Time went along. Other young men were met. In the holidays, quite a number of young men came for their vacations to their homes in Ibbotsfield and the surrounding district. Certain of these, unlike the Grammar School private pupils, called openly at the rectory on one pretext or another, but they were nevertheless also met secretly by Flora and Hilda, ruined the walks precisely as Messrs. Chalton and Ricks had first ruined them, and were on no account to be mentioned by Rosalie to her father or mother.
The reason for this secrecy was never explained to Rosalie and the secrecy oppressed Rosalie. It took not only the form of being a thing she was not able to tell to her mother, and Rosalie was in the habit of telling everything she did to her mother, but it took also the form of mysterious and vaguely alarming perils during the walks. An immense watchfulness was kept up against chance encounters with people. One of the party would often cry, “Look! Who’s this?” and the young men would separate from the girls and appear as if they were walking by themselves. Sometimes they would break right away and run off and not be met again. Very often Rosalie would be sent on ahead to a turning and told to come back at once if anybody was to be seen and then would be examined as to who the person was. Sometimes she was posted to keep watch while the girls and the young men slipped off somewhere, over a gate or into a barn. She got to know by sometimes rushing in with warnings that Flora and Hilda on these occasions smoked the young men’s cigarettes. Then when they got home, they would rush up to their room and wash their teeth and put scent on themselves. And invariably when the young men took their leave at the end of a walk there would be long and close whisperings in which were always to be heard the words, “Well, say you were—” or “Look here, we’ll say we were—” and generally, “Go away, Rosalie. There’s nothing for you to listen to.”
It all had the effect of making Rosalie feel unhappy and rather frightened. She sometimes asked, “Why mustn’t I say anything to mother?” She was always told, and only told, “Because father doesn’t like us meeting men.”
No reason why father should not like them meeting men was ever given, and Rosalie, ceaselessly disturbed by the concealment, could never imagine what the reason could be. There could be no reason that she could imagine; and she was thus immensely taken aback when one evening at supper her father made a most surprising statement: “The girls have no chance of ever meeting men in this infernal place.”
Amazing!
Rosalie’s father had been abusing Ibbotsfield and everything that pertained to Ibbotsfield. Some question of expenses had started him. He was storming in his wild way, addressing himself to Rosalie’s mother but haranguing at large to all, everybody sitting in silence and with oppressed faces, avoiding looking at one another and avoiding especially the eyes of father. They were literally ground down with poverty, Rosalie’s father was saying. He didn’t know what was going to happen to them all. “It’s all this place, this infernal, buried-alive place. The girls ought to be moving about and seeing people. How can they? Very well. My mind’s made up. There’s my brother Tom in India. He could have one of the girls. There’s your sister Mrs. Pounce in London. She’s Rosalie’s godmother. What’s she ever done for Rosalie? Very well. My mind’s made up. I shall write to Tom and I shall write to Belle. I shall tell them how we are situated. It’s humiliating to have to tell them but what’s humiliation? I’m accustomed to humiliation. Ever since we came here, I have eaten the bread and drunk the water of humiliation. Now the children are growing up to share it. What can they do in this loathsome and forsaken and miserable place? What chance have the girls got? Can you tell me that?”
He glared at Rosalie’s mother. It was clear that he regarded her as to blame. Rosalie thought that her dear mother must be to blame. Her mother looked so beaten and frightened. There was glistening in her eyes. Rosalie’s heart felt utterly desolated for her mother. She wished like anything she could say something for her dear mother. Then most amazingly the chance to say something came.
“Can you tell me that?” cried Rosalie’s father. “What chance have the girls of ever meeting men in this infernal place?”
Rosalie burst out, “Oh, but father, nearly every day—”
“Rosalie, don’t interrupt!” cried Flora very sharply.