“Don't listen—darling—darling!” Rosy cried out in anguish. “Shut your ears—shut your ears!” And she tried to throw her arms around the high black head, and stifle all sound with her embrace.
“I don't want to shut them,” was the answer. “All the unkindness and misery are over for him, I ought to thank God—but I don't. I shall hear—O Rosy, listen!—I shall hear that to the end of my days.”
Rosy held her tight, and rocked and sobbed.
“My Betty,” she kept saying. “My Betty,” and she could say no more. What more was there to say? At last Betty withdrew herself from her arms, and then Rosalie noticed for the first time that she wore the habit.
“Dearest,” she whispered, “what are you going to do?”
“I was going to ride, and I am going to do it still. I must do something. I shall ride a long, long way—and ride hard. You won't try to keep me, Rosy. You will understand.”
“Yes,” biting her lip, and looking at her with large, awed eyes, as she patted her arm with a hand that trembled. “I would not hold you back, Betty, from anything in the world you chose to do.”
And with another long, clinging clasp of her, she let her go.
Mason was standing by Childe Harold when she went down the broad steps. He also wore a look of repressed emotion, and stood with bared head bent, his eyes fixed on the gravel of the drive, listening to the heavy strokes of the bell in the church tower, rather as if he were taking part in some solemn ceremony.
He mounted her silently, and after he had given her the bridle, looked up, and spoke in a somewhat husky voice: