 good once, looked good even when totter- 
 ing on tlie brink of the grave. She was 
 no more than forty, and but for her cares, 
 would have looked younger ; but June was 
 long over for this Rose, and the lines in 
 her forehead contradicted the softness of 
 the natural curves in her features. Those 
 lines were well ruled in, with rigid 
 straightening, by an artist w^ho is very 
 indifferent to curves and prettiness, and 
 had given a certain closeness, and almost 
 sternness, to the firm-shutting of her 
 mouth. 
 
 I am afraid, though she had great com- 
 mand of herself, that Mr. Damerel's de- 
 lightful and unbroken serenity had an 
 irritating effect on his wife, in addition 
 to the effects produced by her burden of 
 care ; and irritation works with a finer
 
 14 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 and more delicate pencil than even an- 
 *xiety. Stie liad come out this morning 
 to ask Eose's lielp with, the children, to 
 whom, among her other fatigues, she had 
 lately begun to give lessons, finding the 
 daily governess from the village imprac- 
 ticable. She had been called away to 
 other duties, and the children were alone 
 in the schoolroom. She had just asked 
 her daughter to go in and take charge of 
 them, and I scarcely think — let alone the 
 answer she had just received from her 
 husband — that the sight of this cool, 
 fresh, delightful leisure in direct contrast 
 with the hot house, and the schoolroom, 
 where all the children were more tiresome 
 than usual by reason of the heat, had 
 any agreeable effect upon Mrs. Damerel's 
 nerves. Such a contrast to one's own
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 15 
 
 frets and annoyances seldom is deeply- 
 consolatory. 
 
 " Martha, Martlia, you are careful and 
 troubled about many things — let tlie child 
 alone !" 
 
 The Rector smiled, yet his tone was 
 one of playful reproof. His was the su- 
 perior position. With the soft air fanning 
 him, and the shade refreshing him, and 
 the beautiful landscape displaying itself 
 for him, and all the flowers blooming, the 
 leaves waving, the butterflies fluttering, 
 the pretty daughter prattling, all for his 
 pleasure, master of the creation as he was, 
 he was in a position to reprove any harsh 
 and hasty intruder who brought into this 
 Paradise a discordant note. 
 
 '* I do not want to burden her youth," 
 said Mrs. Damerel, with a resolute quiet
 
 16 A ROSE m JUNE. 
 
 in lier voice, wliich her children knew the 
 sound of, and which they all learned to 
 recognise as the tone of suppressed irri- 
 tation, " but I think it would do E-ose no 
 harm, Herbert, to make herself useful a 
 little and help me." 
 
 ^'Useful!" he said, with a half -pitying 
 smile — "the other roses are still less 
 useful. What would you have the child 
 do ? Let her get the good of this beauti- 
 ful morning. Besides, she is useful to 
 
 me." 
 
 " Ah," said Mrs. Damerel, faltering 
 slightly, ' ' if she is doing anything for 
 you, Herbert !" 
 
 " My dear," said the Rector, with a 
 gentle elevation of his eyebrows, "don't 
 confound things which are different. Do- 
 ing something is your sole idea of human
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 17 
 
 use, I know. 'No, Rose is doing nothing 
 — it lielps me to liave lier there. She is 
 part of the landscape. Suppose you sit 
 down yourself, instead of fretting, and 
 enjoy it." 
 
 " Enjoy it !" Mrs. Damerel echoed, with 
 faint irony. She heard already the noise 
 of the schoolroom growing louder and 
 louder, and Mary, the housemaid, stood at 
 the door, looking out anxiously, shading 
 her eyes from the sun, for the mistress. 
 Some one was waiting, she knew, in the 
 hall, to see her; pray heaven not some 
 one with a bill ! "I am afraid I must go 
 back to my work," she said, "and I hope 
 you will come to me, Eose, as soon as 
 your papa can spare you. I have no more 
 time now." 
 
 Eose stirred uneasily, half-rising, and, 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 witli a prick of cod science, made a feeble 
 attempt to detain Iter. " But, mamma — " 
 slie began, as her mother moved awaj, 
 crossing the broad STinsbine of the lawn 
 with hasty steps. Mrs. Damerel did not 
 or would not hear, but went swiftly into 
 the house as they watched her, meeting 
 Mary, who was coming with a message. 
 Her light dress shone out for a moment 
 in the fierce blaze of the sunshine, and then 
 disappeared. 
 
 When she was out of sight the Rector, 
 changing his position with the leisureli- 
 ness of extreme comfort, putting under- 
 most the leg which had been uppermost, 
 said softly, 
 
 "What a pity that your mother does 
 not see the beauty of repose more than 
 she does ! If I had not learnt long ago
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE.. 19 
 
 to take no notice, I don't know what I 
 might not have been worried into by 
 now." 
 
 " Mamma never worries any one," said 
 Rose,^flusb.ing at once with instantaneous 
 opposition. The more she felt guilty to- 
 wards her mother, the less she would hear 
 a word to her discredit. She blazed up 
 quite hot and fiery, with a loyalty which 
 was a very good quality in its way, though 
 not so good as helping in the schoolroom. 
 The father put forth his fine ivory hand, 
 and patted her pretty head. 
 
 " Quite right, dear, quite right," he said ; 
 ^'always stand up for your mother. And 
 it is true, she never worries anybody ; but 
 I wish she had more perception of the ex- 
 cellence of repose." 
 
 '' Perhaps if she had we should not be 
 
 c2
 
 20 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 able to enjoy it so much," said tlie girl^ 
 still giving expression to a slight compunc- 
 tion. 
 
 ^'Yerj well said, Eose; and it is quite 
 possible you are right again. We should 
 not be so comfortable, and the house would 
 not go on wheels as it does, if she thought 
 more of her own ease. One star differeth 
 from another star in glory," said Mr. 
 Damerel, who was fond of quoting Scrip- 
 ture, almost the only point in him which 
 savoured slightly of the Church. '' At 
 the same time, my Eose in June, when you 
 marry yourself — as I suppose you will one 
 day — remember that there is nothing that 
 worries a man like being too constantly 
 reminded of the struggle and wear and 
 tear that life demands. He has enough 
 of that outside in the world," said the
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 21 
 
 Bector, gazing out over tlie fair prospect 
 before him, and again changing the position 
 of his legs, " without having it thrust 
 upon him in what ought to be the sanctity 
 of his home." 
 
 Eose looked at her father with a little 
 dawning wonder mingled with the admira- 
 tion she felt for him. As a picture, Mr. 
 Damerel was perfect. He had a fine 
 head, with beautiful and refined features, 
 and that paleness which has always been 
 found to be so much more interesting than 
 brighter colouring. He lay half-reclined 
 in his easy-chair, with his eyes dreamily 
 regarding the landscape, and the book he 
 had been reading closed over his hand. 
 That hand was in itself a patent of gen- 
 tility, and his whole appearance confirmed 
 the title.
 
 22 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Somewliat fragile — a piece of delicate 
 porcelain among tlie rougli delft of this 
 world — not able to endure mucli knock- 
 ing about; fastidious, loving everytbing 
 tbat was beautiful, and supporting with 
 difficulty tbat wbicb was not, tbe Rector 
 looked like a choice example of the very 
 height of civilization and refinement. And 
 everything around him was in harmony. 
 The velvet lawn, on which no fallen leaf 
 was allowed to lie for an hour ; the pretty 
 house behind, perfection of English com- 
 fort and daintiness; the loose morning 
 clothes, not more than half clerical, and 
 perfectly unpretending, yet somehow more 
 fine, better cut, and better fitting than 
 other people's clothes. 
 
 Eose had for him that enthusiasm 
 of admiration which a girl often enter-
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 23 
 
 tains for a handsome and gentle-minded 
 father, who takes the trouble to enter 
 into her feelings, and make her his com- 
 panion. I do not know any more ex- 
 quisite sentiment in humanity. She loved 
 him entirely, and he was to her a very 
 model of everything that was most de- 
 lightful, kind, tender, and beautiful. But 
 as she looked at this model of man, his 
 words somehow struck and vibrated upon 
 a new chord in the girl's mind. 
 
 '' The struggle and wear and tear that 
 life demands." Did Mr. Damerel have 
 much of that " outside," as he said ? He 
 resumed his reading, but his daughter did 
 not look again at the book of poetry 
 which lay open on her knee. Somehow a 
 reflection of the pucker on her mother's 
 brow had got into her heart — ^her mother,
 
 24 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Tvlioni E.ose loved, but who was not an 
 idol and model of excellence, like the 
 gentle and graceful being at her side. 
 The contrast struck her for perhaps the 
 first time in her life. What was the 
 meaning of it? Was it because Mrs. 
 Damerel did not understand the beauty of 
 repose, or because a woman's business in 
 this world is more detailed and engrossing 
 than a man's ? 
 
 " Fancy mamma spending the whole 
 morning out of doors, reading poetry !" 
 Rose said to herself, with an involun- 
 tary silent laugh over the absurdity of the 
 notion. 'No doubt it was because of the 
 difference between man and woman ; one 
 of those disabilities which people talked 
 about ; and perhaps (Rose went on philoso- 
 phising) women are wrong to absorb them-
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 25 
 
 selves in tliis way in the management of 
 their houses, and ought to rule their 
 domestic affairs with a lighter hand, not 
 interfering with all the little minutige, and 
 making slaves of themselves. 
 
 She looked towards the house as she 
 mused, and the vague compunction which 
 had been in her mind sharpened into some- 
 thing like a prick of conscience. It was 
 delightful being out here, in the soft shade 
 of the lime-trees, watching when she liked 
 the flitting shadows over the plain below, 
 and the gleam of the river here and there 
 among the trees — reading when she liked 
 ^'Balaustion's Adventure," which was the 
 book on her knee. 
 
 The significance of the old story embed- 
 ded in that book did not for the moment 
 strike her. I think she was, on the whole,
 
 26 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 rather annoyed witli Mr. Browning for 
 having brought down the story of a wo- 
 man's sacrifice, all for love, into the region 
 of even poetic reason. To Eose, at that 
 period of her development, it seemed the 
 most ideal climax of life to die for the man 
 she loved. What could be more beautiful, 
 more satisfactory ? Such an ending would 
 reconcile one, she thought, to any suffer- 
 ing : it gave her heart a thrill of high sen- 
 sation indescribable in words. How sweet 
 the air was, how lovely all the lights ! 
 
 Eose was just enough of an artist to be 
 able to talk about '' the lights " with some 
 faint understanding of what she meant. 
 She was in a kind of soft Elysium, pene- 
 trated by the thousand sensations of the 
 morning, the quiet, the flattering soft air
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 27 
 
 that caressed her, the poetry, the society, 
 the beauty all around. But then there 
 came that sharp little prick of conscience. 
 Perhaps she ought to go in and offer the 
 help her mother wanted. Rose did not 
 jump up to do this, as she would have done 
 at once (she felt sure) had she been requir- 
 ed to die, like Iphigenia, for her country, 
 or, like Alcestis, for her husband. The 
 smaller sacrifice was somehow less easy ; 
 but it disturbed her a little in the perfection 
 of her gentle enjoyment, and dictated a few 
 restless movements which caught her 
 father's eye. He turned and looked at 
 her, asking fretfully with a look, what was 
 th^ matter, for he did not like to be dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 '' Perhaps," said Pose, inquiringly, and
 
 28 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 appealing to him with another look, '^I 
 ought to go in and see what is wanted. 
 Perhaps I could be of some use to mam- 
 ma." 
 
 Mr. Damerel smiled. " Use ?" he said. 
 '' Has your mother bitten you with her 
 passion for use ? You are not of the useful 
 kind, take my word for it; and make 
 yourself happy, like your namesakes, who 
 toil not, neither do they spin." 
 
 ''But perhaps — " said Rose softly to 
 herself — her father gave her a friendly 
 little nod and returned to his book — and 
 she had to solve her problem without his 
 assistance. She tried to do it, sitting on 
 the grass, and it was a long and rather 
 troublesome process. It would have been 
 much more easily and briefly settled, had
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 29^ 
 
 slie gone into tae schoolroom ; but tlien I 
 am afraid Eose did not wisli it to be solved 
 tliat way.
 
 30 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 RS. Damerel went back into tlie house 
 with a countenance much less 
 
 placid than that of her husband. I scarce- 
 ly know why it is that the contrast of per- 
 fect repose and enjoyment with anxiety, 
 work, and care should irritate the worker 
 as it invariably does ; but here indeed 
 there was reason enough ; for Mrs. Damerel 
 felt that the two people luxuriating in total 
 absence of care on this delightful morning 
 ought to have taken a considerable share
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 31 
 
 with her in her labours and lighten the 
 burden she was now obliged to bear alone. 
 This mingled a sharpness of feeling with 
 her toils. People who interpret human 
 nature coarsely — and they are, perhaps, 
 the majority — would have said that Mrs. 
 Damerel was jealous of her husband's pre- 
 ference for Kose's society, and this would 
 have been a total and vulgar mistake ; but 
 she had in her mind a feeling which it is 
 diflScult to explain, which for the moment 
 made her irritation with Rose more strong 
 than her irritation with Rose's father. He 
 was, in the first place, a man — grand dis- 
 tinction, half contemptuous, half respect- 
 ful, with which women of Mrs. Damerel's 
 age (I don't say young women often do it, 
 at least consciously — except in the case of 
 their fathers and brothers) account for and
 
 32 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 make up tlieir minds to so many tMngs. I 
 am not attempting to account for this sen- 
 timent, wliich is so similar to that witli 
 wliich men in tlieir turn regard women ; I 
 only acknowledge its existence. He was a 
 man, brought up as all men are (I still 
 quote Mrs. Damerel's thoughts, to which 
 she seldom or never gave expression), to 
 think of themselves first, and expect every- 
 thing to give in to them. But Rose had 
 none of these privileges. What her mother 
 as a woman had to take upon her, Eose 
 had an equal right to take too. Mrs. 
 Damerel herself could not forget, though 
 everybody else did, that she had been a 
 Rose too, in her proper person ; the time 
 even since that miraculous period was not 
 so far off to her as to the others ; but be- 
 fore she was Rose's age she had been mar-
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 33 
 
 ried, and had already become, to some ex- 
 tent, Mr. Damerel's shield and buckler 
 against the world and its annoyances. 
 
 And here was Eose growing up as if 
 she, instead of being a woman as nature 
 made her, was herself one of the privileged 
 class, to whom women are the ministers. 
 This annoyed Mrs. Damerel more, perhaps, 
 than the facts justified ; it gave her a sense 
 of injured virtue as well as feeling. It 
 would be the ruin of the girl — it was wrong 
 to let her get into such ways. The mother 
 was angry, which is always painful and 
 aggravates everything. She was too proud 
 to struggle with her daughter, or to exact 
 help which was not freely given ; for Rose 
 was no longer a child to be sent hither and 
 thither and directed what to do. And Mrs. 
 Damerel was no more perfect than E-ose 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 was-^slie had her own difficulties of tem- 
 per like otlier people. This was one of 
 them — that she drew back within herself 
 when she felt her appeal refused or even 
 left without response. She went in with 
 a little scorn, a little pride, a good deal 
 of anger and more of mortification. '^ I 
 must do everything myself, it appears," she 
 said, with a swelling of the heart which was 
 very natural, I think. 
 
 After the sun on the lawn, it was very 
 warm indoors, and the schoolroom was very 
 noisy indeed by the time she had got rid 
 of the applicants in the hall, one of whom 
 (most respectful and indeed obsequious, 
 and perfectly willing to accept her excuses, 
 but yet a dun notwithstanding) had come 
 to say that he had many heavy payments 
 to make up, &c. — and if Mrs. Damerel
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 35 
 
 could oblige Hm — ? Mrs. Darner el could 
 not oblige him, but lie was very civil and full 
 of apologies for troubling her. 
 
 I do not by any means intend to say 
 that the E-ector's wife was tortured by 
 perpetual struggling with her creditors. 
 It was not so bad as that. The difficulty 
 was rather to keep going, to be not too 
 much in debt to anyone, to pay soon 
 enough to preserve her credit, and yet get 
 as long a day as possible. Mrs. Damerel 
 had come by long practice to have the 
 finest intuition in such matters. She knew 
 exactly how long a tailor or a wine-mer- 
 chant would wait for his money without 
 acerbation of temper, and would seize 
 that crowning moment to have him paid by 
 hook or by crook. But by thus making a 
 fine art of her bills, she added infinitely to 
 
 d2
 
 36 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 her mental burdens — for a woman must 
 never forget anything or neglect anything 
 when she holds her tradespeople so very 
 delicately in hand. 
 
 The schoolroom, as I have just said, 
 was very noisy, not to say uproarious, 
 when she got back to it, and it was hard 
 not to remember that Rose ought to have 
 been there. There were five children in 
 it, of various ages and sizes. The two big 
 boys were both at Eton. The eldest, 
 Bertie, who was bright and clever, was '' on 
 the foundation," and therefore did not cost 
 his parents much ; the second had his ex- 
 penses paid by a relation — thus these two 
 were off their mother's hands. The eldest 
 in the schoolroom was Agatha, aged four- 
 teen, who taught the two little ones, but 
 who, during her mother's absence, ought
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 87 
 
 to liave been playing '' her scales," and 
 had conscientiously tried to do so for ten 
 minutes, at the end of which time she had 
 been obliged to resign the music in order 
 to rescue these same two little ones, her 
 special charge, from the hands of Dick, 
 aged ten, who was subjecting them to un- 
 known tortures, which caused the babes to 
 howl unmercifully. 
 
 Patty, the next girl to Agatha, aided 
 and abetted Dick ; and what with the 
 laughter of these two pickles, and the 
 screams of the small ones, and poor 
 Agatha's remonstrances, the scene was 
 Pandemonium itself, and almost as hot ; 
 for the room was on the sunny side of the 
 house, and blazing, notwithstanding the 
 drawn blinds. The children were all lan- 
 guid and irritable with the heat, hating
 
 38 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 their confinement indoors ; and, indeed, if 
 Rose had come, she would have made a 
 very poor exchange. 
 
 Agatha's music had tumbled down from 
 the piano, the old red cover was half drawn 
 off the table, and threatened at any mo- 
 ment a clean sweep of copybooks, ink- 
 bottles, and slates. Dick stood among his 
 books, all tumbled on the floor, his heels 
 crushing the cover of one, while Patty sat 
 upon the open dictionary, doubling down 
 half the leaves with her weight. Such 
 a scene for a bothered mother to come 
 into ! 
 
 Mr. Damerel himself heard some faint 
 rumour of the noise, and his fine brow had 
 begun to draw itself into lines, and a reso- 
 lution to " speak to their mother" formed 
 itself within his mind.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 39 
 
 Poor motlier ! She could have cried 
 when she went in out of all her other 
 troubles ; but that was a mere momentary 
 weakness, and the rebels were soon reduced 
 to order, Agatha sent back to her scales, 
 and Dick and Patty to their copy-books. 
 " You two little ones may go," Mrs. 
 Damerel said, and with a shriek of delight 
 the babies toddled out and made their way 
 to the hayfield behind the house, where 
 they were perfectly happy, and liable to no 
 more danger than that of being carried off 
 in a load of fragrant hay. 
 
 "When Mr. Nolan, the Curate, came in to 
 talk about parish business, Agatha s scales, 
 not badly played, were trilling through the 
 place, and Patty and Dick, very deep in 
 ink, and leaning all their weight upon their 
 respective pens, were busy with their writ-
 
 40 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 ing ; and calm, the calm of deep awe, pre- 
 vailed. 
 
 '' Shall I disturb you if I come in here ?" 
 asked the Curate, with a mellow sound in 
 his voice which was not brogue — or at 
 least he thought it was not, and was in- 
 genuously surprised when he was recog- 
 nised as an Irishman. (^' It will be my 
 name, to be sure," he would say on such 
 occasions, somewhat puzzled.) He was a 
 bony man, loosely put together, in a long 
 coat, with rather a wisp of a white tie v' for, 
 indeed, it was very hot and dusty on the 
 roads, and where the Hector is an elegant 
 man of very refined mind, the Curate, like 
 the wife, has generally a good deal to 
 do. 
 
 " Indeed the lessons have been so much 
 disturbed as it is, that it does not much
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 41 
 
 matter," said Mrs. Damerel. "On Mon- 
 day morning there are so many tilings to 
 call me away." 
 
 " How selfish of me !" said the Curate. 
 ^' Monday morning is just the time I've 
 little or nothing to do, except when there's 
 sickness. What a brute I was not to offer 
 meself, — and, indeed, that's just what I've 
 come to speak about." 
 
 " No, no, you are too kind, and do too 
 much already," said Mrs. Damerel, looking 
 at him with a grateful smile, but shaking 
 her head. '^ And, indeed," she added, the 
 cloud coming over her face again, " Hose 
 ought to come and r-elieve me ; but her 
 father has to be attended to, and that takes 
 up so much of her time." 
 
 ''To be sure," said the Curate cheerity, 
 "and reason good. Besides, it would be
 
 42 A ROSE IN .JUNE. 
 
 wearing work for one like her ; whereas 
 the like o' me is made for it. Look here, 
 Dick, my boy, will you promise to learn 
 your lessons like a brick to-morrow, if I 
 ask the mother for a holiday to-day ?" 
 
 " Oh, hurrah !" cried Dick, delighted. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, like twenty bricks !"^ 
 cried Patty, 'though how a brick can 
 
 learn lessons . It's so hot, and one 
 
 keeps thinking of the hayfield." 
 
 ** Then be off wi' you all," cried the 
 Curate. '' Don't you see the mother smile ? 
 and Agatha too ? I'm going to talk busi- 
 ness. Sure you don't mind for one day ?" 
 
 " Oh, mind !" said poor Mrs. Damerel, 
 with a half smile ; then, waiting till they 
 were all out of hearing, an exit speedily 
 accomplished, '4f it were not for duty, how 
 glad I should be to give it up altogether ! —
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 43 
 
 but tliey could not go on witli Miss Hunt," 
 slie added, witli a quick glance at the 
 Curate, to see whether bj chance he under- 
 stood her. 
 
 Good Curate, he could be very stolid on 
 occasion, though I hope he was not fool 
 enough to be taken in by Mrs. Damerers 
 pretences ; though it was true enough that 
 Miss Hunt was impracticable. She could 
 not afford a better ; this was what she 
 really meant. 
 
 '' Out of the question," said Mr. Nolan ; 
 " and I'm no scholar myself to speak of, 
 notwithstanding what I'm going to have 
 the presumption to say to you. It's just 
 this — I don't do much visiting of mornings ; 
 they don't like it. It takes them all in a 
 mess as it were before they've had time to 
 get tidy, and these mornings hang heavy
 
 44 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 on my hands. I want you to let me have 
 the three big ones. T might get them on 
 a bit; and time, as I tell you, my dear 
 lady, hangs heavy on my hands." 
 
 '^ How can you tell me such a fib ?" said 
 Mrs. Damerel, half crying, half laughing. 
 '' Oh, you are too good, too good; but, Mr. 
 Nolan, I can't take anything more from you. 
 Eose must help me, it is her duty ; it is bad 
 for her to be left so much to herself ; why, 
 I was married and had all the troubles 
 of life on my head at her age." 
 
 '^ And so she'll have, before you know 
 where you are," said the good Curate, 
 which will show the reader at once that he 
 entertained no absorbing passion for Miss 
 Eose, though I am aware it is a Curate's 
 duty so to do. ''So she'll have; she'll be 
 marrying some great grandee or other.
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 4a- 
 
 She looks like a princess, and tliat's what 
 sWll be." 
 
 " She has no right to be a princess," said 
 the mother, overwrought and irritable, 
 ^'and duty is better than ease, surely. 
 You, I know, think so." 
 
 '' For the like of me, yes," said the 
 Curate ; ''for her, I don't know." 
 
 '' I was once very much like her, though 
 you would not think it," said the mother, 
 with the slightest tinge of bitterness, ''but 
 that is not the question — no, no, we must 
 not trouble you." 
 
 " When I tell you the mornings hang on 
 my hand ! I don't know what to do with 
 my mornings. There's Tuesday Vm. due 
 at the schools, but the rest of the week I 
 do nothing but idle. And idling's a great 
 temptation. A cigar comes natural when
 
 46 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 you've nothing to do. You don't like a man 
 smoking in tlie morning ; I've heard you 
 say so. So you see the young ones will 
 
 save me from a no, I won't say cigar 
 
 — worse than that — cigars are too dear for 
 a Curate, me dear lady ; from a pipe." 
 
 '^ Mr. Nolan, you are too good for this 
 world," said poor Mrs. Damerel, affected 
 to tears ; "but I must first try what can 
 be done at home," she added, after a pause 
 — no, no, you weigh me down under your 
 kindness. What would the parish be but 
 for you ?" 
 
 " It would be just the same if I were 
 dead and buried," said the Curate, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders. ^' Ah, that's the worst 
 of it ; try for a little bit of a corner of work 
 like a child's lessons, and you may be of 
 service ; but try to mend the world, even a
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 47 
 
 bit of a parish, and you're nowliere. They 
 don't tliink half as much of me as they do 
 of the Rector," he added, with a curious 
 smile, which the Eector's wife only half 
 understood. Was it satirical ? or could it 
 be possible that the Curate was surprised 
 that the people thought more of the Rector 
 than of himself? Mrs. Damerel was 
 aware, no one better, of her husband's 
 faults. Many a time she was ready to say 
 in bitterness (to herself) that he was wear- 
 ing her to death; but nevertheless she 
 looked at long, loosely-built, snub-nosed 
 Mr. Nolan, with mingled amusement and 
 surprise. Was it possible that he could 
 entertain any hopes of rivalling her hus- 
 band ? Of course a visit from the Rector 
 was an honour to anyone, for Mr. Damerel 
 was a man who, notwitstanding a little
 
 48 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Iminaii weakness, was the very picture and 
 model of a gentleman; and the idea of 
 comparing him with good Mr. Nolan was 
 too absurd. '' Yes, no doubt thej are 
 pleased to see him," she said: ''poor 
 people ai^e very quick to recognize high 
 breeding; but I am sure, my dear Mr. 
 Nolan, that they are all very fond of 
 you." 
 
 The Curate made no immediate answer. 
 I am not sure that he had not in his pri- 
 vate heart something of the same feeling 
 with which his present companion had been 
 thinking of her daughter, a feeling less 
 intense, in so far as it was much more 
 indifferent to him, yet in a way stronger, 
 because untempered by affection. 
 
