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Page 74
She would write. She must write; for if she did there was at
least a chance of his coming, and if she didn't there was manifestly
none. And then, once here in this loveliness, with everything so soft
and kind and sweet all round, it would be easier to tell him, to try
and explain, to ask for something different, for at least an attempt at
something different in their lives in the future, instead of the
blankness of separation, the cold--oh, the cold--of nothing at all but
the great windiness of faith, the great bleakness of works. Why, one
person in the world, one single person belonging to one, of one's very
own, to talk to, to take care of, to love, to be interested in, was
worth more than all the speeches on platforms and the compliments of
chairmen in the world. It was also worth more--Rose couldn't help it,
the thought would come--than all the prayers.
These thoughts were not head thoughts, like Scrap's, who was
altogether free from yearnings, but bosom thoughts. They lodged in the
bosom; it was in the bosom that Rose ached, and felt so dreadfully
lonely. And when her courage failed her, as it did on most days, and
it seemed impossible to write to Frederick, she would look at Mr.
Wilkins and revive.
There he was, a changed man. There he was, going into that small,
uncomfortable room every night, that room whose proximities had
been Lotty's only misgiving, and coming out of it in the morning, and
Lotty coming out of it too, both of them as unclouded and as nice to
each other as when they went in. And hadn't he, so critical at home,
Lotty had told her, of the least thing going wrong, emerged from the
bath catastrophe as untouched in spirit as Shadrach, Meshach and
Abednego were untouched in body when they emerged from the fire?
Miracles were happening in this place. If they could happen to Mr.
Wilkins, why not to Frederick?
She got up quickly. Yes, she would write. She would go and
write to him at once.
But suppose--
She paused. Suppose he didn't answer. Suppose he didn't even
answer.
And she sat down again to think a little longer.
In these hesitations did Rose spend most of the second week.
Then there was Mrs. Fisher. Her restlessness increased that
second week. It increased to such an extent that she might just as
well not have had her private sitting-room at all, for she could no
longer sit. Not for ten minutes together could Mrs. Fisher sit. And
added to the restlessness, as the days of the second week proceeded on
their way, she had a curious sensation, which worried her, of rising
sap. She knew the feeling, because she had sometimes had it in
childhood in specially swift springs, when the lilacs and the syringes
seemed to rush out into blossom in a single night, but it was strange
to have it again after over fifty years. She would have liked to
remark on the sensation to some one, but she was ashamed. It was such
an absurd sensation at her age. Yet oftener and oftener, and every day
more and more, did Mrs. Fisher have a ridiculous feeling as if she were
presently going to burgeon.
Sternly she tried to frown the unseemly sensation down. Burgeon,
indeed. She had heard of dried staffs, pieces of mere dead wood,
suddenly putting forth fresh leaves, but only in legend. She was not
in legend. She knew perfectly what was due to herself. Dignity
demanded that she should have nothing to do with fresh leaves at her
age; and yet there it was--the feeling that presently, that at any
moment now, she might crop out all green.
Mrs. Fisher was upset. There were many things she disliked more
than anything else, and one was when the elderly imagined they felt
young and behaved accordingly. Of course they only imagined it, they
were only deceiving themselves; but how deplorable were the results.
She herself had grown old as people should grow old--steadily and
firmly. No interruptions, no belated after--glows and spasmodic
returns. If, after all these years, she were now going to be deluded
into some sort of unsuitable breaking-out, how humiliating.
Indeed she was thankful, that second week, that Kate Lumley was
not there. It would be most unpleasant, should anything different
occur in her behaviour, to have Kate looking on. Kate had known her
all her life. She felt she could let herself go--here Mrs. Fisher
frowned at the book she was vainly trying to concentrate on, for where
did that expression come from?--much less painfully before strangers
than before an old friend. Old friends, reflected Mrs. Fisher, who
hoped she was reading, compare one constantly with what one used to be.
They are always doing it if one develops. They are surprised at
development. They hark back; they expect motionlessness after, say,
fifty, to the end of one's days.
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