“As long as you’re good and happy, that’s all I want, my darling. One only lives for the younger generation, you know, as one goes on. Hazel—and Hazel’s child, and, I hope, some day, your children and Rosamund’s—that’s all I care about.”
“I’m so glad we’re going to Hazel now,” said Frances sympathetically.
Bertha squeezed her hand suddenly.
“Oh, my dear, think of it! To see her with a baby of her own—to see little Richard Frederick at last!”
She stopped abruptly, as though afraid of her own emotion.
Frances reflected rather mournfully that Cousin Bertie saw pathetically little of her daughter nowadays. On the causes which had led to that estrangement she preferred not to dwell. She had known very little of the difficulties surrounding Hazel’s marriage, and the subject was never discussed at Porthlew. Perhaps Frances, innocent and affectionate, and looking upon Hazel as a sister only less dear to her than Rosamund, unconsciously shrank from applying the standards of her new-found creed to the position held by the second Lady Marleswood.
She had by her a letter from Rosamund that added to her happiness. Her sister had written:
“I do understand Francie, and I can’t help being glad that you are a Catholic at last. Cousin Frederick has been nicer about it that you would have supposed. It was he who told Cousin Bertie that as things were they had no right to forbid you, and he suddenly asked me last night if you were happy. So I said you were. Unluckily, Miss Blandflower was in the room, and said it was a case of live and let live, or something of that sort, and you know how angry she always makes him, so he said nothing more. As a matter of fact, I think that live and let live is rather what Cousin Frederick would like to do ... and that’s what made him say you were to do as you liked. As for me, I’m so thankful you really are happy about it all. I think the convent sounds nice, and Mrs. Mulholland. I wish I could see her, and thank her for being so nice to you. Some day, darlingest, when we can go back home to the Wye Valley and live together, we can ask her to come and stay, can’t we? After all, it may not be so very far off, now I am so nearly of age.”
Frances felt very happy as she gazed from the train window, dreamily absorbed in her own thoughts. The Retreat, the sense of illumination vouchsafed her, the directions and instructions received from Father Anselm, and the present joy of knowing herself in the Church where she had longed to be, filled her mind. She did not want to think of the future. If there was a lurking sense of apprehension, as of some sacrifice that was to be demanded of her in return for all that she had been given, a grievous dread of inflicting pain, far sharper and stranger than any yet, upon those whom she loved best and from whom she felt already separated as though by an invisible gulf, Frances would not dwell upon it.
Everyone was so kind to her, and she was happy, and Cousin Bertie had understood that never, never of her own free will would Frances grieve or disobey her, and had been so good to her—and they were going to see Hazel and the wonderful baby, Dickie.