 The Eector was of his own kind, the 
 ornamental and useless specimen, while he
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 49 
 
 was the worker wliom nobodj thought of ; 
 but these secret feelings neither of the two 
 confided to the other. Mr. Nolan would 
 have been horrified had he detected in Mrs. 
 Damerel that slight bitterness about Eose, 
 which indeed would have shocked herself 
 as deeply had she paused to identify the 
 sentiment, and she would have been, and 
 was, to some slight extent — suspecting the 
 existence of the feeling — contemptuous and 
 indignant of Nolan's *' jealousy," as I fear 
 she would have called it. 
 
 They returned, however, to the educa- 
 tional question, which did not involve any- 
 thing painful, and after considerable discus- 
 sion it was settled that he should give the 
 elder children lessons in the morning, " if 
 their papa approved." It is impossible to 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 say what a relief this decision was to the 
 mother, who had felt these lessons to be 
 the last straw which proverbially breaks 
 the camel's back. She was glad of the 
 chat with a sympathizing friend, who un- 
 derstood, without saying anything about, 
 her troubles — and doubly glad of the holi- 
 day exacted from her by his means — and 
 gladder still to get rid of him and return 
 to her many other occupations ; for it was 
 Monday, as has already been mentioned, and 
 there was the laundress to look after, and 
 a thousand other things awaiting her. 
 
 The Curate went out by the garden door 
 when he left her, out upon the lawn, where 
 he paused to look at as charming a scene as 
 could be found in England : a fair country 
 spreading out for miles, its trees and fields
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 51 
 
 and soft undulations under a summer sky, 
 wMcli was pale with access of light, and 
 ran into faint lines of misty distance al- 
 most colourless in heat and haze. Here 
 and there the sunshine caught in a bend 
 of the river, and brought out a startling 
 gleam as from a piece of silver. The world 
 was still with noon and distance, no sound 
 in the air but the rustle of the leaves, the 
 hum of insects ; the landscape was all the 
 sweeter that there was no remarkable fea- 
 ture in it, nothing but breadth and space, 
 and undulating lines, and light, everywhere 
 light ; and to make up for its broad soft 
 vagueness, how distinct, like a picture, was 
 the little group in the foreground — the 
 lime trees in their silken green, the soft 
 rippling shadows on the grass, the pictur- 
 
 E 2 
 
 ■5> 
 
 ««^
 
 52 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 esque figure in the cliair, and tlie beautiful 
 girl! The beauty of the sight charmed 
 good Mr. Nolan. Had it been put to him 
 at that moment, I believe he would have 
 protested that his Rector should never do 
 anything in his life except recline with 
 languid limbs outstretched, and his poeti- 
 cal head bent over his book, under the 
 sweet shadow of the trees. And if this 
 was true even in respect to Mr. Damerel, 
 how much more true was it with Rose ? 
 
 "Well, Nolan," said Mr. Damerel, suave- 
 ly, as the bony Curate and his shadow 
 came stalking across the sunshine ; " well : 
 worrying yourself to death as usual in this 
 hot weather ? My wife and you are con- 
 genial souls." 
 
 " That is true, and it's a great honour
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 53 
 
 for me," said Nolan. ^' She is worrying 
 herself to death with the children, and one 
 thing and another. As for me, in the 
 mornings, as I tell her, IVe next to no- 
 thing to do." 
 
 Rose looked up hastily as he spoke. 
 How angry she felt ! If her mother chose 
 to worry herself to death, who had any- 
 thing to do with that ? Was it not her 
 own pleasure ? A hot flush came over the 
 girl's face. Mr. Nolan thought it was the 
 quick, ingenuous shame which is so beauti- 
 ful in youth ; but it was a totally different 
 sentiment. 
 
 ''Mamma does nothing she does not 
 choose to do," she cried ; then blushed 
 more hotly, perceiving vaguely that there 
 was something of self-defence in the heat 
 with which she spoke.
 
 54 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Mr. Nolan was not graceful in his man- 
 ners, like Mr. Damerel, but lie liad that 
 good breeding which comes from the heart, 
 and he changed the subject instantly, and 
 began to talk to the Eector of parish busi- 
 ness, over which Mr. Damerel yawned with 
 evident weariness. 
 
 " Excuse me — the heat makes one lan- 
 guid," he said ; ^' you have my full sanction, 
 Nolan. You know how entirely I trust to 
 your discretion ; indeed I feel that you 
 understand the people in some respects 
 better than I do. Don't trouble yourself 
 to enter into details." 
 
 Mr. Nolan withdrew from these refined 
 precincts with an odd smile upon his face, 
 which was not half so handsome as Mr. 
 Damerel's. He had the parish in his
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 55 
 
 hands, and the Eector did not care to be 
 troubled with details ; but the Rector had 
 all the advantages of the position, all the 
 income, and even so much the moral 
 superiority over his Curate, that even they 
 (by which pronoun Mr. Nolan indicated 
 his poorer parishioners) felt much more 
 deeply honoured by a chance word from 
 the Rector than they did by his constant 
 ministrations and kindness. 
 
 What an odd, unequal world this is ! 
 he was thinking to himself ; not ruled by 
 justice, or even a pretence at justice, but 
 by circumstances alone, and external 
 appearances. 
 
 This did not make him bitter, for he 
 had a kind of placid philosophy in him, 
 and was of the kind of man who takes
 
 56 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 things very easily, as people say ; bat the 
 curious force of the contrast made him 
 smile.
 
 57 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "jp OSE DAMEREL'S life had, up to this 
 time, been spent altogether in the 
 sunshine^ She had been too young when 
 she went to school to ponder much over 
 anything that went on at home, and had 
 concluded during her holidays that home, 
 which was so dainty, so pleasant, so sweet, 
 was a kind of Paradise on earth, infinitely 
 more delightful than any of the other 
 homes of which she heard from her 
 schoolfellows. None of them had a father 
 so delightful, a mother so kind; and in
 
 58 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 tliese holiday times, as everybody indulged 
 and petted her, the private shadows — I 
 will not say skeletons — in the house were 
 never divined by her. She had, as some- 
 times happens to the eldest of a large 
 family, much more care taken of her edu- 
 cation and training than her sisters were 
 likely to meet with. The burden had not 
 begun to be so heavily felt when the eldest 
 girl grew into bright intelligenge, to her 
 parents' pride. The others were still too 
 young to demand, or even to suggest, the 
 expense that would be involved in their 
 education, and nothing was spared upon 
 Eose. 
 
 She had returned from school not much 
 more than a year before the time of which 
 I treat, and had gone on for some time in 
 her delightful youthful confidence that
 
 A EOSB IN JUNE. 59 
 
 everything around lier was exactly as it 
 ought to be. But shadows had begun to 
 flit vaguely across the picture before that 
 memorable day in the garden, which hence- 
 forward became a turning-point in her 
 thoughts. This was the first moment at 
 which she fully identified the occasional 
 clouds upon her mother's face, and learned 
 that Mrs. Damerel was not merely a little 
 cross — that easy and rapid solution with 
 which a child settles all problems concern- 
 ing its parents — but had a distinct cause 
 for the little irritabilities which she tried 
 so carefully to restrain. Perhaps it was 
 in the very nature of things that Rose 
 should be more attracted by the gentle 
 indulgence and indolent perfection of her 
 father, than by her mothers stronger 
 character.
 
 60 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Mr. Damerel, had he been very rich, 
 and free of all occasion to think of his 
 ■children's future, would have been a model 
 father to grown-up and well-behaved 
 sons and daughters. He conld not bear 
 ^ny roughness, coarseness, or disorderli- 
 ness; therefore the schoolboys were but 
 little congenial to him, and he was never 
 sorry when the holidays were over. And 
 the little children were too troublesome 
 and too noisy to please him; but Rose 
 was the perfection of a child to such a 
 man, and to her he was the perfection of a 
 father. Everything in her pleased and 
 gratified him. She was pretty, gentle, 
 full of intelligence, eager to read with 
 him if he would, still more eager to hear 
 him talk, yet quick to perceive when 
 he was disinclined to talk, and regard-
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 61 
 
 ing all his moods with religious respect- 
 She would sit by him for hours together, 
 like a charming piece of still life, when he 
 pleased, and was ready to converse or to 
 listen, to walk, to sing, to follow his lead 
 in everything, as only a woman-child, full 
 of the beautiful enthusiasm of youthful 
 admiration, can do. Nothing, except 
 , perhaps the devotion of a young wife, 
 when she really loves the man much older 
 than herself, whom she has married, can 
 equal the devotion of a girl to her father. 
 She admired everything about him — his 
 beautiful refined head, his fine voice, his. 
 grace and high-breeding, his sermons, and 
 what she called his genius. To find this 
 faultless father to be anything less than 
 a demi-god was terrible to Rose. I do not 
 mean to say that she got within a hundred
 
 62 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 miles of tMs discovery all at once ; nay, 
 the j&rst result of the vague and dreamy 
 doubts that stole into her mind was rather 
 an increase of enthusiasm for her father, 
 an instinctive making-up to her own ideal 
 for the sense of failure in him, of which 
 she was vaguely conscious. Rose loved 
 her mother after a totally different fashion, 
 in an ordinary and matter-of-fact way, but 
 she had no romance of feeling towards 
 her ; and when her whole little world began, 
 as it were, to sway upon its axis, to yield 
 beneath her feet, as if it might swing round 
 altogether in space, turning what she had 
 supposed the brighter side into shadow, 
 and elevating that which she had held lowly 
 enough, she, poor girl, grew giddy with 
 this strange and sickening sensation. She 
 was at the age, too, when everything is
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 63 
 
 apt to reel about the young experimentalist 
 taking her first steps in life. She was 
 vaguely conscious of being now a free 
 agent, consulted as to her own movements, 
 no longer told curtly to do this and that, 
 but exercising personal choice as to what 
 she should do. This change is of itself 
 sufficiently bewildering. Nature makes, 
 as it were, a pause at this first crisis of 
 personal life. The child, wondering, half- 
 delighted and half-troubled to have no 
 longer its duties clearly and sharply indi- 
 cated, falls into a partial trance, and 
 neglects many things for sheer want of use 
 and knowledge how to act for itself. 
 
 This was Eose's position. Between the 
 mother, who, a little mortified and hurt at 
 her child's want of sympathy with her, did 
 not give her orders, but only suggested
 
 64 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 employment, and the father who saidy 
 ''Never mind, let her alone," she stood, 
 not knowing hoAV to settle the question, 
 but inclining naturally to the side on which 
 she was most indulged and smiled upon^ 
 though with a secret uneasiness which she 
 could not shake off, and moral sense of a 
 false situation which grew upon her day 
 by day. 
 
 Rose had lovers, too, in this new miracu- 
 lous life upon which she had entered — two 
 lovers, not yet declared, but very evident 
 to all knowing eyes; and in the village 
 there were many keen observers. One of 
 these suitors was the most wealthy pro- 
 prietor in the neighbourhood^a man much 
 above her own age, yet not old, and per- 
 fectly qualified to please a lady's eye ; and 
 the other, a young naval lieutenant without
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 65 
 
 a penny, the son of Mrs. Wodeliouse, who 
 lived on the Green, and had nothing in the 
 world but her pension as an officer's widow. 
 Of course I do not need to say that it was 
 the poor man whom Eose preferred. She 
 was not in love with him — far from it ; but 
 she was so completely on the verge of 
 universal awakening, that a word or touch 
 might be enough to arouse her whole being 
 at any moment — might open her eyes to 
 her own position and that of her parents, 
 and show her the nature of her individual 
 sentiments, as by a sudden gleam of light. 
 Rose, however, was not the least in the 
 world aware of this ; and at the present 
 moment she was no further advanced than 
 was consistent with saying frankly that 
 she liked "Wodehouse very much — and feel- 
 ing (but of this she said nothing) more 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 glad wlien slie saw liim coming tlian about 
 any other event in lier simple days. 
 
 Dinglefield is a sociable place, and tliere 
 is sometbing in a soft summer evening, 
 after a very bot, blazing summer day, wbicb 
 fosters a disposition to stroll about and 
 interchange greetings witb your neigh- 
 bours. As it began to darken upon the 
 evening of this particular day, various 
 people in the bouses about stepped out of 
 tbeir wide-open windows after dinner, and, 
 tempted by the beauty of twilight, strayed 
 along the road or over the Green, to the 
 Eectory garden, which was, by universal 
 acknowledgment, "the most perfect spot" 
 in the village. 
 
 Much has been said about the charms of 
 twilight, but Httle, I think, of its peculiar 
 English beauty, which is not so magical
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. ^^ 
 
 as tlie momentary interval between light 
 and dark in tlie soutli, or tlie lingering, 
 prolonged, silvery, and ineffable dimness 
 of those northern twilights, which last half 
 the night ; but has a dusky softness alto- 
 gether peculiar to itself, like the shadowing 
 of downy wings. The air was delicious, 
 fresh after the hot day, yet so warm as to 
 make wrappings quite unnecessary. The 
 sky, still somewhat pale in its blue, after 
 the languor of the heat, looked down faint 
 yet friendly, as if glad to see again a little 
 movement and sense of life. A few sub- 
 dued stars peeped out here and there, and 
 the wide stretch of country lay dim under- 
 neath, revealing itself in long soft lines of 
 grey, till it struck into a higher tone of 
 blue on the horizon where earth and heaven 
 met. All the Damerels who were out of 
 
 ir2
 
 68 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 bed were in the garden, and tlie neigli- 
 bours, wlio had made this pleasant terrace 
 the end of their walk, were scattered about 
 in various groups. Mr. Incledon, who was 
 Eose's wealthy lover, came late, and stood 
 talking with Mrs. Damerel, watching with 
 wistful eyes her appropriation by his rival, 
 young "Wodehouse — whose mother, hooded 
 in the white Shetland shawl, which she had 
 thrown over her cap to come out, sat on a 
 garden-chair with her feet upon the Eec- 
 tor's Persian rug, listening to him while he 
 talked, with the devout admiration which 
 became a member of his flock. The Eector 
 was talking politics with General Peronnet, 
 and Mrs. Wodehouse thought it was beauti- 
 ful to see how thoroughly he understood a 
 subject which was so much out of his way 
 as the abolition of purchase in the army.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 69 
 
 *' If lie had been in Parliament, now !" she 
 said to tlie General's wife, wlio thouglit lier 
 husband was the object of the eulogy. 
 
 There were two or three other members 
 of this group listening to the Rector's 
 brilliant talk, saying a few words, wise or 
 foolish, as occasion served. Others were 
 walking abou.t upon the lawn, and one 
 lady, with her dress lifted, was hastening 
 off the grass, which she had just discovered 
 to be wet with dew. Upon none of them, 
 however, did Mr. Incledon's attention turn. 
 He followed with his eyes a pair whose 
 young figures grew less and less in the 
 distance, half lost in the darkness. The 
 persistence with which he watched them 
 seemed a reproach to the mother, with 
 whom he talked by fits and starts, and 
 whose anxiety was not at all awakened by
 
 70 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 the fact tliat Rose was almost out of 
 siglit. 
 
 /' I am afraid Rose is not so careful as 
 slie ouglit to be about the dew on the 
 grass," she said, half apologetically, half- 
 smiling, in reply to his look. 
 
 " Shall I go and tell her you think so ?" 
 said Mr. Incledon hastily. He was a man 
 of about five-and-thirty, good-looking, 
 sensible, and well dispositioned — a per- 
 sonage thoroughly comme il faut. He was 
 the sort of suitor whom proper parents 
 love to see approaching a favourite child. 
 He could give a wife everything a woman 
 could desire — provide for her handsomely, 
 surround her with luxury, fill her life with 
 pleasures and prettinesses, and give her 
 an excellent position. And the man him- 
 self was free of cranks and crotchets, full
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 71 
 
 of good sense, well educated, good-tem- 
 pered. "Where are girls' eyes, tliat they 
 do not perceive such advantages ? 
 
 Mrs. Damerel hesitated a moment be- 
 tween sympathy with her child and sym- 
 pathy with this admirable man. There 
 was a struggle in her mind which was to 
 have the predominance. At length some 
 gleam of recollection or association struck 
 her, and moved the balance in Rose's fa- 
 vour, who, she felt sure, did not want Mr. 
 Incledon just at that moment. 
 
 " Never mind," she said, tranquilly, " it 
 will not hurt her," and resumed a conver- 
 sation about the music in the church, 
 which was poor. Mr. Incledon was very 
 musical, but he had no more heart for 
 anthems at that moment than had he 
 never sung a note.
 
 72 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Rose had strayed a little way down tlie 
 slope with Edward Wodehouse. They 
 were not talking much, and what they did 
 say was about nothing in particular — -the 
 garden, the wild flowers among the grass 
 on this less polished and less cultured 
 lawn which sloped down the little hill. 
 At the moment when the elder suitor's 
 glances had directed Mrs. Damerel's atten- 
 tion towards them, they were standing 
 under a gnarled old hawthorn tree, round 
 which was a little platform of soft turf. 
 
 ''We lose the view lower down," said 
 Rose ; and there they stopped accordingly, 
 neither of them caring to turn back. The 
 soft plain stretched away in long lines 
 before them into the haze and distance 
 like the sea. And as they stood there, 
 the young moon, which had been hidden
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 73 
 
 beliind a clump of liigli trees, suddenly 
 glinted out upon tliem with tliat soft dewy 
 glimmer wliicb. makes the growing cres- 
 cent so doubly sweet. They were both a 
 little taken aback, as if they had been 
 surprised by some one suddenly meeting 
 and looking at them — though, indeed, 
 there was not a syllable of their simple 
 talk that all the world might not have 
 heard. Both made a step on, as if to 
 return again after this surprise, and then 
 they both laughed, with a little innocent 
 embarrassment, and turned back to the 
 view. 
 
 ''What a lovely night !" said Rose, with 
 a faint little sigh. She had already said 
 these not remarkable words two or three 
 times at least, and she had nothing in the 
 world to sigh about, but was in fact hap-
 
 74 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 pier than usual, though a little' sad, she 
 knew not why. 
 
 " Look at those lights down below there," 
 said young Wodehouse ; " how they shine 
 out among tke trees !" 
 
 "Yes, that is from Ankermead," said 
 E/Ose ; '' you know it ? — the prettiest little 
 house." 
 
 "When we are away, we poor'^ari- 
 ners," he said, with a little laugh, which 
 was more affected than real ; " that is, I 
 think, the thing that goes to our hearts 
 most." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " The lights in the windows — of course 
 I don't mean at sea," said young Wode- 
 house ; " but when we are cruising about 
 a strange coast, for instance, just one of 
 those twinkles shining out of the darkness
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 75' 
 
 — you can see lights a long way off — gives 
 a fellow a stab, and makes liim think of 
 home." 
 
 " But it is pleasant to think of home," 
 said Eose. " Oh, what am I saying ? I 
 beg your pardon, Mr. Wodehouse. To be 
 sure, I know what you mean. When I 
 was at school, something used to come in 
 
 my throat when I remembered Many 
 
 a time I have stood at the window, and 
 pretended I was looking out, and cried." 
 
 '' Ah !" said Wodehouse, half sympa- 
 thetic, half smiling, '' but then you know 
 it would not do if I looked over the ship's 
 side and cried — though I have had a great 
 mind to do it sometimes in my midship- 
 man days." 
 
 ^' To cry is a comfort," said Rose : 
 " what do you men do instead ?"
 
 76 A EOSE IN JTJNE. 
 
 "We smoke, Miss Damerel, and think. 
 How often I shall think of this night, and 
 of the lights yonder, and mix up this 
 sweet evening with an interior, perhaps, 
 sweeter still !" 
 
 '' I don't think so," said Rose, with a 
 soft laugh, in which there was, however, 
 a shade of embarrassment which some- 
 what surprised herself. " The room is 
 rather stuffy, and the lamps not bright, if 
 you were near enough ; and two old people 
 half dozing over the tea-table, one with 
 the newspaper, one with her worsted- 
 work. It is very humdrum, and not 
 sweet at all inside." 
 
 '' Well, perhaps they are all the fonder 
 of each other for being humdrum ; and it 
 must have been sweet when they were 
 young."
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 11 
 
 " They were never young," said E/Ose, 
 with a silvery peal of laughter, turning to 
 go back to the lawn. "" See what tricks 
 imagination plays ! You would not like 
 to spend an evening there, though the- 
 lights are so pretty outside." 
 
 '^ Imagination will play many a trick 
 with me before I forget it," said young^ 
 A¥odehouse in subdued tones. 
 
 Rose's heart fluttered a little — a very 
 little — with the softest preliminary _^ensa- 
 tions of mingled happiness and alarm. 
 She did not understand the flutter, but 
 somehow felt it right to fly from it, trip- 
 ping back to the serenity of society on 
 the lawn. As for the young man, he had 
 a great longing to say something more, 
 but a feeling which was mingled of rever- 
 ence for her youth and dread of frighten-
 
 78 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 ing lier bj a premature declaration kept 
 liim silent. He followed her into tlie 
 hum of friendly talk, and then across the 
 lawn to the house, where the neighbours 
 streamed in for tea. The bright lights 
 in the Eectory drawing-room dazzled them 
 both — the windows were wide open ; 
 crowds of moths were flickering in and 
 out, dashing themselves, poor suicides, 
 against the circle of light ; and all the 
 charmed dimness grew more magical as 
 the sky deepened into night, and the 
 moon rose higher and began to throw long 
 shadows across the lawn. 
 
 ^' On such a night " lovers once prattled 
 in Shakespeare's sweetest vein. All that 
 they said, and a great deal more, came 
 into young Wodehouse's charmed heart 
 and stole it away. He heard himself say-
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 79 
 
 ino' tlie words, and wondered how it was 
 tliat lie himself was so entirely happy and 
 sad, and thought how he might perhaps 
 soon say them to himself as his ship 
 rustled through the water, and the moon- 
 light slept broad and level, and uninter- 
 rupted by any poetry of shadows upon the 
 sea. To think of that filled his heart with 
 a soft, unspeakable pang ; and yet the 
 very pain had a sweetness in it, and sense 
 of exaltation. 
 
 " There are the lights still," he said, 
 standing over her where she had seated 
 herself near the window. " I shall always 
 remember them, though you will not allow 
 
 of any romance " 
 
 ''Romance! oh no," said Eose lightly; 
 " only two old people. We have not any 
 romance here."
 
 80 A ROSE m JUNE. 
 
 Mr. Incledon, who had been watching' 
 his opportunity so long, now came forward 
 with a cup of tea. Poor Edward was too 
 much abstracted in his thoughts and in 
 her, and with the confusion of a Httle 
 crisis of sentiment, to think of the usual 
 attentions of society which he owed to her. 
 He started and blushed when he saw how 
 negligent he had been, and almost stumbled 
 over her chair in his anxiety to retrieve 
 his carelessness. 
 
 "My dear "Wodehouse, Miss Damerel 
 cannot drink more than one cup of tea at 
 a time," said the elder suitor, with that air 
 of indulgent pity for his vagaries which so 
 irritates a young man : and he mounted 
 guard over Rose for the rest of the even- 
 ing. 
 
 The good neighbours began to go home
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 81 
 
 when tliey had taken their tea, and the 
 Rector and his daughter went with them 
 to the gate, when there was a soft babble 
 and commotion of good-nights, and every 
 two people repeated to each other, ^' What 
 a lovely moon !" and " What a glorious 
 night !" 
 
 As for poor Wodehouse, in his cli- 
 max of youth and love, his very heart 
 was melted within him. Twice he turned 
 back, murmuring to his mother some in- 
 articulate explanation that he had for- 
 gotten something — that he wanted to speak 
 to the Rector — and twice went back to 
 her solemnl,y saying it did not matter. 
 'No, no, he said to himself, he must not 
 be premature. 
 
 Rose took another turn round the lawn 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 with her father before they went in. Mrs. 
 Damerel was visible inside, sending the 
 tray away, putting stray books in their 
 places, and stray bits of work in the work- 
 basket, before the bell should ring for 
 prayers. Mr. Damerel looked in as he 
 passed with an indulgent smile. 
 
 '^ She calleth her maidens about her," 
 he said, ''though it is not to spin, Rose, 
 but to pray. Somehow it enhances the 
 luxury of our stroll to see your mother 
 there, putting everything in order with 
 that careful and troubled face — eh, child, 
 don't you think with me ?" 
 
 ''But does it enhance her luxury to have 
 us walking and talking while she has 
 everything to lay by ?" said Rose, with an 
 uncomfortable sense that her own work 
 and several books which she had left about
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 83 
 
 were among those whicli lier mother was 
 putting away. 
 
 " Ah, you have found out there are two 
 sides to a question," said her father, 
 patting her on the cheek, with his gentle 
 habitual smile ; but he gave no answer to 
 her question ; and then the maids became 
 visible, trooping in, in their white caps and 
 aprons, and the Rector, with a sigh and a 
 last look at the midnight and the dim 
 dewy landscape, went in to domesticity 
 and duty, which he did not like so 
 well. 
 
 Rose went to her room that night with 
 a thrill of all her gentle being which she 
 could not explain. She looked out from 
 her window among the honeysuckles, and 
 was so disappointed as almost to cry when 
 
 g2
 
 84 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 she found tlie lights out, and the little 
 cottage on Ankermead lost in the dark- 
 ness. She could have cried, and yet but 
 for that fanciful trouble, how happy the 
 child was ! Everything embraced her — 
 the clinging tendrils of the honeysuckle^ 
 so laden with dew and sweetness ; the 
 shadows of the trees, which held out their 
 arms to her ; the soft caressing moon 
 which touched her face and surrounded it 
 with a pale glory. Nothing but good and 
 happiness was around, behind, before her, 
 and a trembling of happiness to come, 
 even sweeter than anything she had ever 
 known, whispered over her in soft indefi- 
 nite murmurs, like the summer air in the 
 petals of a flower. She opened her bosom 
 to it, with a delicious half-consciousness 
 fresh as any rose that lets its leaves be
 
 A ROSE IX JUNE. 85 
 
 touched by the sweet south. This Rose in 
 Juno expanded, grew richer, and of a more 
 -damask rosiness, but could not tell why.
 
 86 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 RS. DAMEREL thouglit it her dutj, 
 a few nights after this, to speak to 
 her husband of Rose's suitors. 
 
 *'Mr. Incledon has spoken so plainly to 
 me that I can't mistake him," she said; 
 *' and in case you should not have noticed 
 it yourself, Herbert " 
 
 " I notice it !" he said, with a smile ; 
 *^ what chance is there that I should notice 
 it ? So my Rose in June is woman enough 
 to have lovers of her own !"
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 87 
 
 "I was married before I was Eose's 
 age," said Mrs. Damerel. 
 
