Sylvia looked suspiciously from one man to the other. The only solution which a woman could put upon such a request immediately occurred to her. She said to herself, “Hm! Mr. Allen wants Rose to stay at home so he can see her himself, and Henry knows it.”
She stiffened her neck. Down deep in her heart was a feeling more seldom in women's hearts than in men's. She would not have owned that she did not wish to part with this new darling of her heart—who had awakened within it emotions of whose strength the childless woman had never dreamed. There was also another reason, which she would not admit even to herself. Had Rose been, indeed, her daughter, and she had possessed her from the cradle to womanhood, she would probably have been as other mothers, but now Rose was to her as the infant she had never borne. She felt the intense jealousy of ownership which the mother feels over the baby in her arms. She wished to snatch Rose from every clasp except her own.
She decided at once that it was easy to see through the plans of Horace and her husband, and she determined to thwart them. “I don't see why she shouldn't go,” she said. “It is a lovely afternoon. The walk will do her good. Lucy Ayres is a real nice girl, and of course Rose wants to see girls of her own age now and then.”
“It is Sunday,” said Henry. He felt and looked like a hypocrite as he spoke, but the distress in Horace's gaze was too much for him.
Sylvia sniffed. “Sunday,” said she. “Good land! what has come over you, Henry Whitman? It has been as much as I could do to get you to go to meeting the last ten years, and now all of a sudden you turn around and think it's wicked for a young girl to run in and see another young girl Sunday afternoon.” Sylvia sniffed again very distinctly, and then Rose entered the room.
Her clear, fair face looked from one to another from under her black hat. “What is the matter?” she asked.
Sylvia patted her on the shoulder. “Nothing is the matter,” said she. “Run along and have a good time, but you had better be home by five o'clock. There is a praise meeting to-night, and I guess we'll all want to go, and I am going to have supper early.”
After Rose had gone and Sylvia had left the room, the two men looked at each other. Horace was ashy pale. Henry's face showed alarm and astonishment. “What is it?” he whispered.
“Come out in the grove and have a smoke,” said Horace, with a look towards the door through which Sylvia had gone.
Henry nodded. He gathered up his pipe and tobacco from the table, and the two men sauntered out of the house into the grove. But even there not much was said. Both smoked in silence, sitting on the bench, before Horace opened his lips in response to Henry's inquiry.