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Updated: June 27, 2025
Rosamund was in fact a mother, and yet here in Welsley, she had, as it were, sometimes played at being one of those "Sisters" who are content to be brides of heaven and mothers of the poor. For her own sake it was doubtless best to renounce Welsley at once. The new meaning of Dion would help her to do that bravely.
In the evening of that day he dined in De Lorne Gardens with Beatrice and Guy Daventry and his mother, and again, as in Knightsbridge, something was said about the Welsley question. Dion gathered that Rosamund's devotion to Welsley was no secret in "the family."
Stamboul and Welsley were beautiful; each possessed an enticing quality; but the one enticed by its grandiose mystery, by its sharp contrasts of marble stability and matchboard frailty, by its melancholy silences and spaces, by its obscure peace and its dangerous passion; the other by its delightful simplicity, its noble homeliness, its dignity and charm of an old faith and a smiling unworldliness, its harmonies of gray and of green, of stone and verdure, its serenity lifted skywards by many bells.
The first time she had been in Little Cloisters she had spoken to Canon Wilton of Dion, had wondered if he would come back from South Africa altered; and she had said that if she came to live in it Welsley might alter her. Canon Wilton had made no comment on her remark.
"And I'm pretty sure you agree with me." "I must go now," said Beattie gently. "I'm going to Queen Anne's Mansions to tell the dear mother all about my visit to Welsley." "When is she going there?" "I don't know. She's very lazy about moving. She's not been out of London since Dion sailed."
At one moment she "saw the sun," her poetical way of expressing that she began to feel pretty well, and thought she had had enough of the "frivolous existence one leads in an hotel"; at another a fit of sneezing, "was not the early morning sneeze but the real thing," a pang of rheumatism, or a touch of bronchitis, made her fear for the damp of Welsley.
"How can I leave Welsley?" she thought now, as she walked up and down in the garden, and heard presently the chiming of midnight and the voice of the watchman beyond the Dark Entry. God seemed very near to her in Welsley, God and the happiness of God. In Welsley she felt, or was beginning to feel, that she was almost able to combine two lives, the life she had grasped and the life she had let go.
In the flesh he had pursued her in the walled garden at Welsley on that dark night of November when for her the whole world had changed. In another intangible, mysterious guise he had attended her ever since. He had been about her path and about her bed. Even when she knelt at the altar in the Supreme Service he had been there.
The war dragged on, and despite the English successes which had followed such bitter defeats no one could say when it would end. There was no immediate reason, therefore, for Rosamund to move back to London. She dreaded that return. She loved Welsley and could not now imagine herself living anywhere else.
Nevertheless when he got out of the train at Welsley Station, and saw Robin's pal, the Archdeacon, getting out too, and a couple of minor canons, who had come up for the evening papers or something, greeting him with an ecclesiastical heartiness mingled with just a whiff of professional deference, Mrs. Clarke's verdict of "stifling" recurred to his mind. Stamboul and Welsley Mrs.
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