 " So you were, Martha. I had forgotten 
 the progress of time, and that summer 
 once attained is a long step towards 
 autumn. Well, if it must be, it must be. 
 Incledon is not a bad fellow, as men 
 go." 
 
 " But, I think— there is another, Her- 
 bert." 
 
 " Another !" said the Rector, leaning 
 back in his chair with gentle laughter. 
 " Why, this is too good ; and who may he 
 be, the No. 2 ?" 
 
 '' It is young Wodehouse, the sailor " 
 
 '' The widow's son on the Green ! Come, 
 now, Martha, once for all this is absurd,'' 
 said Mr. Damerel, suddenly rousing himself 
 up. " This is out of the question. I say
 
 88 A ROSE IN JUA'E. 
 
 notliing against Incledon ; but if you have 
 been so foolishly romantic as to encourage 
 a beggar like young Wodehouse " 
 
 '' I have not encouraged him. I disap- 
 prove of it as much as you can do," said 
 Mrs. Damerel, with a flush on her cheek ; 
 *' but whether Rose will agree with us I 
 dare not say." 
 
 " Oh, E.ose !" said her husband, drop- 
 ping into his easy tone. "Rose is a child ; 
 she will follow whatever lead is given to 
 her. I am not afraid of Rose. You must 
 speak to her, and show her which way you 
 intend her mind to go ; be very plain and 
 unequivocal ; an unawakened mind always 
 should be treated in the plainest and most 
 distinct way." 
 
 " But, Herbert, you have more influence 
 than I have ever had over her. Rose is
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 89 
 
 more your companion than mine. I am 
 not sure that it is the best thing for her, 
 as far as practical life is concerned " 
 
 '' My dear," said Mr. Damerel, benignly, 
 " Rose has nothing to do with practical 
 life. You women are always excessive, 
 even in your virtues. I do not mean to 
 throw any doubt upon your qualities as 
 the most excellent of wives, but you have 
 not the discrimination to perceive that 
 duties which suit you admirably would be 
 quite out of place in her. It is a matter 
 of natural fitness. The practical is adapt- 
 ed to forty, but not to nineteen. Let the 
 child alone, my love, to enjoy her youth." 
 
 '' I think you argue^ like a^ Jcauit , Her- 
 bert," said Mrs. Damerel ; ''but whether 
 you are right or wrong on this point does 
 not affect what I ask — which is, that yon
 
 90 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 would speak to lier. She is mucli more 
 likely to attend to you than to me." 
 
 " Wlio— I ?" said Mr. Damerel, with a 
 fretful line in his fine forehead. ''It is 
 totally out of the question, Martha. / 
 speak to Rose about her lovers ! It would 
 be quite indelicate, in the first place ; and 
 in the second, it would be most disagreeable 
 to me." 
 
 " But, still, we have a duty to our child, 
 even if it is disagreeable," said his wife, 
 not willing to give up her object without a 
 struggle. 
 
 " My dear Martha, spare me ! I knew 
 you would say something about duty. 
 You are very didactic, my love, by nature ; 
 but this, you must remember, is rather a 
 reversal of positions between you and me. 
 Let Rose see," he continued, once more
 
 A EOSE m JUNE. 91 
 
 relaxing in tone, "tliat her path is quite 
 clear before her. Incledon is a very good 
 fellow; he will be of use to me in many 
 ways. Nothing could be more desirable ► 
 There is a new box of books which I must 
 look over, Martha ; do not let me detain 
 you. You will manage the matter admir- 
 ably, I am sure, in your own sensible 
 way." 
 
 And the Rector lighted his wife's can- 
 dle, and opened the door for her with a 
 suavity and almost gallantry which would 
 have brought tears to the eyes of the 
 parish had they been there to see. 
 
 " How perfect Mr. Damerel's behaviour 
 is to that rather commonplace wife of 
 his r Such was the kind of thing people 
 said. 
 
 He went to look over his box of books^
 
 92 A KOSE IX JUNE. 
 
 from the London library after liis talk, 
 with mucli amusement in his mind as to 
 Rose's lovers. He thought his child per- 
 fect as a child ; but the idea that a serious 
 man like Incledon should think of her in 
 the serious position of a wife, tickled the 
 Rector's fancy. He thought over the mat- 
 ter as he glanced at the books which had 
 been unpacked for him, leaving nothing 
 for his delicate ivory hands to do but turn 
 the volumes over. There was an agreeable 
 and a disagreeable side to it. Incledon, 
 for one thing, would be a capable referee 
 in all money matters, and would help to 
 arrange about the boys, and get them on 
 in the world, which was a great relief to 
 think of; for ere now Mr. Damerel had 
 felt the painful reflection thrust upon him 
 that some time or other he must do some-
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 93 
 
 thing about the boys. The other side of 
 the question was, that he would lose the 
 society of his Rose in June, his pretty com- 
 panion, whose ornamental presence lent a 
 a new charm to his pretty house. He 
 shrugged his shoulders a little over this, 
 saying to himself that it must be sooner or 
 later, and that, after all, he had done with- 
 out Rose for many years, and had been 
 much of a sufferer in consequence. It was 
 the way of the world ; and then he smiled 
 again at the thought of Rose in tha serious 
 position of Mr. Incledon's wife. 
 
 Mrs. Damerel had very different feelings 
 on the subject, as she went upstairs with 
 the candle he had so politely lighted for 
 her in her hand. I am afraid she was 
 not so softened as she ought to have been 
 by his charming politeness, which made
 
 •94 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 her slightly angry, and she was deeply dis- 
 turbed by the task he had thrown back 
 upon her. Mrs. Damerel knew that girls 
 were not so easily moulded as their fathers 
 sometimes think. She felt by instinct that, 
 according to all precedent, Wodehouse, 
 who was young, and gay, and penniless, 
 must be the favourite. She knew, too, 
 that to endeavour to turn the current in 
 favour of the other was almost enough to 
 decide matters against him ; and, beyond 
 all this, Mrs. Damerel felt it hard that 
 everything that was painful and disagree- 
 able should be left on her shoulders. Rose 
 was separated from her; she was her 
 father's companion ; she was being trained 
 to prefer refined but useless leisure with 
 him, to the aid and sympathy which her 
 mother had a right to look for ; yet, when
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 95 
 
 it came to be needful to do any disagree- 
 able duty for Rose, it was the mother who 
 had to put herself in the breach. It was 
 hard upon Mrs. Damerel. All the reproof, 
 the unpleasant suggestions of duty, the 
 disagreeable advice, the apparent exactions 
 to come from her side ; while nothing but 
 indulgence, petting, and fondness, and un- 
 limited compliance with every desire she 
 had, should be apparent on the side of the 
 father. I think Mrs. Damerel was right, 
 and that hers was a very hard case in- 
 deed. 
 
 The Wodehouses came hastily to the 
 Rectory the very next day to intimate the 
 sad news of Edward's approaching de- 
 parture. His mother fairly broke down, 
 and cried bitterly. 
 
 '' I hoped to have had him with me so
 
 96 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 mucli longer/' she said ; " and now he must 
 go off about tliis slave trade. Oh ! whj 
 should we take it upon us to look after 
 everybody, when they don't want to be 
 looked after? If those poor African 
 wretches cared as much for it as we sup- 
 pose, wouldn't they take better care of 
 themselves ? What have we to do, always 
 interfering? When I think of my boy, 
 who is all I have in the world, going out 
 to that dreadful coast to risk his life, 
 for the sake of some one he never saw or 
 
 heard of- " 
 
 *' My dear lady, we cannot be altogether 
 guided by private motives," said the Rec- 
 tor; '^we must take principle for something. 
 Were we to permit the slave trade, Ave 
 should depart from all our traditions.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. • 97 
 
 England has always been tlie guardian of 
 freedom." 
 
 '' Oh ! Mr. Damerel," said the poor lady, 
 with tears in her eyes, '^ freedom is all 
 very well to talk about, and I suppose it's 
 a great thing to have ; but what is freedom 
 to these poor savages, that it should cost 
 me and other women our boys ?" 
 
 "It will not cost you your boy," said 
 Mrs. Damerel; "he will come back. Don't 
 take the gloomiest view of the question. 
 He has been there before, and it did not 
 hurt him ; why should it now ?" 
 
 " Ah ! who can tell that ?*' said poor Mrs. 
 Wodehouse, drying her eyes. She was a 
 woman wholiked the darker sideof allhuman 
 affairs, and she felt it almost an insult to 
 her when anyone prognosticated happiness. 
 Her son -was doing all he could to bear up 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 under the depressing influence of her pre- 
 dictions, and his regret at leaving her, and 
 disappointment in having his hohday 
 shortened — along with a deeper reason 
 still, which he had said nothing about. He 
 tried to be as cheerful as he could; but 
 when he turned to Eose, and met the one 
 piteous look the girl gave him, and saw 
 her lip quiver — though he did not know 
 whether it was out of sympathy with his 
 mother, or from any personal feeling of 
 her own — he very nearly broke down. 
 He had still ten days to make his prepara- 
 tions for leaving, and before that time, he 
 thought to himself, he must surely find out 
 whether Rose cared anything for him more 
 than she did for the others whom she had 
 known, like him, almost all her life. He
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 99 
 
 looked anxiously into lier face when lie 
 sliook hands with her ; but Eose, feeling, 
 she could not tell why, more inclined to 
 cry than she had ever been before, without 
 any reason, as she said, would not meet 
 his looks. 
 
 '' This is not my farewell visit," he said, 
 with an attempt at a laugh. " I don't 
 know why I should feel so dismal about it; 
 I shall see you all again." 
 
 '^ Oh ! many times, I hope !" said Mrs. 
 Damerel, who could not help feeling kindly 
 towards the poor young fellow, notwith- 
 standing her conspiracy against his inte- 
 rests. The Rector did not commit himself 
 in this foolish way, but took leave of the 
 young sailor solemnly. 
 
 " However that may be," he said, " God 
 
 h2
 
 100 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 bless you, Edward ! I am sure you will 
 do your duty, and be a credit to all tliat 
 wash you well." 
 
 This address chilled poor Wodehouse 
 more and more. Was it his dismissal ? 
 He tried to bear up against that too, talk- 
 ing of the garden-party he was coming to 
 on Wednesday, and of the repeated visits 
 he still hoped for ; but, somehow, from the 
 moment he received the Rector's blessing, 
 he believed in these farewell visits, and the 
 explanations they might give rise to, no 
 more. When he went away with his 
 mother, Eose ran upstairs on some pre- 
 text, and her father and mother were left 
 alone. 
 
 '' Martha" said the Rector, ^' your usual 
 careful solicitude failed you just now. 
 You as good as asked him to come back ;
 
 A ROSE IN JUXE. 101 
 
 and what could possibly be so bad for 
 Rose ?" 
 
 " How could I help it ?" she said. *' Poor 
 boy, he must come again, at least to say 
 good-bye." 
 
 " I don't see the necessity. It will only 
 make mischief. Rose is quite cast down, 
 whether from sympathy or from feeling. 
 We should take care ^not to be at home 
 when he calls again." 
 
 Mr. Damerel said this in so even a voice 
 that it was delightful to hear him speak, 
 and he went out and took his seat under 
 the lime-trees, as a man should who has 
 discharged all his duties and is at peace 
 and in favour with both God and man. 
 Rose did not venture to face her mother 
 with eyes which she felt were heavy, and 
 therefore stole out of doors direct and
 
 102 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 went to her fatlier, who was always indul- 
 gent. How good and tender he was, 
 never finding fault ! If perhaps, as Rose 
 was beginning to fear, it must be confessed 
 that he was deficient in energy — a gentle 
 accusation which the fondest partisan 
 might allow — yet, to balance this, how 
 good he was, how feeling, how tender ! 
 No one need be afraid to go to him. He 
 was always ready to hear one's story, to 
 forgive one's mistakes. Rose, who did 
 not want to be catechised, stole across the 
 lawn and sat down on the grass without a 
 word. She did not care to meet anybody's 
 look just at that moment. She had not 
 cried ; but the tears were so very near the 
 surface, that any chance encounter of looks 
 might have been more than she could 
 bear.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 103 
 
 Mr. Damerel did not speak all at once. 
 He took time, the more cunningly to be- 
 tray her ; and then he entered upon one of 
 his usual conversations, to which poor 
 Rose gave but little heed. After a while 
 her monosyllabic answers seemed to at- 
 tract his curiosity all at once. 
 
 '' You are not well," he said ; "or sorry, 
 is it ? Sorry for poor Mrs. Wodehouse, 
 who is going to lose her son ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, papa. Poor old lady — she 
 will be so lonely when he is away." 
 
 "She is not so very old," he said, 
 amused ; " not so old as I am, and I don't 
 feel myself a Methuselah. It is very good 
 of you to be so sympathising, my dear." 
 
 '^Oh! papa, who could help it?" said 
 E-ose, almost feeling as if her father would 
 approve the shedding of those tears which
 
 104 A ROSE IN ju:^E. . 
 
 made her eyes so hot and heavy. She 
 plucked a handful of grass and played with 
 it, her head held down, and the large drops 
 gathering ; and her heart, poor child, for 
 the moment, in the fulness of this first 
 trouble, felt more heavy than her eyes. 
 
 " Yes, it is a pity for Mrs. Wodehouse," 
 said Mr. Damerel, reflectively; ''but, on 
 the other hand, it would be very selfish to 
 regret it for Edward. He has not a penny, 
 poor fellow, and not much influence that I 
 know of. He can only get his promotion 
 by service, and in this point of view his 
 friends ought to be glad he is going. 
 Look across Ankermead, Eose ; how soft 
 the shadows are ! — the most delicate grey 
 with silvery lights. If you were a little 
 more ambitious as an artist, you might get 
 your sketch-book and try that effect."
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 105 
 
 Eose smiled a wan little smile in answer 
 to this invitation, and looking down upon 
 the landscape, as he told her to do, saw 
 nothing but a bluish-green and yellow mist 
 through the prismatic medium of the big 
 tear, which next moment, to her terror 
 and misery, came down, a huge unconceal- 
 able wet blot, upon her light summer dress. 
 She was herself so struck by consternation 
 at the sight, that, instead of making any 
 attempt to conceal it, she looked up at 
 him, her lips falling apart, her eyes grow- 
 ing larger and larger with fright and won- 
 der, half appealing to him to know what it 
 could mean, half defying observation. Mr. 
 Damerel saw that it was necessary to 
 abandon his usual rule of indulgence. 
 
 '' You are too sympathetic, my dear," he 
 said. "If any one but me saw this, they
 
 106 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 miglit say sucli feeling was too strong to 
 be lavished on Mrs. Wodeliouse. Don't 
 let us hear any more of it. Have you 
 finished ' Balaustion ?' You have no book 
 with you to-day." 
 
 " No, papa — I came out — the other 
 way " 
 
 ^'What does that mean? Not through 
 the drawing-room, where you left it, and 
 where your mother was ? I think you 
 were right, Rose," said Mr. Damerel, 
 dropping back in his chair with his easy 
 smile ; " your mother has little patience 
 with Mrs. Wodehouse's despairs and mise- 
 ries. You had better keep your sympathy 
 to yourself in her presence. Look here ; 
 I want this read aloud. My eyes ache ; I 
 was up late last night." 
 
 Eose took the book obediently, and read.
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 107 
 
 She saw tlie white page and letters clear 
 without any prismatic lights. Her tears 
 were all driven away, forced back upon her 
 heart as if by a strong wind. . She read, 
 as Milton's daughters might have read his 
 Latin, if they did not understand it, as 
 some people say — not missing a word nor 
 seeing any meaning in one ; going on as in 
 a dream, with a consciousness of herself, 
 and the scene, and her father's look, and 
 not a notion what she was reading about. 
 It was very good mental discipline, but so 
 sharp that this poor soft child, utterly un- 
 used to it, not knowing why she should 
 suddenly be subjected to such fierce re- 
 pression, wretched and sick at heart, and 
 sorry and ashamed, never forgot it all her 
 life. 
 
 She read thus for about an hour, till 
 
 ^
 
 108 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 laer father stopped her to make some notes 
 upon the margin of the book ; for he was 
 one of those elegantly studious persons 
 who weave themselves through the books 
 they read, and leave volumes of notes on 
 every possible subject behind them. He 
 had been entering into every word, though 
 Rose had not understood a syllable ; and 
 he smiled and discoursed to her about it, 
 while she kept silent, terrified lest he 
 should ask some question which would 
 betray her inattention. 
 
 Rose had been learning smilingly, with 
 happy bewilderment, for some months back, 
 to consider herself an independent indi- 
 vidual. She felt and realised it without 
 any difficulty to-day. She stood quite 
 alone in all that bright scene, apart from 
 the real world and the ideal both — neither
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 109' 
 
 the lawn, nor the book, nor the landscape, 
 nor her father's talk having power to move 
 her; frightened at herself — still more 
 frightened for him, and for the tone half 
 sarcastic, half reproving, which for the first 
 time in her life she had heard in his voice; 
 and without even the satisfaction of realis- 
 ing the new sentiment which had come 
 into her mind. She realised nothing ex- 
 cept that sudden dismay had come over her ; 
 that it had been checked summarily ; that 
 her tears, driven back, were filling her head 
 and her heart with confusing pain ; that 
 there Avas something wrong in the strange 
 new motion that was at work within her — 
 and this without even the melancholy 
 sweetness of knowing what it was. 
 
 Poor Rose in June ! It was the first 
 storm that had ever disturbed her perfect
 
 110 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 blossom. She began to get better after a 
 while, as at her age it is easy to do, and 
 gradually came out of her mist and was 
 restored to partial consciousness. 
 
 By the evening of that day she was 
 nearly herself again, though much subdued, 
 remembering that she had been very un- 
 happy, as she might have remembered a 
 very bad headache, with great content, yet 
 wonder, that it should be gone or almost 
 gone. The cessation of the active pain 
 gave her a kind of subdued happiness once 
 more, as relief always does — which the 
 heart never feels to be negative, but 
 positive. What a thing ease is, after we 
 are once conscious of having lost it even 
 for an hour ! This brought Eose's colour 
 back, and her smile. All mental pain, I 
 suppose, is spasmodic ; and the first fit,
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. Ill 
 
 when not too well defined nor hopeless in 
 character, is often as brief as it is violent. 
 Rose got better ; her mind accustomed itself 
 to the shadow which for one short interval 
 had covered it with blackness. She began 
 to perceive that it did not fill all earth and 
 heaven, as she had at first supposed.
 
 112 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ROSE grew very mucli better, almost 
 quite well, next day. There was still 
 a little thrill about her of the pain past, but 
 in the meantime nothing had yet happened, 
 no blank had been made in the circle of 
 neighbours ; and though she was still as 
 sorry as ever, she said to herself, for poor 
 Mrs. Wodehouse (which was the only rea- 
 son she had ever given to herself for that 
 serrement de coeur), yet there were evident 
 consolations in that poor lady's lot if she 
 could but see them. Edward would come
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 113 
 
 back again ; she would get letters from 
 him ; she would have him still, though he 
 was away. She was his inalienably, what- 
 ever distance there might be between them. 
 This seemed a strong argument to E-ose in 
 favour of a brighter view of the subject, 
 though I do not think it would have assist- 
 ed Mrs. Wodehouse ; and, besides, there 
 were still ten days, which — as a day is 
 eternity to a child — was as good as a year 
 at least to Rose. So she took comfort, and 
 preened herself like a bird, and came again 
 forth to the day in all her sweet bloom, her 
 tears got rid of in the natural way, her eyes 
 no longer hot and heavy. She scarcely 
 observed even, or at least did not make any 
 mental note of the fact, that she did not 
 see Edward Wodehouse for some days 
 thereafter. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 A EOSE IN JTJNE. 
 
 " How sorry I am to have missed tliem !" 
 her mother said, on hearing that the young 
 man and his mother had called in her 
 absence ; and Rose was sorry too, but hon- 
 estly took the fact for an accident. During 
 the ensuing days there was little doubt that 
 an unusual amount of occupation poured 
 upon her. She went with her father to 
 town one morning to see the pictures in the 
 exhibition. Another day she was taken by 
 the same delightful companion to the other 
 side of the county to a garden party, 
 which was the most beautiful vision of fine 
 dresses and fine people Eose had ever seen. 
 I cannot quite describe what the girl's feel- 
 ings were while she was going through 
 these unexpected pleasures. She liked 
 them, and was pleased and flattered ; but 
 at the same time a kind of giddy sense of
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 115 
 
 sometHing being done to het wliicli she 
 could not make out — some force being put 
 upon her, she could not tell what, or 
 why, was in her mind. For the first time 
 in her life she was jealous and curious, 
 suspecting some unseen motive, though she 
 could not tell what it might be. 
 
 On the fourth day her father and mother 
 both together took her with them to Mr. 
 Incledon's, to see, they said, a new picture 
 which he had just bought — a Perugino, or, 
 it might be, an early Eaphael. " He wants 
 my opinion — and I want yours, Rose," 
 said her father, flattering, as he always did, 
 his favourite child. 
 
 " And Mr. Incledon wants hers too," 
 said Mrs. Damerel. ''I don't know what 
 has made him think you a judge. Rose." 
 
 '' Oh ! how can I give an opinion — what 
 
 i2
 
 116 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 do I know ?" said Rose, bewildered ; but 
 she was pleased, as wliat girl would not be 
 pleased ? To have lier opinion prized was 
 pleasant, even though she felt that it was 
 a subject upon which she could give no 
 opinion. " I have never seen any but the 
 Raphaels in the National Gallerj," she said, 
 with alarmed youthful conscientiousness, as 
 they went along, ''and what can I know ?" 
 ^^ You can tell him if you like it ; and 
 that will please him as much as if you were 
 the first art critic in England," said the 
 Eector. These words gave Rose a little 
 thrill of suspicion — for why should Mr. 
 Incledon care for her opinion ? — and per- 
 plexed her thoughts much as she walked 
 up the leafy road to the gate of Whitton 
 Park, which was Mr. Incle don's grand 
 house. Her father expatiated upon the
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 11/ 
 
 beauty of tlie place as thej went in ; her 
 mother looked pre-occupied and anxious ; 
 and Rose herself grew more and more sus- 
 picious, though she was surprised into 
 some exclamations of pleasure at the beauty 
 and greenness of the park. 
 
 '' I wonder I have never been here be- 
 fore," she said ; '' how could it be ? I 
 thought we had been everywhere when we 
 were children, the boys and I." 
 
 " Mr. Incledon did not care for children's 
 visits," said her mother. 
 
 ''And he was in the right,' my dear. 
 Children have no eye for beauty; what 
 they want is space to tumble about in, and 
 trees to climb. This lovely bit of wood- 
 land would be lost on boys and girls. Be 
 thankful you did not see it when you were 
 incapable of appreciating it, Rose."
 
 118 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 "It is very odd, tliouglij" sTie said. 
 " Do you think it is nice of Mr. Incle- 
 don to shut up so pretty a place from 
 his neighbours — from his friends ? — for, as 
 we have always lived so near, we are his 
 friends, I suppose." 
 
 "Undoubtedly," said the Rector; but 
 his wife said nothing. I do not think her 
 directer mind cared for this way of influ- 
 encing her daughter. She was anxious 
 for the same object, but she would have 
 attained it in a different way. 
 
 Here, however, Mr. Incledon himself 
 appeared with as much demonstration of 
 delight to see them as was compatible with 
 the supposed accidental character of the 
 visit. Mr. Incledon was one of those men 
 of whom you feel infallibly certain that 
 they must have been " good," even in their
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 119 
 
 nurse's arms. He was slim and tall, and 
 looked younger than he really was. He 
 had a good expression, dark eyes, and his 
 features, though not at all remarkable, 
 were good enough to give him the general 
 aspect of a handsome man. Whether he 
 was strictly handsome or not was a frequent 
 subject of discussion on the Green, where 
 unpleasant things had been said about his 
 chin and his eyebrows, but where the 
 majority was distinctly in his favour. His 
 face was long, his complexion rather dark, 
 and his general appearance '^ interesting." 
 Nobody that I know of had ever called him 
 common-place. He was interesting — a 
 word which often stands high in the rank 
 of descriptive adjectives. He was the sort 
 of man of whom imaginative persons might 
 suppose that he had been the hero of a
 
 120 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 story. Indeed tliere were many theories 
 on the subject; and ingenious observers, 
 cMefly ladies, found a great many symp- 
 toms of this in his appearance and de- 
 meanour, and concluded that a man so well- 
 off and so well-looking would not have 
 remained unmarried so long had there not 
 been some reason for it. 
 
 But this phase of his existence was over, 
 so far as his own Avill was concerned. If 
 he had ever had any reason for remaining 
 unmarried, that obstacle must have been 
 removed ; for he was now anxious to marry, 
 and had fully made up his mind to do so 
 at as early a date as possible. I do not 
 know whether it could be truly said that 
 he was what foolish young people call 
 ^' very much in love" with Rose Damerel ; 
 but he had decided that she was the wife
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 121 
 
 for him, and meant to spare neither pains 
 nor patience in winning her. He had 
 haunted the Rectory for some time, with a 
 readiness to accept all invitations, which 
 was entirely unlike his former habits ; for 
 up to the time when he had seen and made 
 up his mind about Rose, Mr. Incledon had 
 been almost a recluse, appearing little in 
 the tranquil society of the Green, spending 
 much of his time abroad, and when at 
 home holding only a reserved and distant 
 intercourse with his neighbours. He gave 
 them a handsome heavy dinner two or 
 three times a year, and accepted the solemn 
 return which society requires ; but no one 
 at Dingiefield had seen more of his house 
 than the reception-rooms, or of himself 
 than those grave festivities exhibited. The 
 change upon him now was marked enough to
 
 122 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 enlighten the most careless looker-on ; and 
 the Perugino, which they were invited to 
 see, was in fact a pretence which the Rec- 
 tor and his wife saw through very easily^ 
 to make them acquainted with his hand- 
 some house and all its advantages. He 
 took them all over it and showed the glory 
 of it with mingled complacency and sub- 
 mission to their opinion. 
 
