I went and sat in the little parlor of the Rose and Crown.
Louise had spoken true when she told me she had done me no good.
I had come for comfort, and found none.
Only cold hard facts, twisted to distortion.
All of what she said would make sense to a lawyer’s mind.
I knew how my godfather weighed things in the balance, without allowance for the human heart.
Louise could not help it if she had inherited his shrewd strict outlook and reasoned accordingly.
I knew better than she did what had come between Rachel and myself.
The granite slab, above the valley in the woods, and all the months that I had never shared.
“Your cousin Rachel,” Rainaldi said, “is a woman of impulse.”
Because of impulse she had let me love her.
Because of impulse she had let me go again.
Ambrose had known these things. Ambrose had understood.
And neither for him, nor for me, could there ever be another woman, or another wife.
I sat a long while in the chill parlor of the Rose and Crown.
The landlord brought me cold mutton and some ale, though I was not hungry.
Later I went out and stood upon the quay and watched the high tide splashing on the steps.
The fishing vessels rocked at their buoys, and one old fellow, seated across a thwart, baled out the water from the bottom boards of his boat, his back turned to the spray that filled it again with every breaking sea.
The clouds came lower than they had before, turning to mist, cloaking the trees on the opposite shore.
If I wished to return home without a soaking, and Gypsy without a chill, I had best return before the weather worsened.
No one remained now without doors.
I mounted Gypsy and climbed the hill, and to spare myself the further mileage of the high road turned down where the four roads met, and into the avenue.
We were more sheltered here, but scarce had gone a hundred yards before Gypsy suddenly hobbled and went lame, and rather than go into the lodge and have the business of removing the stone that had cut into her shoe, and having gossip there, I decided to dismount and lead her gently home.
The gale had brought down branches that lay strewn across our path, and the trees that yesterday had been so still tossed now, and swayed, and shivered with the misty rain.
The vapor from the boggy valley rose in a white cloud, and I realized, with a shudder, how cold I had been the livelong day, since I had sat with Louise in the church, and all the while in the fireless parlor at the Rose and Crown.
This was another world from yesterday.
I led Gypsy past the path that Rachel and I had taken.
Our footmarks were still there, where we had trodden in around the beeches for the primroses.
Clumps of them nestled still, dejected, in the moss.
The avenue seemed endless, with Gypsy hobbling, my hand upon her bridle guiding her, and the dripping rain found its way down the collar of my coat to chill my back.
When I reached home I was too tired to say good afternoon to Wellington, but threw him the reins without a word, leaving him staring after me.
God knows, after the night before, I had little desire to drink anything but water, but being cold and wet I thought a taste of brandy might bring some sort of warmth to me, however raw.
I went into the dining room and John was there, laying the table for dinner.
He went to fetch me a glass from the pantry, and while I waited I saw he had laid three places on the table.
On his return I pointed to them.
“Why three?” I said.
“Miss Pascoe,” he replied, “she’s been here since one o’clock.
The mistress went calling there this morning, not long after you had gone.
She brought Miss Pascoe back with her.
She’s come to stay.”
I stared at him, bewildered.
“Miss Pascoe come to stay?” I said.
“That’s so,” he answered,
“Miss Mary Pascoe, the one that teaches in the Sunday school.
We have been busy getting the pink room ready for her.
She and the mistress are in the boudoir now.”
He went on with his laying of the table, and leaving the glass upon the sideboard, without bothering to pour the brandy, I went upstairs.
There was a note upon the table in my room, Rachel’s hand upon it.
I tore it open.
There was no beginning, only the day, and the date.