A Rose in June

d of Rose’s suitors. “Mr. Incledon has spoken so plainly to me that I cannot mist

e is there that I should notice it? So my Rose in

re I was Rose’s age

hat summer, once attained, is a long step towards autumn. Well, i

—there is ano

his chair with gentle laughter. “Why, this

Wodehouse,

rel, suddenly rousing himself up. “This is out of the question: I say nothing against Incled

s you can do,” said Mrs. Damerel, with a flush on her ch

ven 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

er. Rose is more your companion than mine. I am not sure that it

any doubt upon your qualities as the most excellent of wives; but you have not the discrimination to perceive that duties that suit you admirably would be quite

ou are right or wrong on this point does not affect what I ask—which is, that

ut of the question, Martha. I speak to Rose about her lovers! It would be quite indel

if it is disagreeable,” said his wife, not wi

u and me. Let Rose see,” he continued, once more relaxing in tone, “that her path is quite clear before her. Incledon is a very good fellow; he will be of use to me in many ways. Nothing

e serious position of a wife, tickled the rector’s fancy. He thought over the matter 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 o

ng and gay and penniless, must be the favorite. She knew, too, that to endeavor to turn the current in favor 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 disagreeable 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

“and now he must go off about this slave-trade. Oh! why 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 suppose, wouldn’t they ta

“we must take principle for something. Were we to permit the slave-trade, we shoul

very well to talk about, and I suppose it’s a great thing, to have; but what is

me back. Don’t take the gloomiest view of the question. He has

. He tried to be as cheerful as he could; but when he turned to Rose 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 preparations for leaving, and before that time he thought to himself he must surely find out whether Rose cared anything for him more

nspiracy against his interests. The rector did not commit himself in this foolish way, but took leave of the young sailor solemnly.

nesday, 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 th

ude failed you just now. You as good as asked him to c

id. “Poor boy, he must come a

e is quite cast down, whether from sympathy or from feeling

nt to her father, who was always indulgent. 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 r

d then he entered upon one of his usual conversations, to which poor Rose gave but little

ry, is it? Sorry for poor Mrs. Wodeh

d lady—she will be so

ld as I am, and I don’t feel myself a Methuselah. It

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

ow, 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,

to her terror and misery, came down, a huge, unconcealable 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 l

say such feeling was too strong to be lavished on Mrs. Wodehouse. Don’t let us hea

came out—the

Damerel, dropping back in his chair with his easy smile; “your mother has little patience with Mrs. Wodehouse’s despairs and miseries. Y

. She read thus for about an hour, till her 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{25} 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 individual. She felt and realized it without any difficulty to-day. She stood quite alone in all that bright scene; apa

ubdued, remembering that she had been very unhappy, 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

t interval had covered it with blackness. She began to perceive that it did