 Eose had never been within its walls be- 
 fore. She had never sat down familiarly 
 in rooms so splendid. The master of the 
 house had given himself up to furniture 
 and decorations as only a rich man can do ; 
 and the subdued grace of everything about 
 them, the wealth of artistic ornament, the 
 size and space which always impress people 
 who are accustomed to small houses, had no 
 inconsiderable effect at least upon the ladies
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 123^ 
 
 of the party. Mr. Damerel was not awed, 
 but he enjoyed the largeness and the luxury 
 with the satisfaction of a man who feels 
 every luxurious place to be his right sphere ; 
 and Mr. Incledon showed himself, as well 
 as his house, at his best, and, conscious that 
 he was doing so, looked, Mrs. Damerel 
 thought, younger, handsomer, and more 
 attractive than he had ever looked before. 
 Eose felt it too, vaguely. She felt that 
 she was herself somehow the centre of all 
 — the centre, perhaps, of a plot, the nature 
 of which perplexed and confused her ; but 
 the plot was not yet sufficiently advanced 
 to give her any strong sensation of dis- 
 comfort or fear. All that it did up to the 
 present moment was to convey that sense 
 of importance and pleasant consciousness 
 of being the first and most flatteringly
 
 124 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 considered, wliicli is always sweet to youth. 
 Thus they were all pleased, and, being 
 pleased, became more and more pleasant to 
 each other. Rose, I think, forgot poor 
 Mrs. Wodehouse altogether for the mo- 
 ment, and was as gay as if she had never 
 been sad. 
 
 The house was a handsome house, raised 
 on a slightly higher elevation than the 
 Rectory, surrounded by a pretty though 
 not very extensive park, and commanding 
 the same landscape as that which it was 
 the pride of the Damerels to possess from 
 their windows. It was the same, but with 
 a difference ; or, rather, it was like a view 
 of the same subject painted by a different 
 artist, dashed in in bolder lines, with 
 heavier massing of foliage, and one broad 
 reach of the river giving a great centre of
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 125 
 
 liglit and shadow, instead of the dreamy 
 revelations here and there of the winding 
 water as seen from the Rectory. Rose 
 gave an involuntary cry of delight when 
 she was taken out to the green terrace be- 
 fore the house, and first saw the landscape 
 from it ; though she never would confess 
 afterwards that she liked it half so well as 
 the shadowy distance and softer sweep of 
 country visible from her old home. 
 
 Mr. Incledon was as grateful to her 
 for her admiration as if the Thames and 
 the trees had been of his making, and ven- 
 tured to draw near confidentially and say 
 how much he hoped she would like his 
 Perugino, or, perhaps, Raphael. 
 
 ''You must give me your opinion frank- 
 ly," he said. 
 
 "But I never saw any Raphaels except
 
 126 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 those in the National Gallery," said Eose, 
 blushing with pleasure, and shamefaced- 
 ness, and conscientious difficulty. It did 
 not occur to the girl that her opinion could 
 be thus gravely asked for by a man fully 
 aware of its complete worthlessness as 
 criticism. She thought he must have 
 formed some mistaken idea of her know- 
 ledge or power. '^ And T don't — love them 
 — very much," she added, with a little hesi- 
 tation and a deeper blush, feeling that his 
 momentary good opinion of her must now 
 perish for ever. 
 
 " What does that mean ?" said Mr. Incle- 
 don. He was walking on with her through, 
 as she thought, an interminable vista of 
 rooms, one opening into the other, towards 
 the shrine in which he had placed his 
 picture. '' There is something more in it
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 127 
 
 than meets the ear. It does not mean 
 that yon don't like them " 
 
 ''It means — that I love the photograph 
 of the San Sisto, that papa gave me on my 
 birthday," said Rose. 
 
 "Ah! I perceive; yon are a yonng 
 critic ta jndge so closely. We have 
 nothing like that, have we ? How I 
 should like to show yon the San Sisto 
 picture ! Photographs and engravings 
 give no idea of the original." 
 
 '' Oh, please don't say so !" said Rose ; 
 " for so many people never can see the ori- 
 ginal. I wish I might, some time. The 
 pictures in the JSTational Gallery do not give 
 me at all the same feeling ; and, of course, 
 never having seen but these, I cannot be a 
 judge ; indeed, I should not dare to say any- 
 thing at all. Ah, — ah! "
 
 128 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Rose stopped and put her hands to- 
 gether, as she suddenly perceived before 
 her, hung upon a modest grey-green Avail, 
 with no other ornament near, one of those 
 very youthful, heavenly faces, surrounded 
 by tints as softly bright as their own 
 looks, which belong to that place and 
 period in which Perugino taught and 
 Raphael learnt — an ineffable sweet ideal 
 of holiness, tenderness, simplicity, and 
 youth. The girl stood motionless, sub- 
 dued by it, conscious of nothing but the 
 picture. It was doubly framed by the 
 doorway of the little room in which it 
 kept court. Before even she entered that 
 sacred chamber the young worshipper was 
 struck dumb with adoration. The door- 
 way was hung with silken curtains of the 
 same grey-green as the wall, and there
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 129 
 
 was not visible, either in this soft sur- 
 rounding framework, or in the picture 
 itself, any impertinent accessory to dis- 
 tract the attention. The face so tenderly 
 abstract, so heavenly human, looked at 
 Rose as at the world, but with a deeper, 
 stronger appeal ; for was not Mary such a 
 one as she ? The girl could not explain 
 the emotion which seized her. She felt 
 disposed to kneel down, and she felt dis- 
 posed to weep ; but did neither, only stood 
 there, with her lips apart, her eyes abstract 
 yet wistful, like those in the picture, and her 
 soft hands clasped and held unconsciously, 
 with that dramatic instinct common to all 
 emotion, somewhere near her heart. 
 
 " You have said something," said Mr. In- 
 cledon, softly, in her ear, "more eloquent 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 ttan I ever heard before. I am satisfied 
 that it is a Eaphael now." 
 
 "Why?" said Rose, awakening with 
 great surprise out of her momentary trance, 
 and shrinking back, her face covered with 
 blushes, to let the others pass who were 
 behind. 
 
 He did not answer her, except by a look, 
 which troubled the poor girl mightily, 
 suddenly revealing to her the meaning of it 
 all. 
 
 When the rest of the party went into 
 the room, Rose shrank behind her mother, 
 cowed and ashamed, and, instead of looking 
 at the picture, stole aside to the window and 
 looked out mechanically to conceal her 
 troubled countenance. As it happened, 
 the first spot on which her eye fell was 
 the little cottage at Ankermead, upon
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 131 
 
 whicli, just the other evening, she had 
 looked with Edward Wodehouse. All he 
 said came back to her, and the evening 
 scene in which he said it, and the soft, 
 indescribable happiness and sweetness 
 that had dropped upon her like the falling 
 dew. E/Ose had not time to make any 
 question with herself as to what it meant ; 
 but her heart jumped up in her bosom and 
 began to beat, and a sudden momentary 
 perception of how it all was flashed over 
 her. Such gleams of consciousness come 
 and go when the soul is making its first 
 experiences of life. For one second she 
 seemed to see everything clearly as a land- 
 scape is seen when the sun suddenly 
 breaks out ; and then the light disappear- 
 ed, and the clouds re-descended, and all 
 was blurred again. ISTevertheless, this 
 
 k2
 
 132 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 strange momentary revelation agitated Eose 
 almost more tlian anything that had ever 
 happened to her before ; and everything 
 that was said after it came to her with a 
 muffled sound, as we hear voices in a 
 dream. A longing to get home and to be 
 able to think took possession of her. 
 This seemed for the moment the thing she 
 most wanted in the world. 
 
 *'If ever I have a wife," Mr. Incledon 
 said, some time after, " this shall be her 
 boudoir. I have always intended so ; 
 unless, indeed, she is perverse, as my 
 mother was, who disliked this side of the 
 house altogether, and chose rooms which 
 looked out on nothing but the park and 
 the trees." 
 
 "I hope, as everything is ready for her, 
 the lady will soon appear," said Mrs.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 133 
 
 Damerel; while poor little Eose suddenly 
 felt lier heart stop in its beating, and flut- 
 ter and grow faint. 
 
 "Ah !" said Incledon, shaking his head, 
 "it is easier to gild the cage than, to secure 
 the bird." 
 
 How glad she was when they were 
 out again in the open air, walking home ! 
 How delightful it was to be going home, 
 to get off this dangerous ground, to feel 
 that there was a safe corner to fly to ! 
 Nobody said anything to her, fortunately 
 for Rose, but let her walk off her excite- 
 ment and the flutter of terror and dismay 
 which had come over her. "Easier to 
 gild the cage than to secure the bird." 
 The poor little bird felt already as if she 
 had been caught in some snare ; as if the 
 fowler had got his hand upon her, and all
 
 134 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 her flutterings would be of no avail. How 
 little site had thought that this was what 
 was meant by their flattering eagerness to 
 have her opinion about the Perugino ! 
 She kept close to her mother till they got 
 safely out of the park, for Mr. Incledon 
 attended them as far as the gates, and 
 Eose was so much startled that she did 
 not feel safe near him. It seemed to her 
 that the plot must be brought to perfec- 
 tion at once, and that there was no escape 
 except in keeping as far off as possible. 
 She resolved to herself as she went along 
 that she would never approach him, if she 
 could help it, or let him speak to her. 
 Her sensations were something like those 
 with which a startled hare might, I suppose, 
 contemplate from beneath her couch of 
 fern the huntsman gathering the hounds
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 135 
 
 wliicli were to run her down. Rose liad 
 no sense of satisfaction sucli as an older 
 woman miglit have felt, in the love of so 
 important a personage as Mr. Incledon. 
 She was neither flattered nor tempted by 
 the thought of all the good things sh^ 
 might have at her disposal as his wife — 
 his beautiful house, his wealth, his conse- 
 quence, even his Perugino, though that 
 had drawn the very heart out of her breast 
 — none of these things moved her. She 
 was neither pi*biid of his choice, nor daz- 
 zled by his wealth. She was simply 
 frightened, neither more nor less — dead 
 frightened, and eager to escape for ever 
 out of his way. 
 
 It was now afternoon, the most languid 
 hour of the day, and the village roads 
 were very hot, blazing, and dusty, after
 
 136 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 the soft shade of Whitton Park. Mr. 
 Damerel, wlio was not mucli of a pedes- 
 trian, and hated dust, and abhorred all the 
 irritations and weariness of excessive heat, 
 came along somewhat slowly, skirting the 
 houses to get every scrap of shade which 
 was possible. They were thus quite close 
 to a row of cottages when Mr. Nolan 
 came out from the door of one so suddenly 
 as almost to stumble over his Rector. 
 
 '' Just like a shot from a cannon is an 
 Irishman's — exit from a vigit," said Mr. 
 Damerel, peevishly, though playfully. 
 ^' Nolan, you salamander, you w1;lo never 
 feel heat, you may at least have some pity 
 upon me." 
 
 " You are the very man I want," said the 
 Curate, whose brow was clouded with care. 
 ^' The poor creature's dying. You'll go
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 137 
 
 and say a word to lier ? I was going to 
 your liouse, wondering would I find ye, 
 and lo ! Providence puts ye here." 
 
 " I hope I shall feel as much obliged to 
 Providence- as you do," said the Rector, 
 still more peevishly. ''What is it? Who 
 is it ? What do you want ?" 
 
 ''Sure it's only a poor creature dying — 
 nothing tfc speak about in this dreary 
 world,-' said good Mr. Nolan ; "but she has 
 a fancy to seavou. I have done all I could 
 to pacify herflbut she s^ys she knew you 
 in her better days." 
 
 " It is old Susan Aikin," said Mrs. Da- 
 merel, in answer, to her husband's inquir- 
 ing look. " She has always wanted to see 
 you; but what good could you do her? 
 Ancf she has had a bad fever, and it is a 
 miserable place."
 
 138 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 '' Not tliat you'll think twice of tliat," 
 said Nolan hurriedly, " when it's to give a 
 bit of comfort to a dying creature that 
 longs to see you ;" though indeed it would 
 puzzle the world to tell why, he added in 
 his heart. 
 
 " Certainly not," said the Eector — a 
 quantity of fine wrinkles, unseen on ordi- 
 nary occasions, suddenly appearing like a 
 network on his forehead. His voice took a 
 slightly querulous tone, in spite of the readi- 
 ness with which he replied. *^5u need not 
 wait," he said, turning to his wife and 
 daughter. ''Go on gently, and perhaps I 
 may overtake you if it is nothing impor- 
 tant. What is it, Nolan — a case of trou- 
 bled conscience ? Something on her 
 mind ?" 
 
 "Nothing but a dyin' fancy," said Mr.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 139 
 
 Nolan. ''She's harped on it these three 
 days. No, she's a good soul enough; 
 there's no story to tell ; and all her duties 
 done, and life closing as it ought. It's but 
 a whim; but they will all take it as a 
 great favour," said the Curate, seeing that 
 his superior officer looked very much in 
 the mind to turn and fly. 
 
 '' A whim !" he said querulously. '' You 
 know I am not careless of other people's 
 feelings — far from it, I hope ; but my own 
 organisatiolfis peculiar, and to undergo 
 this misery for a whim — you said a 
 whim " 
 
 "But the creature's dying !" 
 
 " Pah ! what has dying to do with it ? 
 Death is a natural accident. It is not 
 meritorious to die, or a thing to which 
 every other interest should yield and bow.
 
 140 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 But never mind," the Rector added, after 
 this little outbreak ; "it is not your fault 
 — come, ril go." 
 
 Rose and her mother had lingered to 
 hear the end of this discussion ; and just as 
 the Rector yielded thus, and, putting as 
 good a grace as possible on the unwillingly 
 performed duty, entered, led by Mr. No- 
 lan, the poor little cottage, the ladies 
 were joined by Mrs. Wodehouse and her 
 son, who had hurried up at sight of them. 
 Mrs. Wodehouse had that reserved and 
 solemn air which is usual to ladies who are 
 somewhat out of temper with their 
 friends. She was offended, and she meant 
 to show it. She said " Good morning " to 
 Mrs. Damerel, instead of '' How do you 
 do ?" and spoke with melancholy grandeur 
 of the weather, and the extreme heat, and
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 141 
 
 how a thunderstorm must be on its way. 
 They stood talking on these interesting 
 topics, while Rose and Edward found them- 
 selves suddenly together. It seemed to Rose 
 as if she were seeing him for the first time 
 after a long absence or some great event. 
 The colour rushed to her face in an over- 
 whelming flood, and a tide of emotions as 
 warm, as tumultuous, as bewildering, 
 rushed into her heart. She scarcely ven- 
 tured to lift her eyes when she spoke to 
 him. It seemed to her that she under- 
 stood now every glance he gave her, every 
 ^tone of his voice. 
 
 " I almost feared we were not to meet 
 again," he said hurriedly ; " and these last 
 days run through one's fingers so fast. 
 Are you going out to-night ?" 
 
 "I do not think so," said Rose, half
 
 142 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 afraid to pledge herself, and still more 
 afraid lest lier mother should hear and 
 interpose, saying. Yes, they were en- 
 gaged. 
 
 "Then let me come to-night. I have 
 only four days more. You will not refuse 
 to bid a poor sailor good-bye, Miss Dam- 
 erel ? You will not let them shut me out 
 to-night ?" 
 
 '' No one can wish to shut you out," said 
 Eose. raising her eyes to his face for one 
 brief second. 
 
 I do not think Edward Wodehouse was 
 so handsome as Mr. Incledon. His man- 
 ners were not nearly so perfect ; he could 
 not have stood comparison with him in any 
 respect except youth, in which he had the 
 better of his rival ; but oh, how different
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 143 
 
 lie seemed to Rose ! She could not look 
 full at liim ; only cast a momentary glance 
 at his honest, eager eyes, his face, which 
 glowed and shone with meaning. And 
 now she knew what the meaning was. 
 
 ''So long as you don't! — " he said, 
 eagerly, yet below his breath ; and just at 
 this moment Mrs. Damerel put forth her 
 hand and took her daughter by the arm. 
 
 ''We have had a long walk, and I am 
 tired," she said. "We have been to Whit- 
 ton to see a new picture, and Mr. Incledon 
 has so many beautiful things. Come, Eose. 
 Mr. Wodehouse, I hope we shall see you 
 before you go away." 
 
 ''Oh, yes, I hope so," the young sailor 
 faltered, feeling himself suddenly cast 
 down from heaven to earth. He said no-
 
 144 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 thing to lier about that evening; but I 
 suppose Mrs. Damerel's ears were quick 
 enough to hear the important appointment 
 that had been made. 
 
 "My dear Rose, girls do not give in- 
 vitations to young men, nor make appoint- 
 ments with them, generally, in that way." 
 
 "I, mamma?" 
 
 " Don't be frightened. I am not blaming 
 you. It was merely an accident ; but, my 
 dear, it was not the right kind of thing to 
 do." 
 
 '' Must I not speak to Mr. "Wodehouse?" 
 she asked, half tremblingly, half (as she 
 meant it) satirically. Bufc poor Rose's 
 little effusion of (what she intended for) 
 'gall took no effect whatever. Mrs. Da- 
 merel did not perceive that any satire was 
 meant.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 145 
 
 '' OL, you may speak to him ! You may 
 bid Lim good-bye, certainly ; but I — your 
 papa — in short, we have heard something 
 of Mr. Wodehouse which — we do not quite 
 like. I do not wish for any more intimacy 
 with them, especially just now." 
 
 " Do you mean you have heard some 
 harm of him ?" said Rose, opening her eyes 
 with a sudden start. 
 
 '' Well, perhaps not any harm : I cannot 
 quite tell what it was ; but something 
 which made your papa decide — in short, I 
 don't want to take too much notice of the 
 Wodehouses as a family. They do not 
 suit your papa." 
 
 Rose walked on with her mother to the 
 Rectory gate, silent, with her heart swell- 
 ing full. She did not believe that her 
 
 VOL. I. li
 
 146 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 father had anything to do with it. It was 
 not he that was to blame, whatever Mrs. 
 Damerel might say.
 
 147 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ATATURB took sides against Love on 
 that eveninar, and made Mrs. Da- 
 merel's warning unnecessary, and all tlie 
 anticipations of these young persons of no 
 avail. Instead of tlie evening stroll about 
 tlie darkling garden Avliicli Wodehouse at 
 least liad proposed to himself, the party 
 were shut up in the drawing-room by the 
 sudden outbreak of that expected thun- 
 derstorm which Mrs. Wodehouse and Mrs. 
 Damerel had discussed so earnestly. The 
 
 l2
 
 148 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 ladies had botli felt that it must come, and 
 tlie young sailor I suppose ought to have 
 been still more clearly aware of what was 
 impending ; but there are, no doubt, states 
 of the mind which make a man totally in- 
 different to, and unobservant of, the 
 changes of the atmosphere. Anyhow, 
 though he arrived in the sweet beginning 
 of the twilight, when all was still, poor 
 Edward had not only to stay in-doors, but 
 to take a seat next to Mrs. Damerel in the 
 drawing-room; while Rose, who was some- 
 what nervous about the thunder, retired 
 into a dark corner to which he dared not 
 follow her boldly under the very eyes of 
 her father and her mother. He did what he 
 could, poor fellow : he tried very hard to 
 persuade her to come to the other end of 
 the room and watch the storm which was
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 149 
 
 raging gloriously over tlie plain below, 
 lighting up the whole landscape in sudden 
 brilliant gleams ; for one of the windows 
 had been left uncurtained, and Mr. Da- 
 merel himself placed his chair within reach 
 of it to enjoy the wonderful spectacle. 
 E-ose at one time longed so much to 
 venture that her desire overmastered her 
 fears ; but the Rector, who was somewhat 
 fretful that evening, presumably on account 
 of the storm which affected his fine sensi- 
 bilities, sent her away hurriedly. 
 
 ''No, no, Rose — what have you to do 
 with storms ?" he said; ''go back to your 
 mother." 
 
 When she obeyed, there was silence in 
 the room ; and though the elders did not 
 care very much for it, I think the sharp 
 disappointment of these two — a pang,
 
 150 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 perhaps, more keen and delicate than any- 
 thing we can feel when the first freshness 
 of youth is over — made itself spiritually 
 felt somehow in the atmosphere of the 
 place. 
 
 "Eoses have nothing to do out of the 
 rose garden," said Mr. Damerel, with an 
 attempt to overcome his own fretfulness, 
 and perhaps a compunction over the suffer- 
 ing he caused. He was not in a humour 
 for talking, and when this was the case he 
 seldom gave himself the trouble to talk; 
 but some covert feeling or other made him 
 willing to attempt a diversion, for the mo- 
 ment at least. " I wish people had a more 
 general conception of the fitness of things. 
 Your namesakes out of doors take no 
 pleasure in the storm. Poor roses, how 
 it will batter and beat them down, and
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 151 
 
 strew their poor helpless petals about ! " 
 
 " I do not find fault with Eose for being 
 timid," said her mother; "but your craze 
 about her name is fantastic, Herbert. 
 She will have a good many storms to brave 
 which she cannot escape from if she is to 
 do her duty in life." 
 
 '' Then I hope she will not do her duty," 
 said the Kector — " don't, my Eose in June. 
 I had rather see you sweet and fresh, with 
 your rose heart unruffled, than draggled 
 and battered with the rain. I'll take the 
 moral risk upon my own head." 
 
 Mrs. Damerel uttered an impatient little 
 exclamation under her breath. She turned 
 to Wodehouse with an arbitrary and sud- 
 den change of the subject. 
 
 " Do you expect to be long away?" she 
 said.
 
 152 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 " Two years at the very least," said the 
 young man, piteously, looking at her with 
 such imploring eyes that she felt his look, 
 though her own eyes were fixed upon her 
 work, and neither could nor would see. 
 She felt it ; and as she was but a woman, 
 though stern in purpose, she winced a little 
 and was sorry for him, though she would 
 not help him. Her voice softened as she 
 replied — 
 
 ^' I am very sorry for your poor mother. 
 How she will miss you ! We must do 
 our best to keep her cheerful while you are 
 away." 
 
 '' The storm is going off," said the Rec- 
 tor; "did you ever remark, Wodehouse, 
 how seldom we have a complete thunder- 
 storm to ourselves here ? There have been 
 three going on to-night — one towards Lon-
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 153 
 
 don, one northwards, tlie other east. We 
 never have more than the tail of a storm; 
 which is somewhat humbling when you 
 come to think of it. I suppose it has 
 something to do with the lie of the ground, 
 as you call it — eh ?" 
 
 Edward answered something, he did not 
 know what, while his opponent regarded 
 him with amused observation. Now that 
 the matter was tolerably safe in his own 
 hands, Mr. Damerel was not without a 
 certain enjoyment in the study of charac- 
 ter thus afforded him. It was to him like 
 what I suppose vivisection is to an enter- 
 prising physiologist. He had just enough 
 realisation of the pain he was inflicting to 
 give interest to the throbbing nerves upon 
 which he experimented. He was not old 
 enough to have quite forgotten some few
 
 154 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 pangs of a similar kind wliicli lie had ex- 
 perienced in his day ; but lie was old 
 enough to regard the recollection with 
 some degree of amusement and a sense of 
 the absolute folly of the whole which neu- 
 tralised that sense of pain. He liked, 
 rather, to hold Wodehouse in talk about 
 scientific facts, while he knew that the 
 young man was longing to escape, and 
 watching, with dismay and despair, every 
 hope disappearing of another kind of con- 
 versation which seemed like the balance of 
 life and death to the foolish youth. Mr. 
 Damerel saw all these symptoms of torture, 
 and his sense of humour was tickled. He 
 was almost sorry when at length, the rain 
 still continuing to fall in torrents, and the 
 storm roaring and groaning in the distance, 
 young Wodehouse rose to go away.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 155 
 
 " I will not give you mj blessing again," 
 he said, smiling, "as I was rash enough to 
 do before; for I daresay we shall meet 
 again, one way or another, before you go 
 away." 
 
 " Oh ! I shall call when the last moment, 
 the absolute good-bye, comes !" said poor 
 Edward, trying to smile. 
 
 Rose put out a timid little hand to him, 
 rising from her chair when he came up to 
 her. She had grown bewildered again, 
 and disconcerted, and had fallen far from 
 the light and illumination which had 
 flashed over her in the afternoon. The 
 storm had frightened her; something 
 malign seemed in the air ; and she was dis- 
 appointed and mortified, she scarcely could 
 have told why. Was this to be the end of 
 the evening to which they had both looked
 
 156 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 forward ! Alas ! sucli clouds will drop 
 over even tlie brightest skies. I think 
 both of the young people could have wept 
 with sheer misery, disappointment, and 
 despite, w^hen they realised that it was 
 over, and could not now be mended, what- 
 ever might happen. He went home, and 
 she stole up to her room, enveloped by the 
 mists of a suppressed excitement which 
 seemed to wrap them round and round, 
 and afforded no way of escape. 
 
 That, however, was the last bright day 
 known in the Rectory for a very long time. 
 The Rector had not been quite himself 
 that night. His very pleasure in the tor- 
 ture of the poor young lovers was perhaps 
 a sign that the fine organization upon 
 which he prided himself was somehow out 
 of gear. I do not believe, though many
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 157 
 
 people Avere of fhat opinion, tliat liis liur- 
 ried visit to the poor woman wlio was 
 dying of fever was tlie reason why Mr. 
 Darner el took the fever, and of all that 
 followed. He could not have fallen ill so 
 immediately if poor Susan Aikin's death- 
 chamber had been the cause of his malady. 
 JSfext day he was ill, feverish, and wretch- 
 ed, and was reported to have a bad cold. 
 The next after that the village and 
 all the houses on the Green were struck 
 dumb by the information that the Rector 
 had caught the same fever of which Susan 
 Aikin died. 
 
 The news caused such a sensation as 
 few warnings of mortality produce. The 
 whole neighbourhood was hushed and held 
 its breath, and felt a shiver of dismay run 
 through it. It was not because Mr.
 
 158 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Damerel was deeply beloved. Mr. JSTolan, 
 for example, was infinitely more friendly 
 and dear to the population generally ; yet 
 had he encountered the same fate, people 
 would have grieved, but would not have 
 been surprised. But the Eector ! that he 
 should fall under such a disease — that the 
 plague which is born of squalor, and dirt, 
 and ill-nourishment, and bad air, should 
 seize upon him, the very impersonation of 
 everything that was opposite and antago- 
 nistic to those causes which brought it 
 forth ! — this confused everybody, great and 
 small. Comfortable people shuddered, ask- 
 ing themselves who was safe ? and began 
 to think of the drainage of their houses, 
 and to ask whether any one knew if the 
 Eectory was quite right in that respect. 
 There was an anxious little pause of fright
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 159 
 
 in the place, everj one wondering whether 
 it was likely to prove an epidemic, and 
 neighbour inquiring of neighbour each 
 time they met whether ''more cases" had 
 occurred ; but this phase passed over, and 
 the general security came back. The 
 disease must " take its course," the doctor 
 said, and nothing could be prognosticated 
 at so early a stage. The patient was still 
 in middle age, of unbroken constitution, 
 and had everything in his favour — good 
 air, good nursing, good means — so that 
 nothing need be spared. 
 
