“I fell, my dear—fell down those spiral stairs in the library, and sprained myself very badly. Did you imagine I had forgotten?”
“Mamma never told me—yes, I believe she did tell me—but I thought it was only a little hurt. I have been so selfishly miserable. And, oh, father! it is such a disappointment to me. I wanted you to take me to Antony.”
“That is folly, my child. Your husband is about his business. He will come home as soon as he can leave it; and you are not fit to travel.”
Then Rose remembered that her father had but a partial knowledge of the truth regarding her real position, and she hesitated. Lame and unable to help her, why should she make him unhappy? So she only said: “There is something a little wrong between Antony and me, and I want to talk to him. Letters always make trouble. I thought perhaps you might go with me; but you are lame—and busy, too, I see.”
“Unfortunately, I am lame at present; but if you are in any trouble, Rose, I am not busy. What is this to you?” he asked, lifting some manuscript and tossing it scornfully aside. “It is only my amusement; you are my heart, my honor, my duty! I would burn every 286 page of my book if by so doing I could bring you happiness, my child.”
“There is nothing to call for such a sacrifice, papa,” she said, while the grateful tears sprang to her eyes; “but somehow, I do not seem to have any friends but you and mamma; none, at least, from whom I can expect help.”
“In trouble, Rose, you may always go to God and to your father and mother for help. From them you cannot expect too much; and from men and women in general you cannot expect too little. Your mother will be home soon, so remain here to-night, and have a talk with her about this notion of going west to Antony. She will tell you that it is very foolish.”
“If I stay I must send home the carriage, and then no one knows what may happen if the house is without any one even to give an alarm. But I am glad to have seen you, papa. And it was good to hear you say you would burn your book for my sake. I feel ever so much better for having heard you say such splendid words.”
So Rose went home, without having made any advance towards her intention; but she was strengthened and comforted by her father’s love and trust.
And she said to herself, “Perhaps I had better not be rash. I will be still, and think over things.” Yet she was sensible of a singular impatience of delay. “Delay might mean so much. Her evil genius might have foreseen her effort, and resolved thus to defeat it. Harry might go with her. She might go by herself. Had she not contemplated a journey to Europe alone?” Until long after midnight she sat considering the details of her journey—the dress she ought to wear—the words she ought to say—and, alas! the possibilities of disappointment.