She had been very quick in veiling
them, and her voice, too, had been quick, a little tremulous. There
was more than the Battys' ball in her desire to stay in Radstowe. Was
it Charles whom she was both to leave? Afterwards, perhaps in the
spring, she had said it would be nice to go. It was kind of Aunt Rose,
and Aunt Rose, gazing down at the fire, controlled her longing to
escape from this place too full of memories. She would not leave
Henrietta who had to be cared for, perhaps protected; she would not
persuade her who had to be happy, but she felt a sinking of the heart
which was almost physical. She rested both hands on the mantelshelf
and on them her weight. She felt as though she could not go on like
this for ever. She, who apparently had no ties, was never free; she
had the duties without the joys, and for these few minutes, before a
knock came at the door, she allowed herself the relief of melancholy.
She was incapable of tears, but she wished she could cry bitterly and
for a long time.
The knock was Henrietta's. She entered a little timidly. Aunt Rose was
not free with invitations to her room and to Henrietta it was a
beautiful and mysterious place. She had a childlike pleasure in the
silver and glass on the dressing-table, in glimpses of exquisite
garments and slippers worn to the shape of Aunt Rose's slim foot, and
Aunt Rose herself was like some fairy princess growing old and no less
lovely in captivity, but to-night, that dark straight figure splashed
by the firelight reminded her of words uttered by Christabel.
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