There was a pause during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other.
“And your reasons, Rose,” he said, at length, in a low voice; “your reasons for this decision?”
“You have a right to know them,” rejoined Rose. “You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others and to myself.”
“To yourself?”
“Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world.”
“If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—’ Harry began.
“They do not,” replied Rose, colouring deeply.
“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say but that, dear Rose: say but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!”
“If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,” rejoined Rose, “I could have—’
“Have received this declaration very differently?” said Harry. “Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose.”
“I could,” said Rose. “Stay!” she added, disengaging her hand, “why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it will be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation would have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!”
“Another word, Rose,” said Harry. “Your reason in your own words. From your own lips, let me hear it!”
“The prospect before you,” answered Rose, firmly, “is a brilliant one. All the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in public life, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother’s place. In a word,” said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, “there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me.”
“One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!” cried Harry, throwing himself before her. “If I had been less—less fortunate, the world would call it—if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny—if I had been poor, sick, helpless—would you have turned from me then? Or has my probable advancement to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?”
“Do not press me to reply,” answered Rose. “The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.”
“If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,” retorted Harry, “it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!”
“Then, if your lot had been differently cast,” rejoined Rose; “if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.”