 With such words as these the anxieties 
 of the neighbourhood were relieved — 
 something unwillingly, it must be allowed, 
 for the world is yerj exigeant in this as in 
 many other respects, and, when it is in- 
 terested in an illness, likes it to run a
 
 160 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 rapid course, and come to an issue one way 
 or other without delay. It was therefore 
 with reluctance that the Green per- 
 mitted itself to be convinced that no 
 ^' change " could be looked for in the E/CC- 
 tor's illness for some time to come. Weeks 
 even might be consumed ere the climax, 
 the crisis, the real dramatic point at which 
 the patient's fate would be concluded, 
 should come. 
 
 This chilling fact composed the mind 
 of the neighbourhood, and stilled it back 
 into the calm of indifference after a while. 
 I am not sure now that there was not a 
 little adverse feeling towards the Rector, 
 in that he left everybody in suspense, and 
 having, as it were, invited the world to 
 behold the always interesting spectacle of 
 a dangerous illness, put off from week to
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 161 
 
 week the denouement. Sucli a barbarous 
 suggestion would have been repelled with 
 scorn and horror had it been put into 
 words, but that was the feeling in most 
 people's hearts. 
 
 Indoors, however, Mr. Damerel's illness 
 was a very terrible matter, and affected 
 every member of the household. Mrs. 
 Damerel gave up everything to nurse him. 
 There was no hesitation with her as to 
 whether she should or should not postpone 
 her family and cares to her husband. From 
 the moment that the dreadful word '' fever" 
 crossed the doctor's lips she put aside the 
 house and the schoolroom and every other 
 interest, and took her place by the sick-bed. 
 I do not know whether any foreboding was 
 in her mind from the first, but she never 
 paused to think. She went to the children 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 and spoke to them, appealing to their hon- 
 our and affection. She gave Dick and 
 Patty permission to roam as they liked, 
 and to enjoy perfect immunity from lessons 
 and routine, so long as they would be quiet 
 indoors, and respect the stillness that was 
 necessary in the house ; and to Agatha she 
 gave the charge of the infants, exacting 
 quiet only, nothing bat quiet. " The house 
 must be kept quiet," she said to them all 
 imperatively. "The child who makes a 
 noise I shall think no child of mine. Your 
 papa's life may depend upon it. It will be 
 E-ose's part to see that you all do what I 
 tell you. No noise ! that is the chief thing. 
 There must be no noise !" 
 
 The children all promised very solemnly, 
 and even closed round her with great eyes 
 uplifted to ask in hushed tones of awe, as
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 163 
 
 if lie liad been dead, liow papa was ? The 
 house altogether was strangely subdued all 
 at once, as if the illness had already lasted 
 for weeks. The drawing-room became a 
 shut up, uninhabited place, where Rose 
 only entered now and then to answer the 
 enquiries of some anxious parishioners not 
 too frigfhtened to come and ask how the 
 Rector was. The tide of life, of interest, 
 of occupation, all flowed towards the sick- 
 room—everything centred in it. After a few 
 days it would have seemed as unnatural to 
 Eose to have gone out to the lawn, as it 
 was at first to sit in the little ante- 
 room, into which her father's room opened, 
 waiting to receive her mother's commissions, 
 to do anything she might want of her. A 
 few days sufficed to make established habits 
 of all these new circumstances of life. Mr. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Damerel was not a bad patient. He was a 
 little angry and annoyed when lie found 
 what his illness was, taking it for granted, 
 as so many people did, that he had taken it 
 from Susan Aikin. ''I wish Providence 
 had directed me anywhere else than to that 
 cottage door at that particular moment," 
 he said, half ruefully, half indignantly, 
 "and put me in the way of that fanatic 
 Nolan, who can stand everything. I knew 
 my constitution was very different. Never 
 mind, it was not your fault, Martha ; and he 
 is a good fellow. I must try to push him 
 on. I will write to the Bishop about him 
 when I get well." 
 
 These were heavenly dispositions, as the 
 reader will perceive. He was a very good 
 patient, grateful to his nurses, cheerful in 
 his demeanour, making the best of the long
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 165 
 
 struggle lie had embarked upon — indeed, 
 few people could have rallied more bravely 
 from the first shock and discouragement, or 
 composed themselves more courageously to 
 fill the difficult position which was forced 
 upon him, and discharge all its duties such 
 as they were. His illness came on not vio- 
 lently, but in the leisurely quiet way which 
 so often distinguishes a disease which is 
 meant to last long. He was ill, but not 
 very ill, on the fourth day, descending into 
 depths of it, but going very quietly, and 
 retaining his self-command and cheerful- 
 ness. This particular day, on which he 
 was a little worse than he had been before, 
 was mild and rainy and warm, very unlike 
 the wonderful blaze of summer which had 
 preceded it. Rose sat by the open window 
 of the little ante-room which was now her
 
 166 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 usual position. The rain fell softly out- 
 side witli a subdued perpetual sound, pat- 
 tering upon the leaves. The whole atmo- 
 sphere was full of this soft patter. The door 
 of the sick-room was ajar, and now and 
 then Eose heard her father move in the 
 restlessness of his illness, or utter a low 
 little moan of suffering, or speak to Mrs. 
 Damerel, who was with him. Everything 
 was hushed downstairs ; and the subdued 
 stirring of the rain outside, and the sounds 
 of the sick-room within, were all that Rose 
 could hear. She had a book in her hand, 
 and read now and then ; but she had come 
 for the first time to that point in life when 
 one's own musings are as interesting as any 
 story, and often the book dropped on her 
 lap, and she did nothing but think. She 
 thought it was thinking, but I fancy that
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 167 
 
 dreaming was more like wliat it was. Poor 
 Rose ! lier very dreaming was run throiigli 
 by sombre threads, and tliere was in it one 
 shadow of wondering doubt and suspicion 
 about whicli she did not know what to 
 think, and had no desire to dream. 
 
 As she sat thus, one of the maids 
 came softly to the door to say that Mrs. 
 Wodehouse and her son were in the 
 drawing-room, and would she tell Mrs. 
 Damerel ? Rose's heart gave a sudden 
 leap ; she hesitated a moment whether she 
 should not run down without saying 
 anything to her mother, as it was she, up 
 to this moment, who had answered all en- 
 quiries ; but the habit of dependence pre- 
 vailed over this one eager throb of nature. 
 She stole into the sick-room under shade 
 of the curtains, and gave her message.
 
 16S A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 The answer had invariably been, ^' Go you, 
 Rose, and tell them I am very sorry, but I 
 cannot leave your papa." She expected to 
 hear the same words again, and stood, half- 
 turned to the door, ready, when authoris- 
 ed, to rush down stairs, with her heart 
 already throbbing, and nature preparing in 
 her for a crisis. 
 
 ''What is it?" said the patient, drowsily. 
 
 ''It is Edward Wodehouse come to say 
 good-bye," answered his wife. " Herbert, 
 can you do without me for a moment ? I 
 ought to go." 
 
 " Yes ; go, go ; Rose will stay with me 
 instead," said Mr. Damerel. He put out 
 his hot hand and drew the girl towards 
 him, who almost resisted, so stupefied was 
 she. "Do not be long, Martha," he said 
 to his wife ; and before Eose could realise
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 169 
 
 what had happened she found herself in her 
 mother's chair, seated in the shaded still- 
 ness near the sick-bed, while Mrs. Damerel's 
 step going softly along the passage out- 
 side testified to the bewildering fact that it 
 was she who was to receive the visitors. It 
 was so sudden, so totally different from her 
 expectations, so cruel a disappointment to 
 her, that the girl sat motionless, struck dumb, 
 counting the soft fall of her mother's steps, 
 in the stupor that fell upon her. Her father 
 said something, but she had not the heart to 
 answer. It seemed incredible, impossible. 
 After ten minutes or so, which seemed to 
 Rose so many hours, during which she con- 
 tinued to sit dumb, listening to her father's 
 stirrings in his restless bed, and the patter- 
 ing of the rain, the same maid came to 
 the door again, and handed in a little scrap
 
 170 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 of paper folded like a note. Slie opened 
 it mechanically. It was from Mrs. Wode- 
 liouse. "Dear Rose, dearest Eose, come 
 and bid my boy good-bye, if it is only for 
 a moment," it said. She put it down on 
 the table, and rose up and looked at her 
 father. " If only for a moment," — he was 
 not so ill that any harm could happen to 
 him if he were left for a moment. He did 
 not look ill at all, as he lay there with his 
 eyes closed. Was he asleep? — and surely, 
 surely for that moment she might go ! 
 
 "While she looked at him, her heart beat- 
 ing wildly, and something singing and 
 throbbing in her ears, he opened his 
 eyes. 
 
 '' What is it ?" he said. 
 
 '' It is — oh, j^apa ! may I go for a mo- 
 ment — only for a moment — I should come
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 171 
 
 back directly; to bid — poor — Mr. Wode- 
 bouse good-bye ?" 
 
 '' What ! could ye not watcb witb me 
 one bour ?" said tbe Rector, witb perbaps 
 unintentional profaneness, smiling at ber 
 a smile wbicb seemed to make Eose wild. 
 He put out bis band again and took bers. 
 " Never mind poor Mr. Wodebouse," be 
 said; '^be will get on very well witbout 
 you. Stay witb me, my Rose in June ; to 
 see you tbere does me good." 
 
 '' I sbould only stay one moment." Her 
 beart beat so tbat it almost stifled ber 
 voice. 
 
 ^' No, my darling," be said, coaxingly ; 
 ^' stay witb me." 
 
 And be beld ber band fast. Rose stood 
 gazing at bim witb a kind of desperation 
 till be closed bis eyes again, bolding ber
 
 172 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 tightly by tlie wrist. I think even then 
 she made a little movement to get free — a 
 movement balked by the closer clasping of 
 his feverish fingers. Then she sat down 
 suddenly on her mother's chair. The |)ul- 
 sations were in her ears like great roars of 
 sound coming and going. 
 
 '' Very well, papa," she said, with a 
 stifled voice. 
 
 I do not know how long it was before 
 she heard steps below, for her senses were 
 preternaturally quickened — and then the 
 sound of the hall door closed, and then the 
 rain again, as if nothing had happen- 
 ed. What had happened ? Nothing, 
 indeed, except that Mrs. Damerel her- 
 self had seen the visitors, which was a 
 great compliment to them, as she never 
 left her husband's side. By-and-by her
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 1/3 
 
 soft steps came back again, approaching 
 gradually up the stairs and the long corri- 
 dor. The sound of them fell upon Rose's 
 heart — was it all over then ? — ended for 
 ever ? Then her mother came in, calm and 
 composed, and relieved her. She did not 
 even look at Rose, as if there were any- 
 thing out of the ordinary in this very 
 simple proceeding. She told her husband 
 quietly that she had said good-bye to 
 young Wodehou^e ; that he was going 
 early next morning; that she was very 
 sorry for his poor mother. 
 
 "Yes, my dear; but if mothers were 
 always to be considered, sons would never 
 do anything. Mayn't I have something 
 to drink ?" said the patient : and thus 
 the subject was dismissed at once and for 
 ever.
 
 174 A EOSE TN JUNE. 
 
 " Go and see if Mary has made some 
 fresb. lemonade," said Mrs. Damerel. 
 
 Rose obeyed mechanically. Her pulses 
 were still beating so that her blood seemed 
 like the tide at sea, beating upon a broad 
 beach, echoing hollow and wild in huge 
 rolling waves. She went downstairs like 
 one in a dream, and got the lemonade, and 
 carried it back again, hearing her own 
 steps as she had heard her mother's, sound- 
 ing strangely through all the hushed and 
 silent house. 
 
 When this piece of business was over, 
 and Rose found herself again in the little 
 ante-room, all alone, with nothing but the 
 sound of the rain to fill up the silence, and 
 the great waves of sound in her ears be- 
 ginning to die into moans and dreary 
 sobbing echoes, what can I say of her 
 feelings? Was it possible that all was
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. ] 75 
 
 oyer and ended — tHat she would never 
 never see him again — that he was gone 
 without even a good-bye ? It was not 
 only incredible to her, but it was intolerable 
 — must she bear it ? She could not bear 
 it ; yet she must. She stood at the window 
 and looked out, and the bluish-grey world 
 and the falling rain looked in at Rose, and 
 no other sound came to console the aching 
 in her heart. He was gone, and there was 
 no hope that he would come back ; and 
 she could not, dared not, go to him. 
 
 The evening went on while she sat, 
 in this train of excited feelings, wondering 
 whether the anguish in her heart would 
 not call for an answer somehow, and 
 unable to believe that neither God nor man 
 would interfere. When it was dark she 
 broke forth from all control, and left her 
 post, as she could not do when leaving it
 
 176 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 was of any use ; but tliere is a point at wliicb. 
 tlie intolerable cannot be borne any longer. 
 Slie put a blue waterproof cloak on her, 
 and went out into the rain and tlie dark ; 
 but wliat Was poor Rose to do, even when 
 her pain became past bearing ? She stray- 
 ed round the dark lawn, and looked, but in 
 vain, for the lights of the cottage at 
 Ankermead ; and then she ventured to the 
 gate, and stood there looking out helpless 
 and wistful. But no good angel whispered 
 to Edward Wodehouse, heartsore and 
 wounded, what poor little watcher there 
 was looking helplessly, piteously out upon 
 the little gulf of distance which separated 
 them as much as continents and oceans 
 could have done. He was packing for his 
 early journey, and she, poor maiden soul, 
 could not go to him, nor could the cry of
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 177 
 
 lier heart reacli him. When she had 
 waited there awhile, she went in again, 
 speechless and heartbroken, feeling, indeed, 
 that all was over, and that neither light 
 nor happiness would ever return to her 
 more. 
 
 Poor child ! I don't think it occurred to 
 her to blame those who had done it, or 
 even to ask herself whether they knew 
 what they were doing. Perhaps she did 
 not believe that they had done it willingly. 
 I do not think she asked herself any ques- 
 tion on the subject. She had to bear it, 
 and she could not bear it. Her mind was 
 capable of little more. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 
 
 CHAPTER YIL 
 
 '' TT does not seem possible," said tlie 
 Eector, slowly, "and yet someliow 
 I cannot help thinking sometimes that I 
 must be going to die." ^ 
 
 " Herbert !" 
 
 "It is very curious — very curious — my 
 reason tells me so, not feeling. I myself 
 am just, what I always was ; but I think 
 the symptoms are against me, and I see 
 it in Marsden's looks. Doesn't he say so 
 to you ?" 
 
 " Dear," said Mrs. Damerel, with a
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. ] 79 
 
 trembling voice, " lie does not conceal 
 from me that it is very serious ; but oli, 
 Herbert, bow often have we seen even the 
 children at death's door, and yet brought 
 back!" 
 
 " At death's door," he said, reflectively ; 
 ^' yes, that's a good expression — at the 
 door of something unknown. Somehow 
 it does not seem possible. One can be- 
 lieve it for others, not for one's self. The 
 idea is very strange." 
 
 Mrs. Damerel was a good, religious 
 woman, and her husband was a clergy- 
 man. She did not feel that this was how 
 he ought to speak at such a moment, and 
 the thought wrung her heart. 
 
 '' Dearest," she said, growing more ten- 
 der in her grief and pity, "it is a thing 
 we must all think of one time or another ; 
 
 N 2
 
 180 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 and to you, wlio liave served God faith- 
 fully, it must be something else than 
 'strange.'" 
 
 "What else?" he said, looking up at 
 her. " I might say confusing, bewilder- 
 ing. To think that I am going I know 
 not where, with no certainty of feeling 
 that I shall ever know anything about it 
 — that I am no longer a free agent, but 
 helpless, like a leaf blown into a corner 
 by the wind — I who for very nearly fifty 
 
 vears have had a voice in all that was 
 t/ 
 
 done to me. My dear, I don't know that 
 I ever realised before how strange it 
 was. 
 
 " But — you are — happy, Herbert ?" she 
 said, in a low, imploring voice. 
 
 " Happy, am I ? I don't know — why 
 should I be happy ? I know what I am
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 181 
 
 leaving, but I don't know what I am go- 
 ing to. I don't know anything about it. 
 Something is going to happen to me, of 
 which I have not the least conception 
 what it is. I am not afraid, my dear, if 
 that is what you mean," he said, after a 
 momentary pause. 
 
 This conversation took place weeks 
 after the departure of Edward Wodehouse, 
 and the end of that first flowery chapter 
 of Hose's life. Her parents had not 
 thought very much of her feelings, being 
 concerned with much weightier matters. 
 It had been a very long, lingering illness, 
 not so violent as some fevers, but less 
 hopeful ; and the crisis was over, but the 
 patient did not mend. He was dying, and 
 his wife knew it ; and, though no one as 
 yet had made the solemn announcement
 
 182 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 to liim, lie had found it out. He was 
 very weak, but liis mind was not at all 
 impaired, and lie could talk, with only a 
 pause now and then for breath, as calmly 
 as ever. 
 
 It was a curious spectacle. He was 
 gathering his cloak round him like Caesar, 
 but with sensations less satisfied and con- 
 sciously heroic. Mr. Damerel was not a 
 man to be indifferent to the necessity of 
 dying fitly, with dignity and grace, but he 
 had confidence in himself that nothing 
 would disturb the folds of his robes at 
 that supreme moment ; he knew that no 
 spiritual dread or cowardice would impair 
 his fortitude ; it was not necessary for 
 him to make any effort to meet with dig- 
 nity the unknown which was approaching, 
 and his mind was at leisure to survey the
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 183 
 
 strange, unexpected situation in wliicli tie 
 found himself — going to die, without 
 knowing what dying was, or how it would 
 affect him, or where it would place him. 
 I do not know, though he was a clergy- 
 man, that there was anything religious in 
 the organization of his mind, and he had 
 never come under any of those vivid in- 
 fluences which make men religious — or, 
 at least, which make them fervent re- 
 ligionists — whatever may be the con- 
 stitution of their mind. Mr. Damerel 
 was no sceptic. He believed what 
 he had been taught, and what he had 
 taught in turn to others. His mind 
 was not doctrinal or dogmatic, any 
 more than it was devout ; but he believed 
 in the broad truths of Christianity, in 
 some sort of a heaven, and some sort of
 
 184 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 a liell. These beliefs, however, had no 
 effect upon his present state of feeling. 
 He Avas not afraid of the hereafter, but 
 his mind was bewildered and confounded 
 by the contemplation of something close 
 at hand which he did not know, and 
 could not know so long as he retained 
 consciousness of this only world with 
 which he was acquainted. He was ab- 
 sorbed by the contemplation of this mys- 
 tery. He was not thinking of his sins, 
 nor of reward, nor of punishment, nor of 
 rest from his labours (which had not been 
 many). In short, he did not consider the 
 great change that was about to take place 
 upon him from a religious point of view 
 at all, but rather from one which was at 
 once natural and philosophical. I should 
 not like to blame him for this, as, per-
 
 A ROSE IN .TUNE. 185 
 
 haps, some people will do. When we 
 have lost much that made life sweet — 
 when our friends, our children, have gone 
 before us into the unseen country — then, 
 indeed, the heart learns many longings for 
 that world in which alone there can be 
 reunion and explanation of life's sore and 
 weary mysteries. But this was not Mr. 
 Damerel's case. There was no one wait- 
 ing for him at the golden gates ; except, 
 perhaps, those whom he had long forgot- 
 ten, and who had gone out of his life. He 
 was departing alone, the first of his gene- 
 ration ; curious and solitary, not knowing 
 where he was going. To God's presence ; 
 ah, yes ! but what did that mean ? 
 
 '' All the same, my dear," he said, cheer- 
 fully, rousing himself, ''we must not 
 make ourselves wretched about it. A
 
 186 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 tiling that happens to eyery man cannot be 
 so very bad ; and, in the meantime, we mnst 
 make the best of it. I ought to have 
 thought of it, perhaps, more than I have 
 done." 
 
 '' Oh, Herbert ! God is very merciful,"" 
 said his wife, who was crying softly by his 
 side. 
 
 " Yes, yes, that is quite true ; but that 
 is not what I was thinking of. I ought 
 to have thought of what would follow in 
 case of this happening which is about to 
 happen. I ought to have tried to save ; 
 but how could I have saved out of the 
 little pittance we had ?" 
 
 " Dear, don't think of such things now." 
 
 "But I must think upon them. I have 
 never had any extravagant tastes, and we 
 have always lived very quietly ; but I fear
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 187 
 
 yoLi will find a difference. What a blessed 
 thing that you are the sort of woman you 
 are ! The struggle will not fall so heavily 
 upon you as upon most people. Incledon, of 
 course, will marry Rose " 
 
 /^ Oh, Herbert ! what does all this 
 matter ? Do not think of it. I would so 
 much rather hear you speak of yourself." 
 
 '' There is nothing to say about my- 
 self ; and, perhaps, the less one thinks, 
 in the circumstances, the better; it is a 
 curious position to be in — that is all that 
 one can say. Yes, Incledon will marry 
 Eose ; he will make her a very good hus- 
 band. Do not let it be put off from any 
 regard to me. He will be a great help to 
 you ; and you may trust him, I should 
 think, to settle about the boys. Lay as 
 much upon him as you can; he is quite
 
 188 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 able to bear it. If one liad foreseen tliis, 
 you know, there are many tilings that one 
 might have done; but — curious!" said 
 the Rector, with a smile, ^' I can't believe 
 in it, even now." 
 
 '' Oh, Herbert ! it is never too late 
 for God ! Perhaps your feeling is the 
 right one. If He would but give you 
 back to us now !" 
 
 " No, no ; don't think there is anything 
 prophetic in my feelings, my dear. You 
 may be sure every man is like me, more 
 or less," said Mr. Damerel. '^ We know 
 we must all die ; only it is impossible 
 in respect to one's self. I am myself, 
 you perceive, just as much as ever ; and 
 yet to-morrow, perhaps, or next day — 
 there's the wonder. It makes one feel 
 giddy now and then. About the boys ;
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 189 
 
 I liave always felt that, one time or other, 
 we should have to decide something for 
 the boys. Leave it to Incledon ; he is 
 a practical man, and will know what to 
 advise." 
 
 '' Dear Herbert, if you can talk of it 
 — oh, how much better it would be to 
 tell me what you wish, that I might be 
 guided by your own feeling — than to 
 refer me to any one else !" said Mrs. 
 Damerel, crying, kissing his hand, and 
 gazing with wet eyes into his calm face. 
 
 " Oh, talk ! — yes, I can talk, but for 
 a little catching of the breath, the same 
 as ever, I think; but the boys are a trou- 
 blesome subject. Leave it to Licledon; 
 he knows all about that sort of thino;. 
 I think now, perhaps, that I might sleep." 
 
 And then the curtains were dropped,
 
 190 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 the watclier retired a little out of sight, 
 and everything was subdued into absolute 
 stillness. 
 
 Mrs. Damerel sat down noiselessly in 
 the background, and covered her face 
 with her hands, and wept silent tears, 
 few and bitter. Shd had felt him to be 
 hard upon her many a day ; she had seen 
 what was wanting in him ; but he was 
 her husband, the first love of her youth, 
 and her heart was rent asunder by this 
 separation. She had enough to think 
 of besides, had she been able ; she had 
 poverty to face, and to bring up her 
 children as best she could in a world 
 which, henceforward, would not be kind 
 and soft to them as it had been hitherto. 
 Her soul was heavy with a conscious- 
 ness of all that was before her ; but,
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 191 
 
 in the meantime, slie iiad room for no 
 distinct feeling except one — that her 
 husband, her love, was going to be taken 
 from her. This tremendous parting, 
 rending asunder of two lives that had 
 been one, was more than enough to fill 
 all her mind; she had room for nothino^ 
 more. 
 
 And he slept, or thought he slept, float- 
 ing out of the vague pain and wonder 
 of his waking thoughts into strange, vague 
 visions, dimmer still, and then back again 
 to the fancies which were waking and 
 not sleeping. There was a dim impres- 
 sion of painfulness in them, rather than 
 pain itself ; wonder, curiosity, and that 
 strange sense of an absolute blank which 
 makes the soul giddy and the brain swim. 
 Sometimes his mind seemed to himself
 
 192 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 to wiander, and lie got astray somelioWy 
 and felt himself sinking in an unfathom- 
 able sea, or striving to make his way 
 through some blackness of night, some 
 thorny wood in which there was no path. 
 I suppose he was asleep then, but even 
 he himself scarcely knew. 
 
 When he woke it was evening, and 
 the lamp, carefully shaded, had been 
 lit at the other end of the room. He 
 liked the light, and, when he stirred 
 and spoke, the watchers made haste to 
 draw back the curtains. The serene 
 evening sky, full of soft tints of reflection 
 from the sunset, with breaks of daffodil 
 light melting into ineffable soft greenness 
 and blueness, shone in through the un- 
 curtained window, which he liked to have 
 left so, that he might see the sky. Eose
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 193 
 
 and lier motlier, close by tlie bright circle 
 made bj tlie lamp, were, one of them 
 preparing some drink for him, the other 
 opening a new bottle of medicine which 
 had just been sent. Though it was all 
 so familiar to him, the fact that he was 
 to go awaj so soon seemed to throw a 
 strangeness over everything, and gave 
 a bewildering novelty even to the figures 
 he knew so well. 
 
 ''More of Marsden's stuff," he said, with 
 a low laugh ; and his own voice sounded 
 far off to him, as he lay looking at that 
 strange little picture — a distant view of 
 the two women against the light, with the 
 sky and the window behind; somebody's 
 wife and daughter — his own — his very 
 Rose, and she who had been his compan- 
 ion since his youth. Strange that he 
 
 YOL. I.
 
 194 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 should look at them so quietly, almost with 
 an amused sense of novelty, without any 
 tragic feeling or even pain to speak of, in 
 the thought that he was going away short- 
 ly and would see them no more. He fell to 
 thinking of a thousand things as he lay there 
 watching them, yet not watching them. 
 INTot the things, perhaps, that a dying man 
 ought to think of ; little nothings, chance 
 words that he had forgotten for years, 
 lines of poetry, somehow connected with 
 his present condition, though he did not 
 remember the links of connection. 
 
 " The casement slowly grows, a glittering 
 square," he said to himself, and made an 
 effort to think whence the line came, and 
 why it should have at this- moment thrust 
 itself into his mind. 
 
