England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Guardian and ward -- Fiction; Physicians -- Fiction; Single men -- Fiction
It was on a Tuesday that Rose departed. Just as I was finishing my soup
on the following Thursday evening, who should walk in but Rose and fling
herself on her knees beside me and shake with sobs?
There she knelt, with my hand on her head trying to allay the storm, for
minutes.
“O Dombeen!” she managed at last to say. “I couldn’t stay there.
It’s—it’s—horrid. You wouldn’t like me to stay there. Really you
wouldn’t.”
The fact that I didn’t ask her to explain, that I took it for granted
that she was right, will indicate at once the kind of fatalist that I
was, and our sub-conscious terms of understanding.
Rose was tired out—too tired to eat—and I am afraid that in the absence
of Hannah, whose loss was a terrible disappointment—for although Rose had
known of it she had not fully realized it—she cried herself to sleep.
I don’t pretend to have had much of a night’s rest myself, for such a
false start as this was no part of the educational programme. Theodore’s
phrase “bring her up to beat the band”—rang in my ears.
Was this beating the band? On the face of it, no. We must not run away.
And yet (I argued) to run away often implies more character than to
endure, and surely that was Rose’s case. She was not a coward, she was
not self-indulgent; that I knew. Nor did she imagine things. Child as
she was, I trusted her judgment and accepted the position. The school
was horrid, and she couldn’t stay there; that was enough. I knew her
sufficiently well to be sure that she would have put up with it if she
had believed that any good could result; but she knew the reverse and she
had acted accordingly. She had walked out of the house, found her way to
the station, and the pocket-money I had given her and her own
resourcefulness had done the rest.
The next morning I had a very pale and demure companion at breakfast.
She also had evidently been thinking, and had seen that thus to take the
law into her own hands was a proceeding of considerable magnitude—such
magnitude that she looked dwarfed under it. But although subdued and
_pianissimo_, there was no sign of weakness on her features. It may have
been a gigantic effort of independence, but she did not regret it.
I had sent to Brighton a reassuring telegram (crossing one from Osborne
House) on the previous evening, and on the arrival of a second telegram
from Miss Saltoun saying that she was on her way to see me, I dispatched
Rose to Mrs. O’Gorman’s for the day, with an explanatory note.
Not long afterwards a very indignant Miss Saltoun arrived for an
interview. Her idea no doubt was to take Rose back with her; but I had
no intention of permitting that. I did not even let them meet, to Miss
Saltoun’s intense surprise. Should she be still alive, I doubt if her
eyebrows have yet resumed their normal level, to such an altitude did she
lift them when I announced my decision.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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