'Don't cry. It's all right, Christabel. Look, I'll
burn the confounded letter and I swear it's the only one I've ever had
from her. 'It was to Rose, he admitted miserably, that he owed the
possibility of telling that truth.
Her weeping became quieter. 'Tell her,' she articulated, 'I never want
to see her again.'
'But,' he said petulantly, 'haven't I just told you I never want to
meet her?'
'Then write--write--I don't mind Henrietta.'
'No!' he almost shouted, 'not Henrietta either!'
She turned to him a face ravaged with tears and misery. 'Why not
Henrietta?' she whispered.
'I hate the lot of them,' he muttered. 'They're all witches.'
She laughed joyously. 'That's what I've said myself!' She gave him
both her thin, hot hands to hold. 'But it's worth while, all this, if
you are going to be good to me.'
He kissed her then as the sinner kisses the saint who has wrought a
miracle of salvation for him. 'We've had bad luck,' he murmured.
'You've had the worst of it.' He stroked her cheek. 'Poor little
thing.'
7
Once out of sight of the two standing in the lane, Rose rode home
quickly. She felt she had a great deal to do, but she did not know
what it was. Her head was hot with the turmoil of her thoughts. There
was no order in them; the past was mixed with the present, the done
with the undone: she was assailed by the awful conviction that right
was prolific in producing wrong. If she had not preserved her own
physical integrity, these two, who were almost like her children--yes,
that was how she felt towards them--would not have been tempted to
such folly.
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