“Oh, Wilton! I am so—so tired!” Her lip quivered. “Nothing but this same narrow little life, over and over—daily—yearly! Oh! Look at the river, running away so swiftly and freely; it is the only thing that ever came to Roseborough and got away again! Every time I look at it, I think it is laughing at me. It laughed at me down there in Poplars Vale. It mocks me more cruelly here, with its swift journeying to—somewhere.”
Turning to him, in her irrepressible longing for sympathy, she saw that he did not understand her in the least, but was studying how he might best impress her by a loverlike pose.
“I’ll think you over,” she promised airily. “Good-night. Go, before I fall asleep at your feet,” she added, with the rather cruel intimation that there was nothing about his wooing which could conquer her boredom. By a quick, vigorous handshake she prevented him from kissing her fingers again. She caught up his cap and gloves from the settle and pressed them into his arms. He went out, smiling; for he believed this haste to be rid of him was in reality a tribute to his irresistible powers of fascination.
“Good-night, dear Rosamond. Good-night. Sleep soundly,” he called from below the wall, as his dog-cart went by.
Rosamond made no reply. She stood by the rail, looking at the “velvety star-veined night” and the river. The noise of wheels died down; the only sound was the chirring of crickets. She turned off the verandah light. She came into the room and went about, methodically putting out all the individual lamps but one. This she left on for a purpose, it appeared; because, presently, she found a little leather-bound book on the flower-stand by the fireplace, and slid up into a corner of the settee with it. In settling herself she almost knocked a paper off the arm-piece.
“Dear me,” she said aloud. “The Judge’s sacred Digest! How could he have forgotten it? I suppose Mrs. Witherby’s hysterics must have put it out of his head.”
She glanced at it idly and her eye was caught by the first column.
“Corinne’s runaway prince!” She smiled, and began to read. When she had perused the story she laid the Digest aside, musing on the Royal Highness whose heart was so oddly in tune with her own.
“Eccentric—romantic—artistic,” she repeated. “Fond of wandering about incognito—and entering humble dwellings—and making friends. Making friends.” She dwelt wistfully on the last words.
The little copy of Browning opened naturally at the place she sought; and she need not have opened it at all, for she knew by heart the lines she loved. This, it may be pointed out, was not her late master’s “first edition,” autographed by Princess Victoria for sale at the Indian Famine Relief Bazaar. She had bought this copy for herself and loved it for its contents, not for its binding nor for a scrawl on its fly-leaf. Softly, she said the lines: