And they looked so much worse than they were. She imagined them
showing very ugly faces to Christabel, who could only judge them by
their looks, and though it was cruel that she should be frightened by
them, it was impossible to drive them away. Rose could only sit calmly
in their presence and try to create an atmosphere of safety. She knew
she ought to feel hypocritical in this attendance on her lover's wife,
but it was not of her choosing. She did not like Christabel, she would
have been glad never to see her again and, terrible as her situation
was, it appealed to Rose less then it would have done if she had not
herself come of people whose tradition was one of stoicism in trouble,
of pride which refused to reveal its distress. Physically, Christabel
had those qualities, but mentally she lacked them; it was chiefly to
Rose that she betrayed herself, and at each farewell she exacted the
promise of another visit soon. Was she fascinated by the sight of the
woman Francis loved? And when had that love been discovered? And was
she sure of it even now? She certainly had her sole excitement in her
search for evidence.
In that bedroom, gaily decorated for a bride, she lay heroically
bearing pain, lacking the devotion she should have had, finding her
reward in the memory of her husband's appreciation of her courage, and
her occupation, perhaps her pleasure, in a refinement of self-torture.
As soon as Rose entered the room she was aware of the scrutiny of
those wary eyes, very wide open, as blue as flowers, and she knew that
her own face was like a mask.
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