Chapter VIII: Woman's Caprice

Quelque raison qu'on trouve à l'amour qui nous dompte,
On trouve à 1'avouer toujours un peu de honte.
On s'en defend d'abord; mais de l'air qu'on s'y prend
On fait connoitre assez que notre cœur se rend.
MOLIERE.--_Tartuffe._

We left Rose pondering over her lover's letter, and her own uneasiness at having by her hints called forth a delightful declaration. We return to her after the lapse of half an hour, and find her in the same state. At length the dinner-bell rings.

The volume of Leopardi lies on the table: will she take it down with her?

There is a fact in human nature which will be familiar to many, but which I am unable to explain, and that is the occasional impulse which forces us to act diametrically opposite to our wishes. It is a sudden spasm of wilfulness, wholly irrational, but wholly irresistible. I know that, in my own case, I have refused advantageous offers--declined invitations to pleasant excursions--entirely in obedience to this impulse of wilfulness--which I have regretted the instant afterwards, when either circumstances or my pride made the regret unavailing. No reason, no gratification of any vanity, indolence, or temper has been at the bottom of this. The impulse has been purely wilful and irrational--motiveless, were not the motive enveloped in the very impulse.

I call attention to this fact, as a fact, because it helps me to explain Rose's sudden resolution not to take down the volume of Leopardi. Perhaps, in her case, there may have been some acknowledged influence derived from her annoyance at that passage in Julius's letter, which threw the onus of the situation upon her. Perhaps she might have been secretly anxious to show him that she was not so ready to throw herself into his arms as he might suppose. I know not how it may be; all I know is, that with a sudden effort she walked down stairs, came into the drawing-room, saw the death-like paleness of her miserable lover, whose hopes had been thus scattered by a blow, seated herself upon a _vis-à-vis_, and joined in the conversation as if nothing had occurred.

It is easy to say that Julius was prepared for this, that his own diffidence had perpetually taught him to expect it; he had thought so, too, and yet he was not prepared. We sophisticate with ourselves quite as much as with others. We say we are prepared for an event which, if it occurs, takes us with the suddenness of a blow to a blind man. And Julius, when he saw Rose enter without the token, felt as if a grave had suddenly yawned at his feet. "Marmaduke was right!" he said, and instantly turned over the leaves of the "Book of Beauty," which was on the table.

Marmaduke, whom we left bewildered at the discovery of Mrs. Meredith Vyner's long-cherished affection, had not yet recovered from the agitation into which it had thrown him. The announcement that Mrs. Vyner was too unwell to descend to dinner--having been seized with one of her singular hysterical fits--added to the tumult of his thoughts; for he readily divined the cause of that fit, and her wish also not again to meet him that evening.

It is needless to say, how gratified he was. In his own eyes he had been rehabilitated. From the position of a jilted lover, he was raised to that of one loved, "not wisely, but too well;" and the keen delight it gave to his self-love was something quite indescribable.

From a sort of instinctive feeling of delicacy, he kept away from Violet's side. Rose occupied him entirely.

Julius was, therefore, enabled to hand Violet to dinner without any embarrassment. He was cold, grave, and dignified; speaking little, but that little without bitterness, without covert allusions. You only noticed that he was grave--not that he was hurt.

Rose was somewhat piqued. She knew that she had done wrong, was sorry that she had done it, but yet could not without impatience see the dignified reproof which there was in Julius's manner. Willing enough to repair by a word the error she had committed, she expected, indeed required, that he at least should show sufficient concern to induce her to repair it.

This is not very amiable, perhaps, but it is human nature. In a moment of capriciousness, she had rejected his proffered love; not that she meant to reject it, but simply because she chose to indulge her wilfulness. She intended to release him from despair, as soon as her rejection had produced it; she had never thought of his leaving the house that evening, without a full assurance of her love. But now all her plans were overthrown. He exhibited no despair. His cold, grave manner was more like a stern reproof of her capriciousness, than the despair of a lover. Her rejection had been accepted; and she was angry with him for taking her at a word.

Violet was puzzled at the little attention Marmaduke paid her, and more puzzled at his eyes never meeting hers as they were wont, to mingle their lustre with each other; and observing also the change in Julius, she began to speculate on the probable cause. Was Marmaduke suddenly smitten with Rose, and was Julius jealous of him?

It was a solemn, tedious dinner. Fortunately, Meredith Vyner had begun upon the inexhaustible subject of English etymologies, and talked enough not to observe the silence of the others. When the ladies withdrew, he entered into a discussion with Marmaduke, on the comparative merits of ancient and modern poetry, while Julius carefully cut some apple peel into minute slips.

They remained much longer than usual over their wine; and when they returned to the drawing-room, Julius missed the sweet glad smile of welcome with which Rose greeted him, by studiously looking another way.

The change of feeling in a loving heart is very rapid from anger to sorrow, and Rose had long since lost all sense of pique, for one of sorrowful alarm. During the time the gentlemen had remained over their wine, she had reflected on the whole affair, and penitently avowed her folly. Her only course was to undo what she had done; and the smile with which she greeted him was meant as the first intimation of her changed opinion.

But Julius neither saw that smile, nor afforded her the slightest opportunity of speaking to him; and--strange contradiction in human impulses!--the more he wrapped himself in his reserve, the more abject was her humility in endeavouring to draw him out of it.

At length she fled to her own room, resolved to bring down the Leopardi, and hand it to him, saying,--

"There is the book you ought to have had before dinner."

But when she reached her room, she was forced to vent her pent-up feelings in a flood of tears--and bitter-sweet those tears were: bitter in remembrance of the past, sweet in anticipation of the future. Having calmed herself by "a good cry," she had then to wash her face and eyes, to remove all traces of her grief. This took some little time.

When perfectly satisfied with her appearance, she took up the volume, kissed it fervently, and tripped down stairs. She found Violet alone leaning her magnificent arm upon the table in an attitude of profound meditation.

"Where... where are .... they?" Rose faltered out.

"The St. Johns? Gone this quarter of an hour."

"Gone!" exclaimed Rose in an agonized voice, and sank into a chair, with a terrible presentiment of some tragic results from her absurd caprice.