But she was often tired
and weak--not physically, but in mind. Mrs. Roughsedge knew--and Muriel.
Dear Hugh Roughsedge!--he was indeed a faithful understanding friend.
She was proud of his letters; she was proud of his conduct in the short
campaign just over; she looked forward to his return in the autumn. But
he must not cherish foolish thoughts or wishes. She would never marry.
What Lady Lucy said was true. She had probably no right to marry. She
stood apart.
But--but--she must not be asked yet to give herself to any great
mission--any set task of charity or philanthropy. Her poor heart
fluttered within her at the thought, and she clung gratefully to the
recollection of Marion's imperious words to her. That exaltation with
which, in February, she had spoken to the Vicar of going to the East End
to work had dropped--quite dropped.
Of course, there was a child in the village--a dear child--ill and
wasting--in a spinal jacket, for whom one would do anything--just
anything! And there was Betty Dyson--plucky, cheerful old soul. But that
was another matter.
What, she asked, had she to give the poor? She wanted guiding and
helping and putting in the right way herself.
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