It was Rose, now, who was in disgrace, and it was Henrietta, Caroline and Sophia who passed an evening of excessive amiability in the drawing-room.
Henrietta felt heroically that she had thrown down her glove and it was annoying, the next morning, to find Rose would not pick it up. She remained charming; she was inimitably calm: she seemed to have forgotten her offence of the night before and Henrietta delighted in the thought that, though Rose did not know it, she and Henrietta were rivals in love, and she told herself that her own time would come.
She had only to wait. She was a great believer in her own luck, and had not Aunt Caroline assured her that all the Mallett women were born to break hearts—all but Aunt Rose? Some day she was bound to meet that man again and, looking in the glass after the Mallett manner, she was pleased with what she saw there. She was her father’s daughter. Her father had never denied himself anything he wanted, and since her outbreak against him she felt closer to him; she was prepared to condone his sins, even to emulate them and find in him her excuse. She looked at the portrait on the wall, she kissed her hand to it. Somehow he seemed to be helping her.
But with all her carefully nurtured enmity, she could not deny her admiration for Aunt Rose. She was proud to sit beside her in the carriage which took them to Sales Hall, and on that occasion Rose talked more than usual, telling Henrietta little stories of the people living in the houses they passed and little anecdotes of her own childhood connected with the fields and lanes.
Henrietta sighed suddenly. “It must be nice,” she said, “to be part of a place. You can’t be part of London, in lodging-houses, with no friends. I should love to have had a tree for a friend, all my life. It sounds silly, but it would make me feel different.” She was angry with herself for saying this to Aunt Rose, but again she could not help it. She saw too much with her eyes and Aunt Rose pleased them and she assured herself that though these softened her heart and loosened her tongue, she could resume her reserve at her leisure. “There was a tree, a cherry, in one of the gardens once, but we didn’t stay there long. We had to go.” She added quickly, “It was too expensive for us. I suppose they charged for the tree, but I did long to see it blossom; and this spring,” she waved a hand, “I’ve seen hundreds—I’ve seen a squirrel—” She stopped.
“Dear little things,” Rose said. They were jogging alongside the high, bare wall she hated, and the big trees, casting their high, wide branches far above and beyond it, seemed to be stretching out to the sea and the hills.
“Have you seen one lately?” Henrietta asked.
“What? A squirrel? No, not lately. They’re shy. One doesn’t see them often.”
“Oh, then I was lucky,” Henrietta said. “I saw one in those woods we’ve just passed, the other day.” She looked at her Aunt Rose’s creamy cheek. There was no flush on it, her profile was serene, the dark lashes did not stir.
“Soon,” Rose said, “you will see hills and the channel.”