Perhaps to say that I was uneasy is too strong. Rather was I not unconscious that that popular plaything, fire, was adjacent, and yet not conscious enough to be really apprehensive. It was always possible that Ronnie’s state of dependence and fragility was the only cause of Rose’s solicitude; while it was natural enough for a convalescing soldier, such as he was, to sun himself in the company of an old playmate.
I forget how long Rose and Rose stayed with me on that occasion. But after Ronnie had been taken off to some seaside resort they returned to London and I was more alone than ever. That must have been the early summer of 1906.
The next period of importance in this rambling narrative is October of the same year, and I can place the day exactly, because on my way toward home I was stopped by some one running out of the “Crown Inn” to say that old Pritchard, the host, had had some kind of a stroke. I found him pretty bad, the result of some extra conviviality on a life of excessive and chronic alcoholism, the occasion for which—and this is how I remember the date so distinctly—was his good fortune over the Cambridgeshire, which that year was won by Polymelus.
Having done what I could to patch him up, I returned home. While I had been in the “Crown” a tempest of cold rain had set in, bringing with it a dreary consciousness of the end of fine weather. One had the feeling that the year could never recover: winter was our fate and winter to a country doctor means too much to do and a great deal of discomfort, with too few of the roadside compensations which he gathers as he drives about in the summer and the spring.
My thoughts went naturally to Rose, whose susceptibility to weather had always been so acute; in whose world, could she plan it, rain would fall only at night. I was still thinking of her as I left the car at the garage door and walked into the house.
On the hall table was an envelope addressed to me in Rose’s writing, but it had not passed through the post. I took it up with misgivings which all too soon were to be justified.
“Dearest Dombeen” (it ran), “I have gone away with Ronnie. He needs me more than anyone else does, or at least I believe so. Eustace will understand why I have gone when he begins to think.” So far it was written clearly and directly. But then came some broken sentences. “As for Rose,” she had begun, and then had stopped. “Rose is my only” she had begun again and again had stopped. “Will you” was another false start and was also scored through. The letter finished merely like this. “Dearest Dombeen, think your kindliest of me. Good-bye. Rose.”
How long I held the paper in my hand I cannot say; but I then rang to know how it had got there at all.
Suzanne answered the summons.
I asked her what she knew.