“You have come away without her knowledge?” “Yes.” “Then you are escaping from some one?” said Wodehouse, his face flushing over. “Yes! yes.” “Miss Damerel, come back with me. Nobody, I am sure, will force you to do anything. Your mother is too good to be unkind. Will you come back with me? Ah, you must not--you must not throw yourself upon the world; you do not know what it is,” said the young sailor, taking her hand, in his earnestness. “Rose--dear Rose--let me take you back.” She drew her hand away from him, and dried the hot tears which scorched her eyes. “No, no,” she said. “You do not know, and I want nobody to know. You will not tell your mother, nor any one. Let me go, and let no one think of me any more.” “As if that were possible!” he cried. “Oh, yes, it is possible. I loved papa dearly; but I seldom think of him now. If I could die you would all forget me in a year. To be sure I cannot die; and even if I did, people might say that was selfish too. Yes, you don’t know what things mamma says. I have heard her speak as if it were selfish to die,--escaping from one’s duties; and I am escaping from my duties; but it can never, never be a duty to marry when you cannot--What am I saying?” said poor Rose. “My head is quite light, and I think I must be going crazy. You must not mind what I say.” CHAPTER XV. Edward Wodehouse reached Dinglefield about eleven o’clock, coming back from that strange visit to town. He felt it necessary to go to the White House before even he went to his mother, but he was so cowardly as to go round a long way so as to avoid crossing the Green, or exhibiting himself to public gaze. He felt that his mother would never forgive him did she know that he had gone anywhere else before going to her, and, indeed, I think Mrs. Wodehouse’s feeling was very natural. He put his hat well over his eyes, but he did not, as may be supposed, escape recognition--and went on with a conviction that the news of his arrival would reach his mother before he did, and that he would have something far from delightful to meet with when he went home. As for Mrs. Damerel, when she woke up in the morning to the fact that Rose was gone, her first feelings, I think, were more those of anger than of alarm. She was not afraid that her daughter had committed suicide, or run away permanently; for she was very reasonable, and her mind fixed upon the probabilities of a situation rather than on the violent catastrophes which might be possible. It was Agatha who first brought her the news, open-mouthed, and shouting the information, “Oh, mamma, come here, come here, Rose has run away!” so that every one in the house could hear. “Nonsense, child! she has gone--to do something for me,” said the mother on the spur of the moment, prompt to save exposure even at the instant when she received the shock. “But, mamma,” cried Agatha, “her bed has not been slept in, her things are gone--her”--