A week passed and Mr Armstrong did not return. By the end of that time
Miss Rosalind Oliphant, for better or worse, had settled down into her
new quarters, and made herself as much at home as a fair Bohemian can do
anywhere. She still resented the fate which brought her to Maxfield at
all, and annoyed her father constantly by casting their dependence on
the hospitality of the place in his teeth.
"I wish you had some business, father," said she, "so that we could pay
our way. I don't suppose my pictures will ever sell, but every penny I
earn shall go to Roger. Couldn't we go and live in the lodge, somewhere
where we can--"
"Rosalind," said her father, "you vex me by talking like a child. After
the education I have tried to provide for you, I had a right to hope you
would at least regulate your tongue by a little common-sense. Do you
not know that I have given up my profession, everything, in order to
come to do my duty here?"
"I wish you hadn't," said the girl doggedly; "it would have been so easy
to decline the trust and remain independent. It's awful to think we've
nothing to live on but what we get out of Roger's money."
"Foolish girl," said her father with a forced laugh, "you are a
delightful specimen of a woman's incapacity to understand the very
rudiments of business. Why, you absurd child, old Roger Ingleton's will
bequeathed me £300 a year for acting as the boy's guardian."
"Yes, for two years. And Roger would have been all that richer if you'd
declined. I'm sure his mother and Mr Armstrong are plenty to look
after him. I'd have liked you so much better, dear father, if you'd
stayed in the army."
"I'm afraid, my poor girl, it is useless to argue with you. When you do
get a wrong idea into your head, nothing will induce you to part with
it, even if it involves an injustice to your poor father."
"Father," said she, "you know it is because I love you and--"
"Enough," said he rather sternly. "I know you mean well."
And he went.