 Then he fell altogether into a poetic
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 195 
 
 mood, and one disconnected line followed 
 another into liis mind, giving him a vague 
 sense of melancholy pleasure. He said 
 one or two of them aloud, calling the at- 
 tention of his nurses — but it was not to 
 them he was speaking. Finally, his mind 
 centred on one which first of all seemed to 
 strike him for its melody alone — 
 
 *'.... Who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind V 
 
 He said this aloud once or twice over. 
 ^' To dumb forgetfulness a prey ;" that is 
 not my feeling — not my feeling ; the rest 
 is very true. Gray does not get half jus- 
 tice now-a-days. How it satisfies the ear, 
 flowing round and soft ! * To dumb for- 
 getfulness. ' Now, I wonder what he 
 meant by that ?" 
 
 o2
 
 196 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 " You are better, papa," said Rose soft- 
 ly. Her motlier stayed behind, not able 
 to speak ; but tlie girl, in her simplicity, 
 thought the poetry ''a good sign." 
 
 "No, Rose. 'Dumb forgetfulness,' — it 
 is not that, child ; that is not what one 
 fears ; to be sure there is a coldness and 
 blackness that might chime in with the 
 words. But the rest is true, ' The warm 
 precincts of the cheerful day ' ; warm is a 
 living word altogether ; it is not warm out 
 here." 
 
 " I will put the quilt on the bed," said 
 wistful Rose, thinking he complained of 
 cold. 
 
 " No," he said, roused, with a gentle 
 laugh ; " the quilt will do nothing for me ; 
 I am not cold — not yet ; I suppose I shall 
 be presently. Is your mother there ? My
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 197 
 
 dear, help me with your experience. I 
 dishke cold so much ; does one feel it 
 creeping up before one dies ?" 
 
 " Oh, Herbert, dearest !" said his wife, 
 heart-broken. 
 
 What could she answer to such a ques- 
 tion ? 
 
 ''Nay, I don't want to make an unne- 
 cessary fuss," he said ; " it is only a curiosity 
 I have. Cold creeping up — it is disagree- 
 able to think of it. What ! have I more 
 medicine to take ? What does Marsden 
 mean by sending me his detestable com- 
 pounds still ? It will only make your bill 
 the larger, and me the less comfortable. I 
 will not have it ; take it away." 
 
 "It is something different," said Mrs. 
 Damerel. '^ The doctor thought, perhaps, 
 it might be worth trying."
 
 198 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 "Is it the elixir of life ?" said tlie patient 
 smiling ; "nothing sliort of tliat would be 
 worth trying; even that would be too 
 much trouble for the good. It would be 
 folly to come back now when one has got 
 over all the worst of the way." 
 
 "You do not feel worse, Herbert?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; when I tell you the worst is 
 over, my anxious Martha ! I am curious 
 — curious — nothing more. I wish I could 
 but tell you after what sort of a thing it 
 was. Sit down 'by me, and give me your 
 hand. Eose, you will be good ; you will 
 do everything your mother says ?" 
 
 "Oh, Herbert !" said his wife, "do not 
 think of us — if it has come to this ; think 
 of yourself, think where you are going — to 
 God, Herbert, dearest, to be happy beyond 
 anything we can think."
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 199 
 
 "Is it SO ?" he said, still smiling. " I 
 don't know wliere I am going, mj dear, 
 and that is the only thing that gives me a 
 little trouble. I should like to know. I 
 am not afraid of God, who has always been 
 far better to me than I deserved; and I 
 hope I know the way of life." 
 
 This he said with a momentary serious- 
 ness which was quite exceptional. Then 
 he added, in the musing tone which to his 
 anxious watchers seemed almost a gentle 
 delirium, " But think, my dear ! to be sent 
 even into a new place, a strange town, in 
 the dark — without any direction — without 
 knowing where to go, right hand or left !'* 
 He gave a little, soft, broken laugh. " It 
 is the strangest way of dealing with curious, 
 inquisitive creatures like men. I never re- 
 alised it before."
 
 200 ' A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Here some one appeared, beckoning be- 
 hind tlie curtains, to say that Mr. Nolan 
 was in the next room. The Curate came 
 daily, and was always admitted. Eose 
 went softly out to meet him, and almost 
 dropped into the kind man's arms in her 
 exhaustion and excitement. 
 
 '^ He is talking so very strangely," she 
 said, the tears running down her pale 
 cheeks. ''Oh, Mr. Nolan, I think he is 
 wandering in his mind ! Should I send 
 for the doctor ? To hear him speak is 
 ■enough to break one's heart." 
 
 The good Curate put her in a chair and 
 soothed her, smoothing her pretty hair, 
 with unconscious tenderness, as if she had 
 been a child. 
 
 *' Don't cry, dear," he said; "or rather,
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 201 
 
 do cry, poor cliild, it will do you good ; and 
 stay quiet till I come back." 
 
 Rose did wliat slie was told witli tlie 
 docility of helplessness. She lay back in 
 the chair, and cried softly. In this new 
 strait she was as a child, and all the child's 
 overwhelming sense of desolation and half- 
 superstitious awe of the terrible event which 
 was coming weighed down her heart. Pity, 
 and terror, and grief mingled in her mind, 
 till it seemed unable to contain so much 
 ■emotion. She sat and listened to the low 
 voices in the next room, and watched 
 the side gleam of light which came from 
 the half-open door. The very world 
 seemed hushed while this drama came 
 to its conclusion, and there was not 
 a sound without or within but the soft
 
 202 A EOSE IN JTJNE. 
 
 movements in the sick-room, and tlie low- 
 voices. How many new experiences had 
 come into her simple life in so short a 
 time ! Darkness overshadowed the earth 
 already, so that her pleasant pathway in it 
 seemed lost ; and now here was Death, 
 that visitor who is always so doubly ap- 
 palling the first time he enters a peaceful 
 house. "^ 
 
 ''Well, Nolan, you have come in time, 
 for I am just setting out," said the Rector, 
 in a voice stronger than it had been, his 
 anxious wife thought. " Why, man, don't 
 look so grave ; and you, my dear, don't 
 cry, to discourage me. Set me out on my 
 journey a little more cheerily ! I never 
 thought much about dying people before ; 
 and mind what T say, Nolan, because it is 
 your work. Of course, to those who have
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 203 
 
 never thouglit about such matters before, 
 religion is all-important ; but there's more 
 in it than that. When a man's dying he 
 wants humouring. Such strange fancies 
 come into one's head. I am not at all 
 troubled or serious to speak of ; but it is a 
 very odd thing, if you think of it, to set 
 out on such a journey without the least 
 notion where you are to go !" 
 
 And he laughed again. It was not harsh 
 nor profane, but a soft laugh, as easy as a 
 child's. I do not know why it should have 
 horrified the attendants so, or what there 
 is wrong in a laugh so gentle from a death- 
 bed ; but the hearers both shivered with 
 natural pain and almost terror. They 
 tried to lead him to more serious thoughts, 
 but in vain. His mind, which had been 
 serious enough before, had got somehow
 
 ^04 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 dissipated, intoxicated by the approach of 
 the unknown. He could think of nothing 
 else. A certain levity even mingled in his 
 excitement. He asked questions almost 
 with eagerness — questions no one could 
 answer — about the accessories of death. 
 He was curious beyond description about 
 all that he would have to go through. 
 
 ^' What a pity that I shall never be able 
 to tell you what it is, and how I like it !" 
 he said, reflectively; '^at least until you 
 know all about it too — we can compare 
 notes then." 
 
 He would not give up this kind of talk. 
 After the prayers for the sick, which Mr. 
 Nolan read, he resumed the same subject ; 
 and if it is possible to imagine anything 
 that could have made this terrible moment 
 of her life more bitter to poor Mrs. Dame-
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 205 
 
 rel, I tliink this would have been the one 
 thing. 
 
 "Are his affairs in order, do you know?" 
 said the doctor, after paying his late visit, 
 as the Curate accompanied him to the 
 door. He had just given it as his opinion 
 that his patient could not see another 
 morning ; and Mr. Nolan had made up his 
 mind to remain at the Rectory all night. 
 
 "I shouldn't think it. He has never 
 taken much trouble with his affairs." 
 
 *' Then don't you think you could speak 
 to him even now ? I never saw a man so 
 clear headed, and in such possession of his 
 
 faculties, so near Speak to him, Nolan. 
 
 He knows exactly how things are, and no 
 agitation can harm him now. He must 
 have some wishes about his family — some 
 arrangements to make."
 
 206 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Mr. Nolan restrained witli difficulty an 
 exclamation that rose to his lips, and which, 
 might have sounded unkind to a dying 
 maa ; and then he asked abruptly, 
 
 ''Do you find, in your experience, that 
 people who are dying are much concerned 
 about those they leave behind ?" 
 
 ''"Well, no," said the doctor, doubtfully; 
 " I don t think they are. Self gets the 
 upper hand. It is all Nature can do at 
 that moment to think how she is to get 
 through " 
 
 "I suppose so," said the Curate, with 
 that seriousness which naturally accom- 
 panies such a speculation. He walked 
 with the doctor to the gate, and came back 
 across the plot of shrubbery, musing, with 
 a, heavy heart, on the living and on the 
 dying. It was a lovely starlight night,
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 207 
 
 soft and sliadowy, but with a brisk little 
 questioning air wliicli kept tlie leaves a- 
 rustle. Mr. Nolan shivered with some- 
 thing like cold, as he looked up at the stars. 
 ''I wonder, after all, where he is going ?" 
 he said to himself, with a sympathetic ache 
 of human curiosity in his heart.
 
 208 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 II yrH. DAMEREL did not die for twenty- 
 four hours after this. People do 
 not get out of the world so easily. He was 
 not to escape the mortal restlessness, " the 
 fog in his throat," any more than others ; 
 and the hours were slow and long, and lin- 
 gered like years. But at last the Rector 
 came to an end of his wondering, and 
 knew, like all the illuminati before him who 
 have learned too, but are hushed and make 
 no sign. It is a strange thought for mor- 
 tals to take in, that almost every death is,
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 209 
 
 for tlie moment at least, a relief to tliose 
 wlio surround tlie dying. The most in- 
 tolerable moment is that which precedes 
 the end, and most of us are thankful when 
 it is over. 
 
 I need not enter into the dismal hush 
 that fell upon the pleasant Eectory, nor 
 say how the curious sun besieged the 
 closed windows to get into the house once 
 so freely open to the light ; nor how, not- 
 withstanding the long interval of illness 
 which had banished him from common 
 view, the shady corner under the iime- 
 trees, where Mr. DamereFs chair and round 
 table still stood, wore a look of piteous 
 desolation, as if he had left them but yes- 
 terday. All this is easily comprehensible. 
 The servants cried a little, and were con- 
 soled by their new mourning ; the children 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 wept bitterly, tlien began to smile again ; 
 and two poor clergymen, with, large fami- 
 lies, grew sick with anxiety as to wlio 
 should have Dinglefield before our Rector 
 had been dead a day (JSTeither of them had 
 it, you may be sure, they wanted it so 
 much). When the news was known in the 
 parish, and especially on the Green, there 
 was a moment of awe and emotion very 
 real in its way. Most people heard of it 
 when they were first called, and thought 
 of it with varying degrees of impression 
 till breakfast, to which they all came down 
 looking very serious, and told each other 
 the details, and remarked to each other 
 what an inscrutable thing it was, and yet 
 that it was wonderful he had lasted so 
 long. 
 
 Breakfast broke in upon this universal
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 211 
 
 seriousness ; for when it is not any connec- 
 tion, as Mrs. Perronet well remarked, you 
 cannot be expected to remain under tlie 
 impression like those who are relatives ; 
 and after breakfast the Green with one 
 consent turned from the dead to the liv- 
 ing, and began to ask what Mrs. Darner el 
 would do, how she would be "left," what 
 change it would make in her circum- 
 stances ? Many shook their heads and 
 feared that it would make a very great 
 change. They calculated what he had had, 
 and what she had had, when they were 
 married, which was an event within the 
 recollection of many ; and what the income 
 of the Rectory was, after deducting the 
 Curate's salary and other necessary ex- 
 penses ; and how much Bertie cost at Eton.; 
 
 p2
 
 212 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 and many other questions wliicli only an 
 intimate knowledge of their neighbours* 
 affairs could have warranted them in dis- 
 cussing. General Perronet knew for certain 
 that Mr. Damerel's life was insured in at 
 least two offices ; and though they could 
 not, everybody agreed, have saved any- 
 thing, yet there arose after a while a 
 general hope that the family would not be 
 so very badly off. Some of the ladies had 
 quite decided before luncheon that the best 
 thing Mrs. Damerel could do would be to 
 take the White House, which happened to 
 be empty, and which contained a number 
 of little rooms just suitable for a large 
 family. To be sure it was possible that she 
 might prefer to go back to her own county, 
 where her brothers still lived, one of whom 
 was a squire of small property, and the
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 213 
 
 other tlie parson of the hereditary parish ; 
 but the Dinglefield people scarcely thought 
 she would take this step, considering how 
 many friends she had on the Green, and 
 how much better it was to stay where you 
 are known, than to go back to the place 
 where people have forgotten you. 
 
 '^ And then there is Mr. Incledon," said 
 Mrs. Wodehouse, who felt that her son had 
 been slighted, and may be excused perhaps 
 for being a little spiteful. " The mother 
 has always had her eye upon him since he 
 came back to Whitton. You will see that 
 will be a match, if she can manage it ; and 
 of course it will be a great match for Miss 
 Eose." 
 
 I think if an angel from heaven came 
 down into a country parish, and a good 
 woman with daughters entertained him un-
 
 214 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 awares, her neighbours would decide at 
 once whicli of the girls she meant to marry 
 Gabriel to. But Mrs. "Wodehouse had 
 more justification than most gossips have. 
 She could not forget the little pleading note 
 which her Edward had made her write, en- 
 treating Rose to come down if only for one 
 moment, and that the girl had taken no 
 notice of it ; though before that expedition 
 to Whitton to see the Perugino, and Mr. 
 Incledon's great house, Rose had been very 
 well satisfied to have the young sailor at 
 her feet. Mrs. Wodehouse had met the 
 mother and daughter but seldom since, for 
 they had been absorbed in attendance upon 
 the Eector ; but when by chance she did 
 encounter them, she felt proud to think 
 that she had never said anything but 
 " Good-morning." No enquiries after their
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 215 
 
 healtli had come from her lips. She had 
 retired into polite indifference ; though 
 sometimes her heart had been touched by 
 poor Eose's pale cheek, and her wistful 
 look, which seemed to ask pardon. " I do 
 not mind what is done to me," Mrs. Wode- 
 house said to her dear friend and confidant, 
 Mrs. Musgroye ; "but those who slight my 
 son I will never forgive. I do not see that 
 it is unchristian. It is unchristian not to 
 forgive what is done to yourself ; and I am 
 sure no one is less ready to take personal 
 offence than I am." She was resolved 
 therefore, that, whatever happened, " Good 
 morning " was all the greeting she would 
 give to the Damerels ; though of course she 
 was very sorry indeed for them, and as 
 anxious as other people as to how they
 
 216 A ROSE IN JCJNE. 
 
 would be left, and where they would 
 
 go. 
 
 Mrs. Damerel herself was overwhelmed 
 by her grief in a way which could scarcely 
 have been expected from a woman who had 
 so many other considerations to rouse her 
 out of its indulgence, and who had not 
 been for a long time a very happy wife. 
 But when man and wife have been partial- 
 ly separated as these two had been, and 
 have ceased to feel the sympathy for each 
 other which such a close relationship re- 
 quires, a long illness has a wonderful effect 
 often in bringing back to the survivor the 
 early image of the being he or she has 
 loved. Perhaps I ought to say she ; I do 
 not know if a sick wife is so touching to a 
 husband's imagination as a sick man is to 
 his wife's.
 
 A ROSE m JUNE. 217 
 
 And then a little tiling had occurred 
 before the end which had gone to Mrs. 
 Damerel's heart more than matters of 
 much greater moment. Her husband had 
 called Eose, and on Eose going to him had 
 waved her away, saying, ^' No, no," and 
 holding out his feeble hands to her mother. 
 This insignificant little incident had stolen 
 away everything but tenderness from the 
 woman's mind, and she wept for her hus- 
 band as she might have wept for him had 
 he died in the earlier years of their mar- 
 riage, with an absorbing grief that drove 
 everything else out of her thoughts. This, 
 however, could not last. When the blinds 
 were drawn up from the Rectory windows, 
 and the brisk sunshine shone in again, and 
 the family looked with unveiled faces upon 
 the lawn, where every one still expected to
 
 218 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 see him, so full was it of Ms memory, the 
 common cares of life came back and had to 
 be thought of. 
 
 Mrs. Damerel's brothers had both come 
 to the funeral. One of them, the 
 Squire, was the trustee under her mar- 
 riage settlement, and one of the execu- 
 tors of Mr. Damerel's will ; so he remained 
 along with the lawyer and the doctor and 
 Mr. Nolan, and listened to all the jDrovi- 
 sions of that will, which were extremely 
 reasonable, but of a far back date, and 
 which the lawyer read with an occasional 
 shake of his head, which at the moment no 
 one could understand. Unfortunately, 
 however, it was but too easy to under- 
 stand. The Rector, with the wisest care, 
 had appropriated the money he had to the 
 various members of his family. The life
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 219 
 
 interest of tlie greater, part was to be tlie 
 mother's ; a small portion was to be given 
 to the girls on their marriage, and to the 
 boys on their outset in life, and the capital 
 to be divided among them at Mrs. Damerel's 
 death. Nothing could be more sensible or 
 properly arranged. Mr. Hunsdon, Mrs^ 
 Damerel's brother, cleared his ruffled 
 brow as he heard it. He had been pos- 
 sessed by an alarmed sense of danger — 
 a feeling that his sister and her fami- 
 ly were likely to come upon him — which 
 weighed very heavily upon the good man's 
 mind ; but now his brow cleared. 
 
 Further revelations, however, took away 
 this serenity. The money which Mr. Da- 
 merel had divided so judiciously was almost 
 all spent, either in unsuccessful speculations 
 of which he had made several with a view
 
 220 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 to increased dividends ; or by repeated 
 encroacliments on tlie capital, made to pay- 
 debts ; or for one plausible reason after 
 another. Of tlie insurances on his life 
 only one had been kept up, and that 
 chiefly because his bankers held it as 
 security for some advance, and had con- 
 sequently seen that the premium was 
 regularly paid. 
 
 These discoveries fell like so many 
 thunderbolts upon the little party. I 
 don't think Mrs. Damerel was surprised. 
 She sat with her eyes cast down and her 
 hands clasped, with a flush of shame and 
 trouble on her face. 
 
 '' Did you know of this, Rose ?" her 
 brother asked sternly, anxious to find 
 some one to blame. 
 
 " I feared it," she said, slowly, not lift-
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 221 
 
 ing her eyes. The flush on her cheek 
 dried up all her tears. 
 
 Mr. Hunsdon, for one, believed that 
 she was ashamed — not for the dead man's 
 sake — but because she had shared in the 
 doing of it, and was confounded to find 
 her ill doings brought into the light of 
 day. 
 
 '^ But, good heavens !" he said in her 
 ear, " did you know you were defrauding 
 your children when you wasted your sub- 
 stance like this ? I could not have be- 
 lieved it. "Was my brother-in-law aware 
 of the state of the affairs ? — and what did 
 he intend his family to do ?" 
 
 " Mr. Damerel was not a business man," 
 said the lawyer. " He ought to have left 
 the management in our hands. That 
 mining investment was a thing we never
 
 222 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 would have recommended, and tlie neglect 
 of the insurance is most unfortunate. 
 Mr. Damerel was never a man of busi- 
 ness." 
 
 In the presence of his wife it was diffi- 
 cult to say more. 
 
 , "A man may not be a man of business, 
 and yet not be a fool," said Squire Huns- 
 don, hastily. " I beg your pardon. Rose ; 
 I don't want to be unkind." 
 
 '' Let me go, before you use such lan- 
 •guage," she said, rising hastily. " I can- 
 not bear it. Whatever he has done that 
 is amiss, he is not standing here to answer 
 before us now." 
 
 '' I mean no offence. Rose. Nay, sit 
 down ; don't go away. You can't imagine 
 — a man I had so much respect for — that 
 I mean to cast anv reflections. We'll
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 223 
 
 enter ■ into tliat afterwards," said Mr. 
 Hunsdon. " Let ns know at least what 
 they will have to depend on, or if anything 
 is left." 
 
 " There is very little left," said Mrs. 
 Damerel, facing the men who gazed at 
 her wondering, with her pale face and 
 widow's cap. ''We had not very much 
 at first, and it is gone ; and you must 
 blame me, if anyone is to blame. I was 
 not, perhaps, a good manager. I was 
 careless. I did not calculate as I ought 
 to have done. But, if the blame is mine, 
 the punishment will also be mine. Do 
 not say anything more about it, for no 
 one here will suffer but my children and 
 me." 
 
 " I don't know about that. You must 
 be patient, and you must not be unreason-
 
 224 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 able'" said lier brother. '^ Of course we 
 cannot see you want ; tbough neither 
 George nor I have much to spare — and it 
 is our duty to inquire." 
 
 ''Will inquiring bring back the money 
 that is lost?" she said. *' No, no ; you 
 shall not suffer by me. However little it 
 is, we will manage to live on it ; we will 
 never be a burden upon anyone. I don't 
 think I can bear any more." 
 
 And the judges before whom she stood 
 (and not only she, but one who could not 
 answer for himself) were very compas- 
 sionate to the widow, though Mr. Huns- 
 don was still curious and much disturbed 
 in his mind. They slurred over the rest, 
 and allowed Mrs. Damerel and her son 
 and daughter to go, and broke up the 
 gloomy little assembly. Mr. Hunsdon
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 225 
 
 took Mr. Nolan by tlie arm, and went out 
 witli him, leading him on to the lawn, 
 without any thought how the sound of his 
 steps would echo upon the hearts of the 
 mourners. He would have seated him- 
 self in the chair which still stood under 
 the lime-trees, had not Mr. Nolan man- 
 aged to sway his steps away from it, and 
 lead him down the slope to the little 
 platform round the old thorn-tree, which 
 was invisible from the windows. The 
 good Curate was deeply moved both for 
 the living and the dead. 
 
 ^' I don't mind speaking to you," said 
 the anxious brother ; ''I have heard so 
 much of you as an attached friend. You 
 must have known them thoroughly, and 
 their way of living. I can't think it was 
 my sister's fault." 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 "And I know," said Mr. Nolan, with 
 energy, ''it was not lier fault. It was 
 not anyone's fault. He had a generous, 
 liberal way with him " 
 
 " Had he ?" said the Squire, doubtfully. 
 *' He had a costly, expensive way with 
 him — is that what you mean ? I am not 
 saying anything against my late brother- 
 in-law. "We got on very well, for we saw 
 very little of each other. He had a fine 
 mind, and that sort of thing, I suppose 
 they have kept an extravagant house." ' 
 
 " No, I assure you " 
 
 "Entertained a good deal. Kept a 
 good table, I am certain ; good wine — I 
 never drank better claret than that we 
 had last night — the sort of wine / should 
 keep for company, and bring up only on 
 grand occasions. If there is much of it
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 227 
 
 remaining, I don't mind buying a few 
 dozen at tlieir own price," Mr. Hunsdon 
 said, parenthetically. ^' I see ; fine cook- 
 ery, good wine, all tlie luxuries of the 
 season, and the place kept up like a duke's 
 — an expensive house." 
 
 '^ No," said the Curate, reiterating an 
 obstinate negative ; • and then he said, 
 hotly, " She did herself a great deal of 
 injustice. She is the best of managers — 
 the most careful — making everything go 
 twice as far and look twice as well as 
 anybody else." 
 
 Mr. Hunsdon looked at him curiously, 
 for he was one of those people who think 
 a man must be "in love with " any woman 
 whose partisan he makes himself. He 
 made a private note of the Curate's enthu- 
 siasm, and concluded it was best that his 
 
 q2
 
 228 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 sister and her daughter should be warned 
 of his sentiments. 
 
 " I have not seen very much of my poor 
 brother-in-law for some time," he said, dis- 
 guising his scrutiny, ''so that I have no 
 way of judging for myself. I don't know 
 which is most to blame. In such cases 
 the wife can generally stop the extrava- 
 gances if she likes. Two boys at Eton, for 
 example — 1 can't afford so much." 
 
 "Bertie is on the foundation, and costs 
 very little. He is a boy who will do some- 
 thing in the world yet; and I ought to 
 know, for I taught him his first Greek. 
 As for Reginald, his godfather pays his 
 expenses, as I suppose you know ?" 
 
 " You have been here for a long time, I 
 perceive," said the Squire, ''if you taught 
 the boy his first Greek, as you say."
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 229 
 
 '' Eight years," said Mr. Nolan, with a 
 shrug of his shoulders. 
 
 ''And now?" 
 
 ''Now? I'll go off again, I suppose, 
 like a rollin' stone, unless the new Rector 
 will have me. God help us, what heartless 
 brutes we are !" said the Curate, with fiery 
 heat. " I've just laid my old Hector in 
 the grave, and I think of the new one 
 before the day's gone. God forgive me ; 
 it's the way of the world." 
 
 " And why shouldn't you be Eector 
 yourself ? No one would be so good for 
 the parish, I am sure." 
 
 " Me !" said Mr. Nolan, his face light- 
 ing up with a broad gleam of humour, 
 which he quenched next moment in the 
 half-conventional gravity which he felt to 
 be befitting to the occasion. " The days
 
 230 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 of miracles are over, and I don't expect 
 to be made an exception. No ; I'll get a 
 district cliurcli, maybe, some time, with, 
 plenty of bard work and little pay ; but I 
 am not tbe kind that are made to be Rec- 
 tors. Tbere is no chance for me." 
 
 '' Tbe people would like it," said Mr. 
 Hunsdon, who was fishing for information; 
 " it would be a popular appointment, and 
 my sister and I would do anything that 
 might lie in our power." 
 Mr. Nolan shook his head. 
 *^ Not they," he said ; " they have a kind- 
 ness for me in my humble condition. They 
 know I'm a friend when they want one ; 
 but they want something more to look at 
 for their Eector — and so do I too." 
 
 "You are not ambitious?" said Mr. 
 Hunsdon, perplexed by his new acquaint-
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 231 
 
 ance, wlio shrugged liis shoulders again, 
 and rose hastily from the seat under 
 the thorn-tree where they had been sit- 
 ting. 
 
 " That depends," he said, with impatient 
 vagueness ; '^ but I have my work waiting, 
 if I can be of no more use here. For 
 whatever I can do, Mrs. Damerel knows I 
 am at her orders. And you won^t let her 
 be worried just yet awhile?" he added, 
 with a pleading tone, to which his mellow 
 brogue lent an insinuating force which few 
 people could resist. " You'll not go till 
 it's fixed what they are to do ?" 
 
