And again Rose wished that the hair of Charles Batty's head were
thicker and that he could supply the counter-attraction needed; but
she might at least be able to use him; there was no one else.
That night, after an evening spent in soothing Sophia's fears which
had been roused by the unnatural gentleness of Caroline, and treating
Henrietta to all the friendliness she would receive, Rose went out to
post a letter to Francis Sales. She had asked him, with an irony she
had no doubt he would miss, to meet her in the hollow where the
gipsies had encamped and where so many of their interviews had taken
place. It was within a few yards of that bank of primroses where he
had asked her to marry him.
Caroline was better the next morning and it was easy for Rose to
escape. She chose to ride. It was one of those mild January days which
already promise the return of spring. Birds chirped in the leafless
trees, the earth was damp and seemed to stir with the efforts of
innumerable roots to produce a richer life, yet the leaves of autumn
were still lying on the ground. How she loved this country, this blue
air, this smell of fruit present even before the blossom was on the
trees, the sight of wood smoke curling from the cottage chimneys, the
very ruts in the road! A little while ago she had told herself she was
sickened by it: it was the symbol of failure and young, tender, ruined
hopes, but the love of it lay deeply in her heart; all this, the
failure and the ruin, were of her life and it could be no more cast
off than could the hands which had refused the kissing and clasping of
Francis Sales.
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