“Dear Rosamond, that is your position in Roseborough.”
“Not any longer....”
Whatever she intended to say was forgotten for the moment in the emotions that surged upon her at the spectacle of Thomas Hogworthy, Mrs. Witherby’s man-of-all-jobs, with his employer’s trunk on his shoulders. It was a small yellow-panelled, tin-plated trunk, with a rounded lid, and well corded with Hannah Ann’s clothesline. He waited on the threshold.
“Good-evening, Thomas. Er—let me see....” Howard debated whether to send the trunk immediately to one of the guest rooms, then he thought it would please Mrs. Witherby better to select her own chamber. “You had better put the trunk in the dining room just now. That way.”
Thomas, a silent man, merely nodded and, setting the trunk on the floor, dragged and bumped it over polished wood and rare rugs and into the dining room. Then, with a curt nod, he silently departed.
Rosamond’s cheeks flamed again with indignation.
“You see! This is no longer my house. I am not mistress here. You have taken authority over my life. Against my orders, you command the arrest of a man you believe I love; Mrs. Witherby sends her trunk into my house, without asking my leave, and comes here herself to stay as long as it pleases her—and you tell her old Thomas where the trunk is to go!” Her anger grew with the enumeration of her wrongs. “And why are you so anxious to save me—all of you? For my sake? Oh no! Not at all. Because of all this—the money and the position. If it were Mabel Crewe who had given food to a man during the hours and under the conditions which society deems improper, would some Mrs. Busybody’s trunk be dragged across her floors—or would you be offering all your fine talents of invention for her protection?”
She had made him wince again, and he was angry; but, by an effort, he controlled himself.
“I have not denied that your position makes it more imperative....”
Her rage rose hysterically.