For it was folly: they did not love each other, and she
remembered, with a sickening pang, the expression with which Francis
had looked at her. She told herself he loved her still; he had never
loved anybody else and she had only pity and protection and a
deep-rooted fondness to give him in return. She cared more passionately
for Henrietta, who was now the victim of the superficial chastity on
which Rose had insisted.
If she had known that Henrietta was to suffer, she would have subdued
her niceness, for if Francis had been in physical possession of her
body, she would have had no difficulty in possessing his mind. Holding
nothing back, she could also have held him securely. She did not want
him, but Henrietta would have been saved. But then Rose had not known:
how could she? And Henrietta might be saved yet, she must be saved.
The obvious method was to lay siege to the facile heart of Francis,
but there was no time for that. Rose was not deceived by Henrietta's
enigmatic words. They were tired of meeting stealthily, she had said.
What did that mean? Her head grew hotter. She had to force herself
into calm, and the old man at the toll-house on the bridge received
her visual greeting as she passed, but, as she went slowly to the
stables, there was added to her anxiety the thrilling knowledge that
at last, and for the first time, she was going to take definite
action. Her whole life had been a long and dull preparation for this
day.
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