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At the close of the first day, she wrote to Geoffrey Hunt: “I do believe I have made a good beginning. Mrs. Halliday is perfect and I quite love her. Please do not answer this; I only write because I feel that I owe it to your kindness. I shall never be able to thank you enough.”

When Geoffrey obeyed her and kept silence, she felt that he acted prudently; perhaps Mrs. Halliday might see the letter, and know his hand. But none the less she was disappointed.

Rosamund soon learnt the
measure of her ignorance in domestic affairs. Thoroughly practical and systematic, her friend (this was to be their relation) set down a scheme of the day’s and the week’s work; it made a clear apportionment between them, with no preponderance of unpleasant drudgery for the new-comer’s share. With astonishment, which she did not try to conceal, Rosamund awoke to the complexity and endlessness of home duties even in so small a house as this.

“Then you have noleisure?” she exclaimed, in sympathy, not remonstrance.

“I feel at leisure when I’m sewing–and when I take the children out. And there’s Sunday.”

The eldest child was about five years old, the others three and a twelvemonth, respectively. Their ailments gave a good deal of trouble, and it often happened that Mrs. Halliday was awake with one of them the greater part of the night. For children Rosamund had no natural tenderness; to endure the constant sound of their voices proved, in the beginning, her hardest trial; but the resolve to school herself in every particular soon enabled her to tend the little ones with much patience, and insensibly she grew fond of them. Until she had overcome her awkwardness in every task, it cost her no little effort to get through the day; at bedtime she ached in every joint, and morning oppressed her with a sick lassitude. Conscious however, of Mrs. Halliday’s forbearance, she would not spare herself, and it soon surprised her to discover that the rigid performance of what seemed an ignoble task brought its reward. Her first success in polishing a grate gave her more delight than she had known since childhood. She summoned her friend to look, to admire, to praise.

“Haven’t I done it well? Could you do it better yourself?”

“Admirable!”

Rosamund waved her black-lead brush and tasted victory.

The process of acclimatization naturally affected her health. In a month’s time she began to fear that she must break down; she suffered painful disorders, crept out of sight to moan and shed a tear. Always faint, she had no appetite for wholesome food. Tossing on her bed at night she said to herself a thousand times: “I must go on even if I die!” Her religion took the form of asceticism and bade her rejoice in her miseries; she prayed constantly and at times knew the solace of an infinite self-glorification. In such a mood she once said to Mrs. Halliday:

“Don’t you think I deserve some praise for the step I took?”

“You certainly deserve both praise and thanks from me.”

“But I mean–it isn’t every one who could have done it? I’ve a right to feel myself superior to the ordinary run of girls?”

The other gave her an embarrassed look, and murmured a few satisfying words. Later in the same day she talked to Rosamund about her health and insisted on making certain changes which allowed her to take more open-air exercise. The result of this was a marked improvement; at the end of the second month Rosamund began to feel and look better than she had done for several years. Work no longer exhausted her. And the labour in itself seemed to diminish, a natural consequence of perfect co-operation between the two women. Mrs. Halliday declared that life had never been so easy for her as now; she knew the delight of rest in which there was no self-reproach. But for sufficient reasons she did not venture to express to Rosamund all the gratitude that was due.