The little dog wagged his tail, the cat
made no sign, the nurse, after a cheerful greeting, went out of the
room and Rose took her accustomed place beside the window. It had a
view of the garden, the avenue of elms in which the rooks cawed
continuously, the hedge separating the fields from the high-road where
two-wheeled carts, laden with farm produce, jogged into Radstowe,
driven by an old man or a stout woman, and returned some hours later
with the day's shopping--kitchen utensils inadequately wrapped up and
glistening in the sunshine, a flimsy parcel of drapery, a box of
groceries. The old man smoked his pipe, the stout woman shook the
reins on the pony's back; the pony, regardless, went at his own pace.
Heavy farm carts creaked past, motor-cars whizzed by, the Sales Hall
dairy cows were driven in for milking, and then for a whole half hour
there might be nothing on the road. The country slept in the sunshine
or patiently endured the rain.
For a member of a large and lively family this prospect, seen from a
permanent couch, was not exhilarating, but Christabel did not
complain: she took advantage of every incident and made the most of
it, but she never expressed a desire for more. She had, for so frail
and shattered a body, an amazing capacity for endurance, as though she
were upheld by some spiritual force. It might have been religion or
love, or the desire to perpetuate Francis's admiration, but Rose
believed, and hated herself for believing, that it was partly
antagonism and a feverish curiosity.
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