“Not that I know of,” answered Miss Venning, placidly, as she folded the letter that she had been writing to an anxious mother to relate her daughter’s progress and well-being. Flossy reflected; but her own memory did not come to her aid; for, indeed, there was nothing to remember, and Clarissa subsided into her usual lazy, satirical, yet not uncheerful, demeanour; sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued; always the provider of the family jokes and the arranger of the little family comforts, the easy-chairs and cups of tea and unexpected fires, of which she always showed such a strong appreciation. Yet it occurred to Flossy for the first time to wonder what was Clarissa’s main-spring. Certainly not her work, which she hated: nor any art or occupation, for she had none of any great consequence; and not her sisters, for she did not often excite herself about their concerns. It seemed an objectless life; could Clarissa have mended it? Flossy, young and enthusiastic, was much inclined to answer that she could; and yet it was very difficult to imagine Clarissa taking up any of the lines that seemed so alien to her. She could no more acquire Flossy’s strong impulses and inborn tastes than she could alter the outlines of her lot; no more give herself a love than a lover.
Part 5, Chapter XLI.
Among the Primroses.
“Who on faint primrose-beds were wont to lie.”
“Rosa—Rosa, carissima mia! To see you—to have you again! I have wanted you every day!”
“My darling child, I don’t know when I have not wanted you! Tell me all—everything. Are you well—are you happy? I think you look so.”
“We have tried to make her so,” said Flossy, as Rosa withdrew from Violante’s clinging embrace to look into her face and read its story. “Now, Violante, make your sister comfortable, and all the rest of us are going to walk.”
Left thus alone, Violante put Rosa into a chair and knelt at her feet, looking up in her face. Rosa was looking remarkably well and handsome; she was nicely dressed, and had an air of prosperity.