 " You may be sure I shall do my duty 
 by my sister," said the Squire, who, though 
 he had been willing to take the Curate's 
 evidence about the most intimate details of 
 his sister's life, instantly resented Mr.
 
 232 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Nolan's "interference" when it came on 
 his side. 
 
 '' He is in love with one or the other, or 
 perhaps with both," said the man of the 
 world to himself ; '' I must put Rose on her 
 guard." Which accordingly he tried to do, 
 but quite ineffectuallj, Mrs. DamereFs 
 mind being totally unable to take in the 
 insinuation which he scarcely ventured to 
 put in plain words. But, with the excep- 
 tion of this foolish mistake, and of a great 
 deal of implied blame which it was not 
 in the nature of the man to keep to him- 
 self, he did try to do his duty as became 
 a man with a certain amount of ordinary 
 affection for his sister, and a strong sense 
 of what society required from him as head 
 of his family. However he might disap- 
 prove of her, and the extravagance in
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 233 
 
 wliicli she had undeniably been art and 
 part, yet he could not abandon so near a 
 relation. 
 
 I should not like to decide whether 
 benefits conferred thus from a strong sense 
 of duty have more or less merit than those 
 which flow from an affectionate heart and 
 generous nature, but certainly they have less 
 reward of gratitude. The Green was very 
 much impressed by Mr. Hunsdon's good- 
 ness to his sister, but I fear that to her his 
 goodness was a burden more painful than 
 her poverty. And yet he was very good. 
 He undertook, in his brother's name and 
 his own, to pay Bertie's expenses at Eton, 
 where the boy was doing so well ; and 
 when it was decided, as the Green by in- 
 fallible instinct had felt it must be, that 
 the White House was the natural refuge
 
 234 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 for Mrs. Damerel, when tlie time came to 
 leave tlie Eectory, Mr. Hunsdon made him- 
 self responsible for the rent, and put it in 
 order for her with sufficient liberality. The 
 w^hole parish admired and praised him for 
 this, and said how fortunate Mrs. Damerel 
 was to have so good a brother. And she 
 tried herself to feel it, and to be grateful 
 as he deserved. But gratitude, which 
 springs spontaneous for the simplest of 
 gifts, and exults over a nothing, is often 
 very slow to follow great benefits. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Damerel thought it was the 
 deadness of her grief which made her so 
 insensible to her brother's kindness. She 
 thought she had grown incapable of feeling; 
 and she had so much to realize, so much to 
 accustom herself to. A change so great 
 and fundamental confuses the mind. So
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 235 
 
 far as slie could see before her, slie liad 
 nothing now to look forward to in life but 
 an endless, humiliating struggle ; and she 
 forgot, in the softening of her heart, that 
 for years past she had been struggling 
 scarcely less hardly. When she looked 
 back she seemed to see only happiness 
 in comparison with this dull deprivation of 
 all light and hope in which she was left 
 now. But the reader knows that she had 
 not been happy, and that this was but, as 
 it were, a prismatic reflection from her 
 tears, a fiction of imagination and sorrow ; 
 and by-and-by she began to see more 
 clearly the true state of affairs. 
 
 They stayed at the Eectory till Christmas, 
 by grace of the new Rector, who unfortu- 
 nately, however, could not keep on Mr. 
 Nolan — of whose preferment there never
 
 236 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 had been a glimmer of liope — ^beyond that 
 period. Christmas is a dreary time to 
 go into a new home ; though I don't 
 think the Eector of Dinglefield thought 
 so, who brought home his bride to the 
 pretty E-ectory, and thought no Hfe could 
 begin more pleasantly than by those cheer- 
 ful Christmas services in the church, which 
 was all embowered in holly and laurel, in 
 honour of the great English festival and in 
 honour of him ; for the Green had of course 
 taken special pains with the decorations on 
 account of the new-comer. The long and 
 dreary autumn which lay between their 
 bereavement and their removal was, how- 
 ever, very heavy and terrible for the 
 Damerels. Its rains, and fogs, and dreary 
 days seemed to echo and increase their 
 own heaviness of heart ; and autumn, as it
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 237 
 
 sinks into winter, is all tlie more depress- 
 ing in a leafy woodland country, as it lias 
 been beautiful in its earlier stages. Even 
 tlie little claildren were subdued, they knew 
 not why, and felt tlie change in the house ; 
 though it procured them many privileges, 
 and they might now even play in the 
 drawing-room unreproved, and were never 
 sent away hurriedly lest they should dis- 
 turb papa, as had been the case of old when 
 sometimes they would snatch a fearful joy 
 by a romp in the twilight corners ; but 
 even the babies felt that this new privilege 
 was somehow a symptom of some falling 
 off and diminution in the family life. 
 
 But no one felt it as Rose did, who 
 had been shaken out of all the habits of 
 her existence, without having as yet found 
 anything to take their place. She had not
 
 238 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 even entered upon the idea of duty when 
 lier secret romance was brought to a sud- 
 den close, and that charmed region of ima- 
 gination in which youth so readily finds a 
 refuge, and which gilds the homeliest pre- 
 sent with dreams of that which may be here- 
 after, had been arbitrarily closed to the girl. 
 Had her little romance been permitted to 
 her, she would have had a secret spring of 
 hope and content to fall back upon, and 
 would have faced her new life bravely with 
 a sense of her own individuality, such as 
 seemed now to have faded altogether out 
 of her mind. 
 
 Her very appearance changed, as was 
 inevitable. Instead of the blooming maiden 
 we have known, it was the whitest of Roses 
 that went about the melancholy house in 
 her black dress, with all the colour and
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 239 
 
 life gone out of lier, doing whatever she 
 was told with a docility which was sad to 
 see. When she was left to herself she 
 would sit idle or drop absorbed into a book ; 
 but everything that was suggested to her 
 she did, without hesitation and without 
 energy. The whole world had become 
 confined to her within these oppressive 
 walls, within this sorrowful house. 
 
 The people on the Green looked at her 
 with a kind of wondering reverence, saying 
 how she must have loved her father, and 
 how she looked as if she would never get 
 over it. But grief was not all of the weight 
 which crushed her. She was for the mo- 
 ment bound as by some frost, paralysed in 
 all the springs of her interrupted being. 
 She had no natural force of activity in 
 her to neutralise the chill her soul had
 
 240 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 taken. SHe did all tliat slie was told to do, 
 and took every suggestion gratefully ; but 
 slie had not yet learned to see for herself 
 with her own eyes what had to be done, 
 nor did she realise all the changes that 
 were involved in the one great change which 
 had come upon them. Misfortune had 
 fallen upon her while she was still in the 
 dreamy vagueness of her youth, when the 
 within is more important than the without, 
 and the real and imaginary are so inter- 
 mingled that it is hard to tell where one 
 ends and another begins. Necessity laid 
 no wholesome vigour-giving hand upon her, 
 because she was pre-occupied with fancies 
 which seemed more important than the 
 reality. Agatha, all alert and alive in her 
 practical matter-of-fact girlhood, was of 
 more value in the house than poor Eose,
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 241 
 
 who was like a creature in a dream, not 
 seeing anything till it was pointed out to 
 her ; obeying always and humbly, but never 
 doing or originating anything from her 
 own mind. Nobody understood her, not 
 even herself ; and sometimes she would sit 
 down and cry for her father, thinking he 
 would have known what it meant, without 
 any recollection of the share her father had 
 in thus paralysing her young life. This 
 strange condition of affairs was unknown, 
 however, to anyone out of doors except 
 Mr. Nolan, who, good fellow, took it upon 
 him once to say a few coaxing, admonish- 
 ing words to her. 
 
 " You'll ease the mother when you can, 
 Miss Rose, dear," he said, taking her soft, 
 passive hands between his own. '' You 
 don't mind me saying so — an old fellow 
 
 VOL. I. ** R
 
 242 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 and an old friend like me, that loves every 
 one of you, one better than another ? I'll 
 hang on if I can, if the new man will have 
 me, and be of use — what's the good of 
 me else ? — and you'll put your shoulder to 
 the wheel with a good heart like the dar- 
 ling girl that you are ?" 
 
 "My shoulder to the wheel," said Rose, 
 with a half -smile, " and with a good heart ! 
 when I feel as if I had no heart at all ?" 
 and the girl began to cry, as she did now 
 for any reason, if she was startled, or any 
 one spoke to her suddenly. What could 
 poor Mr. Nolan do but soothe and comfort 
 her ? Poor child ! They had taken away 
 all the inner strength from her before the 
 time of trial came, and no better influence 
 had yet roused her from the shock, or 
 made her feel that she had something in her
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 243 
 
 which was not to be crushed bj any storm. 
 IMr. Nolan knew as little what to make of 
 her as her mother did, who was slowly 
 coming back to her old use and wont, and 
 beginning to feel the sharpness of hardship, 
 and to realise once more how it was and 
 why it was that this hardship came. 
 
 r2
 
 -;^--,v' 244 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 nPHE White House did not stand on tlie 
 Green, but on one of tlie roads leading 
 out of itj at a short distance from that centre 
 of the world. It looked large from outside 
 — something between a mansion and a 
 cottage — and within was full of useless 
 passages, confused little rooms, and bits 
 of staircase on which the unaccustomed 
 passenger might break his neck with ease, 
 and a general waste of space and disorder 
 of arrangement which pleased the antiquary 
 as quaint, but was much less desirable
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 245 
 
 practically titan artistically. There were 
 two sitting-rooms, whicli were large and 
 low, with raftered roofs, and small deep- 
 set windows overgrown with creepers ; and 
 there was a garden, almost as rambling as 
 the house itself, and surrounded by old walls 
 and hedges which effectually shut out every 
 view, except into its own grassy, mossy 
 depths. Some former enterprising inhabi- 
 tant had introduced into the drawing-room 
 one long French window, by which there 
 was a practicable exit into the garden ; and 
 this was the only modern point in the 
 house. Some people said it spoilt the 
 room, which otherwise would have been 
 perfect ; but it was a great convenience and 
 comfort to the Damerels, in summer, at 
 least. 
 
 The house was somewhat damp,
 
 246 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 somewhat weedy, rather dark ; but it was 
 rooiuy, and more like a house in which 
 gentlefolks could melt away into penury 
 than a pert little new brick house in a 
 street. It was very cheap; for it had 
 various disadvantages, into which I am not 
 called upon to enter. Mrs. Damerel, whose 
 house had always been the perfection of 
 houses, with every new sanitary invention, 
 was glad to put up with these drawbacks 
 for the sake of the low rent — so vast and 
 so many are the changes which absence of 
 money makes. 
 
 Before Christmas Day they had all 
 the old furniture — save some special 
 pieces of virtu, graceful old cabinets, mir- 
 rors, and ornamental things, which were 
 sold — arranged and adapted, and settled 
 down in tolerable comfort. The boys,
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 247 
 
 wlieii they came from school, looked with 
 doubtful faces at the change, especially 
 Eegiuald, who was humiliated by it, and 
 found fault with the room allotted to him, 
 and with the deficiencies of service. 
 "Poor! why are we poor? It must be 
 some one's fault," said the boy to his sister 
 Agatha, who cried and declared passion- 
 ately that she wished he had not come 
 back, but had gone to his fine godfather, 
 whom he was always talking of. When 
 an invitation arrived for him from his god- 
 father some days later, 1 think they were 
 all glad ; for Reginald was very like his 
 father, and could not bear anything mean 
 or poor. 
 
 The number of servants had dwin« 
 died to one, who made-believe to be of 
 all work, and did a little of everything.
 
 248 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Except in tlie case of those lucky families 
 who abound in fiction, and now and then, 
 par exception, are to be found in ordinary 
 life, who possess a faithful and devoted 
 and all-accomplished woman, who, for love 
 of them, forsakes all hopes of bettering 
 herself, and applies at once genius and 
 knowledge to the multifarious duties of 
 maid-of-all-work — this functionary is as 
 great a trouble to her employers as to 
 herself ; and to fall back upon attendance 
 so uninstructed and indifferent is one of 
 the hardest consequences of social down- 
 fall. 
 
 The girls had to make up Mary 
 Jane's deficiencies in the White House ; and 
 at first, as they were not used to it, the re- 
 sults were but little consolatory. Even 
 Bertie, perhaps, though a good son and a
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 249 
 
 good boj, was not sorry to get back to 
 scliool, and to the society of liis friends, 
 after tliese first holidays, wliicli liad not 
 been liappy ones. Poor children ! none of 
 them had ever known before what it was 
 to do without what they wanted, and to 
 be content with the bare necessaries of 
 life. 
 
 All the same, a shower of cards from all 
 the best people about came pouring down 
 upon the new dwellers in the White House, 
 and were taken in by Mary Jane between a 
 grimy finger and thumb to the drawing- 
 room where the rumble of the departing 
 carriages excited Agatha and Patty, at 
 least, if no one else. And all the people 
 on the Green made haste to call to express 
 their sympathy and friendliness. Mrs. 
 Wodehouse was the only one who did not
 
 250 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 ask to see Mrs. Damerel ; but even she did 
 not lose a day in calling ; and, indeed, it 
 was wliile on her way from the White House 
 that for the first time she met Rose, who 
 had been out about some business for her 
 mother, and who, with her black veil over 
 her face, was straying slowly home. Mrs. 
 Wodehouse said '' Good morning," with a 
 determination to hold by her formula and 
 not be tempted into kindness ; but when the 
 girl put back her veil and showed her pale 
 face, the good woman s heart melted in 
 spite of herself. 
 
 " How pale you are !" she said. '' Oh, 
 Rose ! — And how is your mother ?" she 
 added hastily, trying to save herself from 
 the overflowing of tenderness which came 
 upon her unawares.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 251 
 
 " Are you going to see her ?" said 
 Eose. 
 
 '' I liave been to call ; I did not, of 
 course, expect slie would see me. And 
 liow do you like tlie White House? I 
 hope you have not been ill; you do not 
 look so fresh as when I saw you last." 
 
 "It is very nice," said Eose, answering 
 the first question ; ''though it feels damp 
 just at first ; we all think we shall soon get 
 used to it. It is a long time since I saw 
 you last." 
 
 This was said with a little piteous smile,, 
 which made Mrs. Wodehouse's resolution 
 " never to forgive " become more and more 
 hard to keep. 
 
 '' I could not think I was wanted," she 
 said, with an effort to appear short and
 
 252 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 stern ; ''or I should liave gone to your 
 mother before now."' 
 
 " Why ?" asked Rose, with a wondering 
 glance ; and then, as there was a dead 
 pause, which was awkward, she said, soft- 
 ly : "I hope you have news from — your 
 son?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I have news from him. He is 
 always very good in writing. There never 
 was a kinder boy to his mother. He never 
 forgets me ; though there are many people 
 who would fain get his attention. Edward 
 is always finding friends wherever he 
 goes." 
 
 " I am glad," said poor Rose. 
 
 " Plenty of friends ! I hear nothing 
 but good news of him. He writes in 
 the best of spirits. Oh, Eose !" cried Mrs. 
 Wodehouse, hurriedly running one subject
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 253 
 
 into another with breathless precipitancy, 
 "how could you be so heartless — so unkind 
 — as not to come down stairs when I asked 
 you to bid my poor boy good-bye ?" 
 
 A flush of colour came upon E-ose's pale 
 face ; it made her look like herself again. 
 " I could not," she said ; " do not be angry. 
 I have so wanted to tell you. There was 
 nobody there but me, and he held my hand, 
 and would not let me leave him. I 
 could not. Oh ! how glad I am that you 
 have asked me ! It was not my fault." 
 Her father's name brought the big tears to 
 her eyes. " Poor papa !" she added, softly, 
 with an instinctive sense that he needed 
 defence. 
 
 Whether Mrs. Wodehouse would have 
 taken her to her arms forthwith on the 
 open Green in the wintry afternoon light^,
 
 254 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 if no one had disturbed them, I cannot 
 tell ; butj just as she was putting out her 
 hands to the girl, they were interrupted 
 by a third person, who had been coming 
 along the road unnoticed, and who now 
 came forward, with his hat in his hand, 
 and with the usual inquiry about her mo- 
 ther to which Rose was accustomed. The 
 sound of his voice made Mrs. "Wodehouse 
 start with suppressed anger and dismay, 
 and Eose looked out from the heavy sha- 
 dow of the crape veil, which showed the 
 paleness of her young face, as if under a 
 penthouse or heavy-shaded cavern. But 
 she was not pale at that moment ; a light 
 of emotion was in her face. The tears 
 were hanging on her eyelashes ; her soft 
 lip was quivering. Mr. Incledon thought 
 that grief and downfall had done all that
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 265 
 
 the severest critic could have desired for 
 her young beauty. It had given tender- 
 ness, expression, feehng to the blooming 
 rose face, such as is almost incompatible 
 with the first radiance of youth. 
 
 ''Would Mrs. Damerel see me, do you 
 think ?" he asked ; ''or is it too early to 
 intrude upon her ? It is about business I 
 want to speak." 
 
 " I will ask," said Eose. "But if it is 
 about business, she will be sure to see 
 you. She says she is always able for 
 that." 
 
 " Then I will say good-bye," said Mrs. 
 Wodehouse, unreasonably excited and 
 angry, she could scarcely tell why. She 
 made a step forward, and then came back 
 again with a little compunction, to add, in 
 an undertone : "I am glad we have had
 
 256 A EOSE IN JUKE. 
 
 this little explanation. I will tell liim 
 when I write, and it will please him, too." 
 
 " Yon have not been quarrelling with 
 Mrs. Wodehouse, that you should have 
 little explanations ?" said Mr. Incledon, as 
 he walked along to the White House by 
 Rose's side. 
 
 " Oh, no, it was nothing ;" but he saw 
 the old rose flush sweep over the cheeks 
 which had half relapsed into paleness. 
 What was it ? and whom did Mrs. Wode- 
 house mean to write to ? and what was she 
 glad about ? These foolish questions got 
 into the man's head, though they were too 
 frivolous to be thought of. She took him 
 into the drawing-room at the White 
 House, which was almost dark by this 
 time, it was so low, and where the cheery 
 glimmer of the fire made the room look
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 257 
 
 mucli more clieerful than it ever was in 
 the short daylight, through the many 
 branches that surrounded the house. Mrs. 
 Damerel was sitting alone there over the 
 fire, and Rose left him with her mother, 
 and went away, bidding Agatha watch 
 over the children, that no one might dis- 
 turb mamma. 
 
 " She is talking to Mr. Incledon about 
 business," said Rose, passing on to her 
 own room ; and Agatha, who w^as sharp of 
 wit, could not help wondering what pleas- 
 ant thing had happened to her sister to 
 make her voice so soft and thrilling. 
 
 " I almost expected to hear her sing," 
 Agatha said afterwards ; though indeed a 
 voice breaking forth in a song, as all their 
 voices used to do six months ago, would 
 have seemed something impious at this 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 moment, in the shadow that lay over the 
 house. 
 
 Mr. Incledon was nearly an hour " talk- 
 ing business" with Mrs. Damerel, during 
 which time they sat in the firelight and 
 had no candles, being too much interested 
 in their conversation to note how time 
 passed. Mrs. Damerel said nothing about 
 the business when the children came in to 
 tea — the homely and inexpensive meal 
 which had replaced dinner in the "White 
 House. Her eyes showed signs of tears, 
 and she was very quiet, and let the 
 younger ones do and say almost what they 
 pleased. But if the mother was quiescent, 
 E;0se5 too, had changed in a different way. 
 Instead of sitting passive, as she usually 
 did, it was she who directed Agatha and 
 Patty about their lessons, and helped
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 259 
 
 Dick, and sent the little ones off at their 
 proper hour to bed. There was a little 
 glimmer of light in her eyes, a little dawn 
 of colour in her cheek. The reason was 
 nothing that could have been put into 
 words — a something perfectly baseless, 
 visionary, and unreasonable. It was not 
 the hope of being reconciled to Edward 
 Wodehouse, for she had never quarrelled 
 with him ; nor the hope of seeing him 
 again, for he was gone for years. It was 
 merely that she had recovered her future, 
 her imagination, her land of promise. 
 The visionary barrier which had shut her 
 out from that country of dreams had been 
 removed — it would be hard to say how ; 
 for good Mrs. Wodehouse certainly was 
 not the doorkeeper of Hose's imagination, 
 nor had it in her power to shut and open 
 
 s2
 
 260 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 at her pleasure. But what does how and 
 why matter in that visionary regiom ? It 
 was so, which is all that need be said. 
 She was not less sorrowful, but she had 
 recovered herself. She was not less lonely, 
 nor did she feel less the change in her 
 position ; but she was once more Rose, an 
 individual creature, feeling the blood run 
 in her veins, and the light lighten upon 
 her, and the world spread open before 
 her. 
 
 " If I have freedom in my love, 
 And in my soul am free " — 
 
 I suppose this was how she felt. She 
 had got back that consciousness which is 
 sometimes bitter and sometimes sad, but 
 without which we cannot live — the con- 
 sciousness that she was no shadow in the 
 world, but herself — no reflection of an-
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 261 
 
 other's will and feelings, but possessor of 
 her own. 
 
 When her mother and she were left 
 alone, Rose got up from where she was 
 sitting and drew a low chair, which be- 
 longed to one of the children, to her mo- 
 ther's knee. Mrs. Damerel, too, had 
 watched Agatha's lingering exit with some 
 signs of impatience, as if she, too, had 
 something to say ; but Rose had not no- 
 ticed this, any more than her mother had 
 noticed the new impulse which was visible 
 in her child. The girl was so full of it, 
 that she began to speak instantly, without 
 waiting for any question. 
 
 " Mamma," she said softly, " I have not 
 been a good daughter to you ; I have left 
 you to take all the trouble, and I have not 
 tried to be of use. I want to tell you that
 
 262 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 I have found it out, and tliat I will try 
 witli all my heart to be different from to- 
 day." 
 
 " Kose, my dear child !" Mrs. Damerel 
 was surprised and troubled. The tears, 
 which rose so easily now, came Avith a 
 sudden rush to her eyes. She put her 
 arms round the girl, and drew her close, 
 and kissed her. " I have never found 
 fault with you, my darling," she said. 
 
 " No, mamma ; and that makes me feel 
 it more. But it shall be different ; I am 
 sorry, more sorry than I can tell you ; but 
 it shall be different from to-day." 
 
 '' But, Eose, what has put this into your 
 head to-day ?" 
 
 A wavering blush came and went upon 
 Rose's face. She had it almost in her 
 heart to tell her mother ; but yet there was
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 26B 
 
 nothing to tell, and what could she say ? 
 
 '^ I — can't tell, mamma. It is mild and 
 like spring. I think it was being out, and 
 hearing people speak — kindly " 
 
 Here Rose paused, and, in her turn, let 
 fall a few soft tears. She had gone out 
 very little, scarcely stirring beyond the 
 garden, since her father's death, and Mrs. 
 Damerel thought it was the mere impulse 
 of reviving life ; unless indeed 
 
 ''My dear, did Mr. Incledon say any- 
 thing to you ?" she asked, with a vague 
 hope. 
 
 " Mr. Incledon ? Oh, no ! except to ask 
 me if you would see him — on business. 
 What was his business ?" said innocent 
 Hose, looking up into her mother's face. 
 
 "Rose," said Mrs. Damerel, ''I was just 
 about to speak to you on a very important
 
 264 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 matter when you began. My dear, I must 
 tell you at once what Mr. Incledon's busi- 
 ness was. It was about you." 
 
 '^ About me?" 
 
 All the colour went out of Rose's face in 
 a moment ; she recollected the visit to 
 VYhitton, and the sudden light that had 
 flashed upon her as he and she looked at 
 the picture together. She had forgotten 
 all about it months ago, and indeed had 
 never again thought of Mr. Incledon. But 
 now in a moment her nerves began to thrill 
 and her heart to beat ; jet she herself, in 
 whom the nerves vibrated and the heart 
 throbbed, to turn to stone. 
 
 "Rose, you are not nervous or silly like 
 many girls, and you know now what life is 
 — not all a hap23y dream, as it sometimes 
 seems at the beginning. My dear, I have
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 265 
 
 in my liand a brigliter future than you 
 ever could have hoped for, if you will have 
 it. Mr. Incledon has asked my leave to 
 ask you to be his wife. Rose " 
 
 '' Me ! his wife !" 
 
 Rose clutched at her mother's hand and 
 repeated these words with a pant of fright ; 
 though it seemed to her the moment they 
 were said as if she had all her life known 
 they were coming, and had heard them a 
 hundred times before. 
 
 " That is what he wants, Rose. Don't 
 tremble so, or look at me so wildly. It is 
 a wonderful thing to happen to so young a 
 girl as you. He is very good and very 
 kind, and he would be, oh ! of so much 
 help to all your family ; and he could give 
 you everything that heart can desire, and 
 restore you to far more than you have
 
 266 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 lost ; and lie is very fond of jou, and would 
 make you an excellent husband. I pro- 
 mised to speak to you, dear. You must 
 tliink it over. He does not wish you to 
 give him an answer at once." 
 
 ''Mamma," said Rose, hoarsely, with a 
 sudden trembling which seemed to reach 
 into her very heart, "is it not better to 
 give an answer at once ? Mamma, I am 
 not fond of him. I think it would be best 
 to say so now." " 
 
 " You are not fond of him ? Is that all 
 the consideration you give such a ques- 
 tion ? You do not intend that for an an- 
 swer, E/Ose?" 
 
 " Oh, mamma, is it not enough ? What 
 more answer could I give ? I am not 
 fond of him at all. I could not pretend to 
 be. When it is an answer like that, surely 
 it is best to give it now."
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 267 
 
 " And so," said her mother, " you throw 
 aside one of the best offers that ever a erirl 
 received with less thought on the subject 
 than you would give to a cat or a dog ! 
 You decide your whole future without one 
 thought. Rose, is this the helpfulness you 
 have just iDromised me ? Is this the 
 thoughtfulness for yourself and all of us 
 that I have a right to expect ?" 
 
 Rose did not know what to reply. She 
 looked at her mother with eyes suddenly 
 hollowed out by fear and anxiety and 
 trouble, and watched every movement of 
 her lips and hands with a growing alarm 
 which she could not control. 
 
 "You do not speak? Rose, Rose, you 
 must see how wrong you would be to act 
 so hastily. If it were a question of keep- 
 ing or sending away a servant — nay, even
 
 268 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 a dog, you would give more thought to it ; 
 and this is a man who loves you, who would 
 make you happy. Oh, do not shake your 
 head ! How can a child of your age 
 know ? A man who, I am sure, would 
 make you happy ; a man who could give 
 you everything, and more than everything, 
 Rose. I cannot let you decide without 
 thought." 
 
