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Updated: June 27, 2025
She had missed him more, much more than she had realized; she was quite sure of that now that she had recalled things. One happiness is apt to oust the acute memory of another. It would indeed have been strange if, living in such a dear place as "My Welsley," with Robin the precious one, she had been a miserable woman!
"I love Welsley," said Rosamund, on a little sigh. "I just love it. I should like to live in the Precincts." That brought them to a discussion of plans in which Dion was talked of with warm affection and admiration by Rosamund; and all the time she was talking, Canon Wilton saw the beautiful woman in the chair listening to the distant organ.
The organist was the first person she captivated in Welsley, where she was to have so many warm adherents very soon. Father Robertson went back to Canon Wilton's house while Rosamund talked to the organist, with whom she walked as far as a high wooden gate labeled "Mr. Dickinson." "You've got a walled garden too!" she remarked, as her companion took off his hat with an "I live here."
Dickinson gently, but decisively, took the music case from Rosamund's hand with an "I'll carry that home for you"; a thin man, like an early primrose obliged by some inadvertence of spring to work for its living, sidled up and begged for the name of "your most beautiful and chaste second encore for our local paper, the 'Welsley Whisperer'"; and Mrs.
In her own heart she could not deny that she had loved having her Robin all to herself; and she had loved, too, the long hours of solitude during which, in day-dreams, she had lived the religious life. A great peace had enveloped those months at Welsley. In them she had mysteriously grown into a closer relation with her little son.
Rosamund sat down, leaned towards him with her hands clasped tightly together, and, in her absolutely unself-conscious way, began to tell him and Beattie what she felt about Welsley, or something of what she felt. A good deal she could only have told to Father Robertson.
A little more than six months later, when a golden September lay over the land, Rosamund could scarcely believe that she had ever lived out of Welsley. Dion was still in South Africa, in good health and "without a scratch." In his last letter home he had written that he had no idea how long the C.I.V.'s would be kept in South Africa.
The following day was made memorable by the "installation" of Mr. Thrush as a verger of Welsley Cathedral.
The Canon looked hard at her, and he too smiled. "Not writing again to Mrs. Browning?" Beatrice nodded, and sat gently down on the window-seat. "Begging and praying for an extension." "I've never seen any one so in love with a place as your sister is with Welsley." He sat down near Beatrice. "But it is attractive, isn't it?" she said.
I thought of something near Welsley." "So that you could go in to Cathedral service when 'The Wilderness' was sung!" He had smiled as he had said it, but his own reference to Rosamund's once-spoken-of love of the wilderness had, in a flash, brought the hill of Drouva before him, and he had faced man's tragedy remembered joys of the past in a shadowed present. "Go into the country, Rose.
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