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Updated: June 27, 2025
Meanwhile Catherine, hurrying home, the receding flush leaving a sudden pallor behind it, was twisting her hands before her in a kind of agony. 'What have I been doing? she said to herself. 'What have I been doing? At the gate of Burwood something made her look up.
Her reflections at last became so depressing that, with a natural epicurean instinct, she tried violently to turn her mind away from them. Luckily she was assisted by a sudden perception of the roof and chimneys of Burwood, the Leyburns' house, peeping above the trees to the left. At sight of them a smile overspread her plump and gently wrinkled face.
Every day Robert was on the lookout for the swallows, or listening for the first notes of the nightingale amid the bare spring coverts. But the spring was less perfectly delightful to him than it might have been, for Catherine was away. Mrs. Leyburn, who was to have come south to them in February, was attacked by bronchitis instead at Burwood and forbidden to move, even to a warmer climate.
We could still be some months of the year at Burwood. Now she had said it out. But there was something else surely goading the girl than mere intolerance of the family tradition. The hesitancy, the moral doubt of her conversation with Langham, seemed to have vanished wholly in a kind of acrid self-assertion.
Greybarns was a farmhouse just beyond Burwood, about half a mile away. Mrs. Thornburgh moved on, her matronly face aglow with interest. 'Mary Jenkinson taken ill! she said. 'Of course, that's Doctor Baker! Well, it's to be hoped it won't be twins this time. But, as I told her last Sunday, "It's constitutional, my dear." I knew a woman who had three pairs! Five o'clock now.
So, taking Ashley Park, Burwood Park, Pains Hill and many others, as well as the Coway Stakes said by one school of antiquarians to have been planted in the Thames by Cæsar, and by another to be the relics of a fish-weir Walton Church and Bradshaw's house, for granted, we shall turn to the east and finish the purlieus of Hampton with a glance at the old Saxon town of Kingston-on-Thames.
She was nearing the gate of Burwood, and involuntarily slackened step. The man who was approaching, catching sight of the slim girlish figure in the broad hat and pink and white cotton dress, hurried up. The colour rushed to Rose's cheek. In another minute she and Hugh Flaxman were face to face. She could not hide her astonishment.
As she did so she became aware of a man's figure walking along the space of road between Greybarns and Burwood, the western light behind it. Dr. Baker? But even granting that Mrs. Jenkinson had brought him five miles on a false alarm, in the provoking manner of matrons, the shortest professional visit could not be over in this time. She looked again, shading her eyes.
I am certain she would laugh me to angry scorn if I mentioned him; but there she sits by the fire now, while I am writing, quite drooping and pale, because she thinks I am not noticing. If she did but love me a little more! It must be my fault, I know. 'Yes, as you say, Burwood may as well be shut up or let. My dear, dear father!
For she was an artist she would be an artist let Catherine say what she would! She came back from Manchester restless for she knew not what, thirsty for the joys and emotions of art, determined to be free, reckless, passionate; with Wagner and Brahms in her young blood; and found Burwood waiting for her Burwood, the lonely house in the lonely valley, of which Catherine was the presiding genius.
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