 '' Does one need to think ?" said Eose, 
 slowly, after a pause. ^' I do not care for 
 him, I cannot care for him. You would 
 not have me tell a lie ?" 
 
 '' I would have you deny yourself," 
 cried her mother ; ''I would have you 
 think of some higher rule than your 
 own pleasure. Is that the best thing in 
 the world, to please yourself? Oh, I 
 could tell you stories of that ! Why are
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 269 
 
 we in this poor little house with nothing ? 
 why is my poor Bertie dependent upon 
 my brother, and you girls forced to work 
 like maid-servants, and our life all changed ? 
 Through self-indulgence, Rose. Oh ! God 
 forgive me for saying it, but I must tell 
 the truth. Through choosing the pleasure 
 of the moment rather than the duties that 
 we cannot shake off ; through deciding 
 always to do what one liked rather than to 
 do what was right. Here are eight of you 
 children with your lives blighted, all that 
 one might be pleasant and unburdened. I 
 have suffered under it all my life. Not 
 anything wrong, not anything wicked, but 
 only, and always, and before everything 
 what one liked oneself." 
 
 Mrs. Damerel spoke with a passion that 
 was very unlike her usual calm. The
 
 270 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 lines came into her brow wliicli Rose re- 
 membered of old, but wliich the tranquillity 
 of grief had smoothed out. A hot colour 
 mounted to her cheeks, making a line 
 beneath her eyes. The girl was struck 
 dumb by this sudden yehemence. Her 
 reason was confused by the mingled truth 
 and sophistry, which she felt without know- 
 ing how to disentangle them, and she was 
 shocked and wounded by the implied blame 
 thus cast upon him w^ho had been of late 
 the idol of her thoughts, and whom, if she 
 had once timidly begun to form a judgment 
 on him, she had long ceased to think of as 
 anything but perfect. 
 
 '^ Oh ! stop, stop ! don't say any more !" 
 she cried, clasping her hands. 
 
 **I cannot stop," said Mrs. Damerel; 
 "not now, when I have begun. I neyer
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 271 
 
 tliouglit to say as mucli to one of his 
 children, and to no other could I ever 
 speak, E.ose. I see the same thing in 
 Reginald, and it makes my heart sick ; 
 must I find it in you too ? There are peo- 
 ple who are so happy as to like what they 
 have to do, what it is their duty to do ; 
 and these are the blessed ones. But it is 
 not always, it is not often, so in this life. 
 Dear, listen to what I say. Here is a way 
 by which you may make up for much of 
 the harm that has been done ; you may 
 help all that belong to you ; you may put 
 yourself in a position to be useful to many ; 
 you may gain what men only gain by the 
 labour of their lives ; and all this by marry- 
 ing a good man, whom you will make 
 happy. Will you throw it away because at 
 the first glance it is not what your fancy
 
 272 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 cliooses ? Will you set your own taste 
 against everybody's advantage ? Oli ! my 
 darling, think, think ! Do not let your 
 first motive in the first great thing you are 
 called upon to do, be mere self !" 
 
 Mrs. Damerel stopped short, with a dry 
 glitter in her eyes, and a voice which was 
 choked and broken. She was moved to 
 the extent of passion — she who in general 
 was so self-restrained. A combination of 
 many emotions worked within her. To 
 her mind, every good thing for her child 
 was contained in this proposal ; and in 
 Eose's opposition to it she saw the rising 
 of the poisonous monster which had embit- 
 tered her whole life. She did not pause 
 to ask herself what there was in the nature 
 of this sacrifice she demanded, which made 
 it less lawful, less noble, than the other
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 273 
 
 sacrifices which, are the Christian's highest 
 ideal of duty. It was enough that by this 
 step, which did not seem to Mrs. Darner el 
 so very hard, Rose would do everything 
 for herself and much for her family, and 
 that she hesitated, declined to take it, be- 
 cause it was not pleasant, because she did 
 not like it. Like it ! The words raised a 
 perfect storm in the breast of the woman 
 who had been made wretched all her life 
 by her ineffectual struggle against the 
 habitual decision of her husband for what 
 he liked. She Avas too much excited to 
 hear what Eose had to say ; if, indeed, poor 
 Rose had anything to say after this sudden 
 storm which had broken upon her. 
 
 ^' We will speak of it to-morrow, when you 
 have had time to think," she said, kissing 
 her daughter, and dismissing her hastily. 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 When Rose had gone, she fell back into 
 her chair by the waning firelight, and 
 thought over the many times in her own 
 life when she had battled and had been 
 worsted on this eternal point of difference 
 between the two classes of humanity. She 
 had struggled for self-denial against self- 
 indulgence in a hundred different ways on 
 a hundred fields of battle, and here was the 
 end of it : a poor old house, tumbling to 
 pieces about her ears, a poor little pittance, 
 just enough to give her children bread; 
 and for those children no prospect but toil 
 for which they had not been trained, and 
 which changed their whole conception of 
 life. Bertie, her bright boy, for whom 
 everything had been hoped, if her brother s 
 precarious bounty should fail, what was 
 there before him but a poor little clerkship
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 275 
 
 in some office from wliicli lie never could 
 rise, and wliicb, indeed, liis uncle had sug- 
 gested at first as a way of making him. 
 lielpful to liis family ? God help her ! This 
 was what a virtuous and natural preference 
 for the things one liked had brought Mrs. 
 Damerel to ; and if her mind took a con- 
 fused and over-strained view of the sub- 
 ject, and of the lengths to which self- 
 denial ought to be carried, was it any 
 wonder ? I think there is a great deal to 
 be said on her side of the case. 
 
 E;0se, for her part, lit her candle and 
 went up the old stairs — which creaked 
 under her light foot — with her head bent 
 down, and her heart stiffled under a weight 
 that was too much for her. A cold, cold 
 January night, the chill air coming in at 
 the old casements, the dark skies without 
 
 t2
 
 276 A £OSE IN JUNE. 
 
 lending no cheering influence, and no 
 warmth, of cheery fires within to neutralise 
 Nature's heaviness ; an accusation thrown 
 upon her under which her whole being 
 ached and revolted ; a duty set before her 
 which was terrible to think of ; and no one 
 to advise, or comfort, or help. What was 
 she to do ?
 
 277 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 1 /I R. INCLEDON was a man of whom 
 people said tliat any girl might be 
 glad to marry him ; and considering mar- 
 riage from an abstract point of view, as one 
 naturally does when it does not concern 
 one's self, this was entirely true. In posi- 
 tion, in character, in appearance, and in 
 principles, he was everything that could 
 be desired : a good man, just, and never 
 consciously unkind ; nay, capable of gene- 
 rosity when it was worth his while, and he
 
 278 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 had sufficient inducement to be generous. 
 A man well-educated, wlio liad been much 
 about the world, and had learned the 
 toleration which comes by experience; 
 whose opinions were worth hearing on 
 almost every subject; who had read a 
 great deal, and thought a little, and was as 
 much superior to the ordinary young man 
 of society in mind and judgment as he was 
 in wealth. 
 
 That this kind of man often fails to cap- 
 tivate a foolish girl, when a partner in a 
 valse, brainless, beardless, and penniless, 
 succeeds without any trouble in doing so, 
 is one of those mysteries of nature which 
 nobody can penetrate, but which happens 
 too often to be doubted. Even in this 
 particular, however, Mr. Incledon had his 
 advanta2:es. He was not one of those who,
 
 A ROSE m JUNE. 279 
 
 either by contempt for the occupations of 
 yontli or by the gravity natural to maturer 
 years, allow themselves to be pushed aside 
 from the lighter part of life — ^he still 
 danced, though not with the absolute devo- 
 tion of twenty, and retained his place on 
 the side of youth, not permitting himself to 
 be shelved. More than once, indeed, the 
 young officers from the garrison near, and 
 the young scions of the county families, 
 had looked on with puzzled noncompre- 
 hension, when they found themselves alto- 
 gether distanced in effect and popularity 
 by a mature personage whom they would 
 gladly have called an old fogie had they 
 dared. These young gentlemen of course 
 consoled their vanity by railing against 
 the mercenary character of women who 
 preferred wealth to everything. But it
 
 280 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 was not only his wealtli upon wliicli Mr. 
 Incledon stood. No girl who had married 
 him need have' felt herself withdrawn to 
 the grave circle in which her elders had 
 their place. He was able to hold his own 
 in every pursuit with men ten years his 
 juniors, and did so. Then, too, he had 
 almost a romantic side to his character ; 
 for a man so well off does not put off 
 marrying for so long without a reason, and 
 though nobody knew of any previous story, 
 any ''entanglement," which would have re- 
 strained him, various picturesque sugges- 
 tions were afloat ; and even failing these, 
 the object of his choice might have laid 
 the flattering unction to her soul that his 
 long waiting had been for the realisation of 
 some perfect ideal which he found only in 
 her.
 
 A ROSE m JUNE. 281 
 
 This model of a marriageable man took 
 his way from the White House in a state 
 of mind less easily described than most of 
 his mental processes. He was not excited 
 to speak of, for an interview between a lover 
 of thirty-five and the mother of the lady he 
 loves is not generally exciting ; but he was 
 a little doubtful of his own perfect judici- 
 ousness in the step he had just taken. I 
 can no more tell you why he had set his 
 heart on E/Ose than I can say why she felt 
 no answering inclination towards him — for 
 there were many other girls in the neigh- 
 bourhood who would in many ways 
 have been more suitable to a man of his 
 tastes and position. But Eose was the 
 one woman in the world for him, by sheer 
 caprice of nature ; just as reasonable, and 
 no more so, as that other caprice which
 
 2S2 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 made Mm, with all his advantages and re- 
 commendations, not the man for her. 
 
 If ever a man was in a position to make 
 a deliberate choice, such as men are com- 
 monly supposed to make in matrimony, 
 Mr. Incledon was the man ; yet he chose 
 just as much and as little as the rest of us 
 do. He saw Eose, and some power which 
 he knew nothing of decided the question at 
 once for him. He had not been thinking 
 of marriage, but then he made up his mind 
 to marry ; and whereas he had on various 
 occasions weighed the qualities and the 
 charms of this one and the other, he never 
 asked himself a question about her, nor 
 compared her with any other woman, nor 
 considered whether she was suited for him, 
 or anything else about her. 
 
 This was how he exercised that inestim-
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 283 
 
 able privilege of clioice whicli women some- 
 times enyy. But, having once received 
 this conviction into liis mind, he had never 
 wavered in his determination to win her. 
 The question in his mind now was, not 
 whether his selection was the best he could 
 have made, but whether it was wise of him 
 to have entrusted his cause to the mother 
 rather than to have spoken to Rose herself.. 
 He had remained in the background during 
 those dreary months of sorrow. He had 
 sent flowers and game and messages of 
 enquiry; but he had not thrust himself 
 upon the notice of the women, till their 
 change of residence gave token that they 
 must have begun to rouse themselves 
 for fresh encounter with the world. 
 
 When he was on his way to the White 
 House he had fully persuaded himself that
 
 .284 A ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 to speak to the motlier first was the most 
 delicate and the most wise thing he could 
 do. For one thing, he could say so much 
 more to her than he could to Rose ; he 
 could assure her of his goodwill and of his 
 desire to be of use to the family, should he 
 become a member of it. Mr. Incledon did 
 not wish to bribe Mrs. Damerel to be on 
 his side. He had indeed a reasonable 
 assurance that no such bribe was necessary, 
 and that a man like himself must always 
 have a reasonable mother on his side. 
 This he was perfectly aware of, as indeed 
 any one in his senses would have been. 
 But as soon as he had made his declaration 
 to Mrs. Damerel, and had left the White 
 House behind, his thoughts began to tor- 
 ment him with doubts of the wisdom of 
 this proceeding. He saw very well that
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 285' 
 
 there was no clinging of entliusiastic love, 
 no absolute devotedness of union, between 
 this mother and daughter, and he began to 
 wonder whether he misfht not have done 
 better had he run all the risks and broach- 
 ed the subject to Rose herself, shy and lia- 
 ble to be startled as she was. It was per- 
 haps possible that his own avowal, which 
 must have had a certain degree of emotion 
 in it, would have found better acceptance 
 with her than the passionless statement of 
 his intentions which Mrs. Damerel would 
 probably make. For it never dawned upon 
 Mr. Incledon's imagination that Mrs. 
 Damerel would support his suit not with 
 calmness, but passionately — more passion- 
 ately, perhaps, than would have been possi- 
 ble to himself. He could not have divined 
 any reason why she should do so, and
 
 286 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 naturally he had not the least idea of the 
 tremendous weapons she was about to 
 employ in his favour. I don't think, for 
 very pride and shame, that he would have 
 sanctioned the use of them had he known. 
 
 It happened, however, by chance that as 
 he walked home in the wintry twilight he 
 met Mrs. Wodehouse and her friend Mrs. 
 Musgrove, who were going the same way 
 as he was, on their way to see the Xorth- 
 cotes, who had lately come to the neigh- 
 iDourhood. He could not but join them so 
 far in their walk, nor could he avoid the 
 conversation which was inevitable. Mrs. 
 Wodehouse indeed was very eager for it, 
 and began almost before he could draw 
 breath. 
 
 *^ Did you see Mrs. Damerel after all?" 
 she asked. " You remember I met you
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 287 
 
 when you were on your way ?" 
 
 ''Yes; slie was good enougli to see me," 
 said Mr. Incledon. 
 
 '' And liow do you think she is looking ? 
 I hear such different accounts ; some peo- 
 ple say very ill, some just as usual. I have 
 not seen her myself," said Mrs. Wodehouse, 
 slightly drawing herself up, "except in 
 church." 
 
 '^ How was that ?" he said, half amused. 
 "I thought you had always been great 
 friends." 
 
 Upon this he saw Mrs. Musgrove give a 
 little jerk to her friend's cloak, in warning, 
 and perceived that Mrs. Wodehouse waver- 
 ed between a desire to tell a grievance and 
 the more prudent habit of self-restraint. 
 
 " Oh!" she said, with a little hesitation ; 
 " yes, of course we were always good friends.
 
 288 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 I had a great admiration for our late good 
 Eector, Mr. Incledon. What a man lie 
 was ! Not to say a word against the new 
 one, who is very nice, he will never be 
 equal to Mr. Damerel. What a fine mind 
 he had, and a style, I am told, equal to 
 the very finest preachers ! We must 
 never hope to hear such sermons in our 
 little parish again. Mrs. Damerel is a 
 very good woman, and I feel for her 
 deeply ; but the attraction in that house, as 
 I am sure you must have felt, was not her, 
 but him." 
 
 '' I have always had a great regard for 
 Mrs. Damerel," said Mr. Incledon. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ! I am sure — a good wife 
 and an excellent mother and all that ; but 
 not the fine mind, not the intellectual con- 
 versation, one used to have with the dear
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 289 
 
 Rector," said good Mrs. Wodeliouse, who 
 liad about as much intellect as would lie 
 on a sixpence ; and then she added, ^' Per- 
 haps I am prejudiced; I never can get 
 over a slight which I am sure she showed 
 to my son." 
 
 '^Ah! what was that ?" 
 
 Mrs. Musgrove once more pulled her 
 friend's cloak ; and there was a great deal 
 more eagerness and interest than the occa- 
 sion deserved in Mr. Incledon's tone. 
 
 " Oh, nothing of any consequence ! 
 What do you say, dear ? — a mistake ? 
 Well, I don't think it was a mistake. 
 
 They thought Edward was going to ; 
 
 yes, that was a mistake, if you please. I 
 am sure he had many other things in his 
 mind a great deal more important. But 
 they thought ; and though common 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 civility demanded sometliing different, and 
 I took tlie trouble to write a note and ask 
 
 it, I do think ; but, However, after tbe 
 
 words I liad with her to-day, I no longer 
 blame Eose. Poor child ! I am always 
 very sorry for poor Rose." 
 
 " Why should you be sorry for Miss 
 Damerel? Was she one of those who 
 slighted your son ? I hope Mr. Edward 
 Wodehouse is quite well ?" 
 
 *' He is very well, I thank you, and get- 
 ting on so satisfactorily ; nothing could be 
 more pleasant. Oh, you must not think 
 Edward cared ! He has seen a great deal 
 of the world, and he did not come home 
 to let himself be put down by the family 
 of a country clergyman. That is not at 
 all what I meant ; I am sorry for Eose, 
 however, because of a great many things.
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 291 
 
 She ouglit to o^o out as a goyerness or 
 companion, or something of that sort, poor 
 child ! Mrs. Damerel may try, but I am 
 sure they never can get on as they are 
 doing. I hear that all they have to de- 
 pend on is about a hundred and fifty a 
 year. A family can never live upon that, 
 not with their habits, Mr. Incledon ; and 
 therefore I think I may well say poor 
 Eose !" 
 
 ''I don't think Miss Damerel will ever 
 require to make such a sacrifice," he said, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "Well, I only hope you are right," said 
 Mrs. Wodehouse. " Of course you know 
 a great deal more about business matters 
 than I do, and perhaps their money is at 
 higher interest than we think for ; but if I 
 were Eose I almost think I should see it 
 
 u2
 
 292 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 to be my duty. Here we are at Mrs. 
 JSTortlicote's, dear. Mr. Incledon, I am 
 afraid we must say good-bye." 
 
 Mr. Incledon went borne very bot and 
 fast after tbis conversation. It warmed 
 bim in tbe misty cold evening, and seemed 
 to put so many weapons into bis band. 
 Rose, bis Rose, go out as a governess or 
 companion ! He looked at tbe sbadow of 
 bis own great bouse standing out against 
 tbe frosty sky, and laugbed to bimself as 
 be crossed tbe park. Sbe a dependant, 
 wbo migbt to-morrow, if sbe pleased, be 
 virtual mistress of Wbitton and all its 
 wealtb ! He would bave liked to bave 
 said to tbese women, " In tbree montbs 
 Rose will be tbe great lady of tbe parisb, 
 and lay down tbe law to you and tbe 
 Green, and all your gossiping society."
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 293 
 
 He would even, in a rare fit of generosity, 
 have liked to tell them on tlie spot that 
 this blessedness was in Rose's power, to 
 give her honour in their eyes whether she 
 accepted him or not ; which was a very 
 generous impulse indeed, and one which 
 few men would have been equal to — 
 though, indeed, as a matter of fact, Mr. 
 Incledon did not carry it out. But he 
 went into the lonely house, where every- 
 thing pleasant and luxurious, except 
 the one crowning luxury of some one to 
 share it with, awaited him, in a glow of 
 energy and eagerness, resolved to go back 
 again to-morrow and plead his cause with 
 Rose herself, and win her, not pruden- 
 tially through her mother, but by his own 
 warmth of love and eloquence. 
 
 Poor Rose in June ! In the wintry set-
 
 294 A HOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 ting of the Wliite House, slie was not 
 mnch like the E;ector's flower-maiden, in 
 all her delicate perfection of bloom, " queen 
 rose of the rosebud garden," impersona- 
 tion of all the warmth, and sweetness, and 
 fragrance, and exquisite simjDle profusion 
 of summer and nature. 
 
 Mr. Incledon's heart swelled full of love 
 and pity as he thought of the contrast — 
 not with passion, but soft tenderness, and 
 a delicious sense of what it was in his 
 power to do for her, and to restore her to. 
 He strayed over the rooms which he had 
 once shown to her, with a natural pride 
 in their beauty, and in all the delicate 
 treasures he had accumulated there, until 
 he came to the little inner room with its 
 grey-green hangings, in which hung the 
 Perugino, which, since Eose had seen it,
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 295 
 
 he had always called his Raphael. He 
 seemed to see her too, standing there 
 looking at it, a creature partaking some- 
 thing of that soft divinity, an enthusiast 
 with sweet soul and looks congenial to 
 that heavenly art. I do not know that 
 his mind was of a poetical turn by nature, 
 but there are moments when life makes a 
 poet of the dullest, and on this evening 
 the lonely quiet house within the parks 
 and woods of Whitton, where there had 
 been neither love, nor anything worth 
 calling life, for years, except in the cheery 
 company of the servants' hall, suddenly 
 got itself lighted up with ethereal lights 
 of tender imagination and feeling. The 
 illumination did not show outwardly, or it 
 might have alarmed the Green, which was 
 still unaware that the queen of the house
 
 296 A HOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 had passed by there, and tlie place lighted 
 itself up in prospect of her coming. 
 
 After dinner, however, Mr. Incledon 
 descended from these regions of fancy, 
 and took a step which seemed to himself 
 a very clever as well as prudent, and at 
 the same time a very friendly, one. He 
 had not forgotten, any more than the others 
 had, that summer evening on the lawn at 
 the Rectory, when young Wodehouse had 
 strayed down the hill with Eose, out of 
 sight of the seniors of the party, and 
 though all his active apprehensions on that 
 score had been calmed down by Edward's 
 departure, yet he was too wise not to 
 perceive that there was something in Mrs. 
 Wodehouse's disjointed talk more than met 
 the eye at the first glance. 
 
 Mr. Incledon had a friend who was one
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 297 
 
 of tlie Lords of the Admiralty, and upon 
 whom he could rely to do him a service ; a 
 friend \Yhom he had never asked for any- 
 thing — for what was official patronage to 
 the master of Whitton ? He wrote him a 
 long and charming letter, which, if I had 
 only room for it, or if it had anything to do 
 except incidentally with this simple history, 
 would give the reader a much better idea 
 of his abilities and social charms than any- 
 thing I can show of him here. In it he 
 discussed the politics of the moment, and 
 that gossip on a dignified scale about 
 ministers and high officials of state which 
 is half history — and he touched upon social 
 events in a light and amusing strain, with 
 that half cynicism which lends salt to cor- 
 respondence ; and he told his friend half- 
 gaily, half-seriously, that he was beginning
 
 298 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 to feel somewliat solitary, and tliat dreams 
 of marrying, and marrying soon, were steal- 
 ing into his mind. And lie told him about 
 his Perugino (" which I fondly hope may 
 turn out an early Eaphael"), and which it 
 would delight him to show to a brother 
 connoisseur. 
 
 "And, by-the-bye," he added, after all this, 
 '' I have a favour to ask of you which I have 
 kept to the end like a lady's postcript. I 
 want you to extend the segis of your pro- 
 tection over a fine young fellow in whom I 
 am considerably interested. His name is 
 Wodehouse, and his ship is at present on 
 that detestable slave-trade service which 
 costs us so much money and does so little 
 good. He has been a long time in the ser- 
 vice, and I hear he is a very promising young 
 officer. I should consider it a personal favour
 
 A EOSE IN JUNE. 299^ 
 
 if you could do something for liim ; and (N". 
 B.) it would be a still greater service to 
 combine promotion with as distant a post as 
 possible. His friends are anxious to keep 
 him out of the way for private reasons — the 
 old ' entanglement ' business, which, of 
 course, you will understand ; but I think it 
 hard that this sentence of banishment 
 should be conjoined with such a disagree- 
 able service. Give him a gunboat, and 
 send him to look for the North-west 
 passage, or anywhere else where my 
 Lords have a whim for exploring ! I 
 never thought to have paid such a 
 tribute to your official dignity as to 
 come, hat in hand, for a place, like the rest 
 of the world. But no man, I suppose, can 
 always resist the common impulse of his 
 kind ; and I am happy in the persuasion
 
 ^00 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 that to you I will not plead in vain." 
 I am afraid that nothing could have been 
 more disingenuous than this letter. How 
 it worked, the reader will see hereafter ; 
 but, in the meantime, I cannot defend Mr. 
 Incledon. He acted, I suppose, on the old 
 and time-honoured sentiment that any 
 stratagem is allowable in love and war, and 
 consoled himself for the possible wrong he 
 might be doing (only a possible wrong, for 
 Wodehouse might be kept for years cruis- 
 ing after slaves for anything Mr. Incledon 
 knew) by the unquestionable benefit which 
 would accompany it. ''A young fellow 
 living by his wits will find a gunboat of 
 infinitely more service to him than a fool- 
 ish love affair, which never could come to 
 .anything," his rival said to himself. 
 
 And after having sealed this letter, he
 
 A EOSE m JUNE. 301 
 
 returned into his fairj-land. He left tlie 
 library where lie had written it, and went 
 to the drawing-room which he rarely used,, 
 but which was warm with a cheerful fire 
 and lighted with soft wax-lights for his 
 pleasure, should he care to enter. 
 
 He paused at the door a moment and 
 looked at it. The wonders of upholstery in 
 this carefully decorated room, every scrap of 
 furniture in which had cost its master 
 thought, would afford pages of description 
 to a fashionable American novelist, or to the 
 refined chronicles oith.e Family Herald ; but 
 I am not sufficiently learned to do them 
 justice. The master of the house, how- 
 ever, looked at the vacant room with its 
 softly burning lights, its luxurious vacant 
 seats, its closely-drawn curtains, the books 
 on the tables which no one ever opened^
 
 302 A EOSE IN JUNE. 
 
 the pictures on tlie walls wliicTi nobody 
 looked at (except on great occasions), with 
 a curious sense at once of desolation and 
 of happiness. How dismal its silence was ! 
 not a sound but the dropping of the ashes 
 from the fire, or the movement of the burn- 
 ing fuel ; and he himself a ghost looking 
 into a room which might be inhabited by- 
 ghosts for aught he knew. Here and there, 
 indeed, a group of chairs had been arrang- 
 ed by accident so as to look as if they were 
 occupied, as if one unseen being might be 
 whispering to another, noiselessly smiling, 
 and pointing at the solitary. But no, there 
 was a pleasanter interpretation to be given 
 to that soft, luxurious, brightly-coloured 
 vacancy ; it was all prepared and waiting, 
 ready for the gentle mistress who was to 
 come; z>
 
 A ROSE IN JUNE. 303 
 
 How different from the low- roofed draw- 
 inof-room at the White House, with the 
 fireplace at one end of the long room, with 
 the damp of ages in the old walls, with 
 draughts from every door and window, and 
 an indifferent lamp giving all the light they 
 could afford ! 
 
 Mr. Incledon, perhaps, thought of that, 
 too, with an increased sense of the advan- 
 tages he had to offer ; but lightly, not 
 knowing all the discomforts of it. He went 
 back to his library after this inspection, 
 and the lights burned on, and the ghosts, 
 if there were any, had the full enjoyment 
 of it till the servants came to extinguish 
 the candles and shut up everything for the 
 night. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
 
 ^?'