But she saw that Frances, in spite of the lurking apprehensions for the future which she so resolutely tried to put from her, was essentially happy.
It seemed to Rosamund now that the weeks were slipping by with incredible rapidity. She no longer thought of Morris Severing, and was occasionally ashamed of her own oblivion. But the honesty which in her was innate, did not allow her to falsify her own scale of relative values, and she knew that Morris was relegated to the unimportance of an episode.
After a little while she induced in herself a sort of surface sense of reassurance about Frances. No one else ever hinted at any thought of religious vocation, and Frances never spoke of it. Rosamund thought wistfully that perhaps she had abandoned the idea and sought to confirm the trembling hope that sometimes rose within her, in tiny ways that she strove to persuade herself would mean a great deal. She sometimes spoke to Frances of “next winter,” or asked if she meant to get new frocks for going, later on, to stay with Hazel in London, and Frances always answered naturally and without demur. But Rosamund did not dare to make any allusion to their old plan of going back to live together in the Wye Valley.
It seemed as if life at Porthlew would always consist of the same uneventful routine, and Rosamund, far from feeling it tedious, found herself regarding each monotonous day as it slipped past in the light of a respite.
But the sword of Damocles fell at last, when her anxiety was almost dormant.
“Francie, my child, there’s quite a large mail for you to-day,” cheerily exclaimed Bertha, distributing the letters. “Two fat envelopes.”
“I always say that Frances mustn’t expect to get many letters, because she seldom writes any,” said Miss Blandflower with an air of sapience.
Frances took her correspondence without saying anything, but something in her face brought Rosamund’s every apprehension to life again in one unreasoning rush of terror.
She restrained herself with difficulty from making inquiries of her sister when breakfast was over, but in the course of the morning Frances sought Rosamund in the garden of her own accord.
“I’ve heard from Father Anselm and from Mère Pauline,” she said gently. She looked nervous, but not at all agitated. It was as though she were stating the accomplishment of some long-expected project.