Rose watched from the old bow-window with the round panes to see them drive away. She waved her hand to Anne, but she was scarcely conscious what she was doing, her heart beat so much. She sent her maid out to match some ribbon, which she knew would take a long time to match, and then Rose made a general survey of the rooms. They all opened off a square vestibule, or, more correctly, an antechamber. She went through her mother’s first, carelessly, as if looking for something; then through her own; and only went to Anne’s as the last. Her heart beat high, but she had no feeling that she was going to do anything that was wrong. How could it be wrong? to read a letter a little earlier than the time appointed for reading it. If there had been anything to say that Rose was not to read it at all, then it might have been wrong; but what could it possibly matter whether it was read now or in two years? To be sure, it was not addressed to Rose, but what of that? Except Cosmo’s letters, which of course were exceptional, being love-letters, all correspondence of the family was in common—and especially, of all things in the world, a letter from poor papa! But nevertheless Rose’s heart beat as she went into Anne’s room. The despatch-box generally stood by the writing-table, open, with all its contents ready for reference. The lid was shut down to-day, which gave her a great fright. But it was not locked, as she had feared. She got down on her knees before it and peeped in. There was the little drawer in which it had been placed, a drawer scarcely big enough to contain it. The red seals crackled as she took it out with trembling hands. One bit of the wax came off of itself. Had Anne been taking a peep too, though she would not permit Rose to do so? No; there was no abrasion of the paper, no break of the seal. Rose suddenly remembered that the very seal her father had used was at this moment on her mother’s desk. She got up hastily to get it, but then, remembering, took out the packet and carried it with her. She could lock the door of her own room, but not of Anne’s, and it would not do to scatter scraps of the red wax about Anne’s room and betray herself. She carried it away stealthily as a mouse, whisking out and in of the doors. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands trembling. Now, whatever it was, in a minute more she would know all about it. Never in her life had Rose’s little being been in such a commotion. Not when her father’s will was read; not when that gentleman at Cannes made her her first proposal; for at neither of these moments had there been any alarm in her mind for what was coming. The others might have suffered, perhaps, but not she.
Mrs. Mountford complained afterwards that she had not seen Rose all day. ‘Where is Rose?’ Anne asked when she came back full of the Dower-house, and anxious to recommend it to all concerned. After inquiries everywhere it was found that Rose was lying down in her room with a bad headache. She had made the maid, when she returned from her fruitless quest for the ribbon, which could not be matched, draw down the blinds: and there she lay in great state, just as Mrs. Mountford herself did in similar circumstances. Anne, who went up to see her, came down with a half-smile on her lips.
‘She says it is like one of your headaches, mamma; and she will keep still till dinner.’
‘That is the best thing she can do,’ said Mrs. Mountford. ‘If she can get a little sleep she will be all right.’
Secretly it must be allowed that Anne was more amused than alarmed by her little sister’s indisposition. Mrs. Mountford had been subject to such retirements as long as anyone could remember; and Rose’s get-up was a very careful imitation of her mother’s—eau de Cologne and water on a chair beside her sofa, a wet handkerchief spread upon her head, her hair let down and streaming on the pillow.
‘Don’t let anyone take any notice,’ she said in a faint little voice. ‘If I am let alone I shall soon be better.’
‘Nobody shall meddle with you,’ said Anne, half laughing. And then she retired downstairs to discuss the house with Mrs. Mountford, who was only half an authority when Rose was not by.
But if anyone could have known the thoughts that were going on under the wet handkerchief and the dishevelled locks! Rose’s head was aching, not with fever, but with thinking. She had adopted this expedient to gain time, because she could not make up her mind what to do. The packet re-sealed, though with considerably more expenditure of wax than the original, was safely returned to the despatch-box. But Rose had been so startled by the information she had received that further action had become impossible to her. What was she to do? She was not going to sit down under that, not going to submit to it, and live on for two years knowing all about it. How could she do that? This was a drawback that she had not foreseen: information clandestinely obtained is always a dreadful burden to carry about. How was she to live for two years knowing that, and pretending not to know it? Never before in her life had the current of thought run so hot in her little brain. What was she to do? Was there nothing she could do? She lay still for some minutes after Anne had left her. To be in such a dilemma, and not to be able to tell anybody—not to ask anybody’s advice! She thought once of rushing to Keziah, putting the case to her us of someone else. But how could Keziah tell her what to do? At last a sudden gleam of suggestion shot through Rose’s brain; she sprang half up on her sofa, forgetting the headache. At this period she was in a kind of irresponsible unmoral condition, not aware that she meant any harm, thinking only of defending herself from a danger which she had just discovered, which nobody else knew. She must defend herself. If a robber is after you in the dark, and you strike out wildly and hurt someone who is on your side, who is trying to defend you—is that your fault? Self-defence was the first thing, the only thing, that occurred to Rose. After it came into her mind in the sole way in which it was possible she took no time to think, but rushed at it, and did it without a moment’s pause. She wrote a letter, composing it hurriedly, but with great care. It was not long, but it meant a great deal. It was addressed, as Anne’s letter, which was also of so much importance, had been addressed, to ‘Cosmo Douglas, Esq., Middle Temple.’ What could little Rose be writing to Cosmo Douglas about? She slid it into her pocket when, still very much flushed and excited, she went down to dinner, and carried it about with her till quite late in the evening, when, meeting Saymore with the bag which he was about to send off to the post office, she stopped him on the stairs, and put it in with her own hand.
This was the history of Rose’s day—the day when she had that feverish attack which alarmed all the inhabitants of the ‘Black Bull.’ She herself always said it was nothing, and happily it came to nothing. But who could prevent a mother from being alarmed, when her child suddenly appeared with cheeks so flushed, and a pulse that was positively racing, Mrs. Mountford said. However, fortunately, as the patient herself always predicted, a night’s rest set it all right.