She was oppressed by his nearness, the smell of his tobacco, her own
inexplicable delight. From the trees by the roadside birds gave out
happy chirrups, country people in their Sunday clothes and creaking
boots passed or overtook the silent pair; a man on a horse rode out
from a gate and cantered with very little noise on the rough grass
edging the road. Henrietta watched him until he disappeared and then
it seemed as if he had never been there at all. A sheep in a field
uttered a sad cry and every sight and sound seemed a little unreal,
like things happening on a stage.
And gradually Henrietta's excitement left her. The world seemed a sad
and lonely place; she remembered that she herself was lonely; there
was no one now to whom she was the first, and she had a longing for
her mother. She wished that instead of returning to Nelson Lodge with
its cleanliness and richness and comfort, she might turn the key of
the boarding-house door and find herself in the narrow passage with
the smell of cooking and the gas turned low; she wished she could run
up the stairs and rush into the drawing-room and find her mother
sitting there, sewing by the fire, and see her look up and hear her
say, 'Well, Henry dear, what have you been doing?' After all, that old
life was better than this new one. The troubles of her mother, her own
young struggles for food and warmth, the woes of Mrs. Banks, had in
them something nobler than she could find in the distresses of
Christabel and Aunt Rose and Francis Sales, something redeeming them
from the sordidness in which they were set.
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