“But where is she? This is terrible,” she repeated. “We must find her.”
I told her not to be alarmed. Rose was probably walking off her
disturbance of mind. The sudden appearance of her mother must, I know,
have given her too much to think of, and she was doing what she often did
in moments of high tension—she was fighting her perplexities under the
open sky.
“Ah!” said Rose. “It would have been better for me not to have come
back.”
“Don’t say so,” I replied. “Go to your room now. I’ll wait for
Rose—perhaps I’ll go and look for her, but I don’t think that is
necessary; these are safe parts. She is probably in the garden.”
“She hasn’t—you don’t think—she hasn’t gone away altogether?” her mother
faltered.
“Good Heavens, no! She often does this, and with far less reason. I’ll
knock and reassure you very soon now”; and thus I got her to retire.
Rose came back some anxious hours later, at dawn. She was worn out.
It was as I had guessed. The poor child’s castle in the air having
collapsed, she had been collecting energy for the rebuilding. But this
time there was to be a less alluring site: the castle must be on the
prosaic earth and the foundations dug by the dull spade, duty.
All this her tired face told me.
“O Dombeen!” she said as she seized my arm and clung to it.
“I know,” I said.
“Where is she?”
“In the Red Room.”
“I’ll go to her.”
“To-night? So late?” I said. “I was wondering if it would not be better
in the morning.”
“No, now. For a moment only.”