“I doubt it, said the carpenter, and shed a bitter tear,” which saying Bertha had so long regarded as part of Minnie’s stock equipment that she scarcely heard it, and addressed herself to Rosamund again.
“Well now, daughter mine, I want to hear all about the child.”
Mrs. Tregaskis had sometimes employed this proprietary form of address in speaking to Rosamund since Hazel’s marriage. She seldom used the words lightly, however, but as though to denote some deeper sympathy or kindness.
Rosamund looked at her unintelligently.
Her head felt stupefied from the tears she had shed, violently and uncontrollably, during the few days she had spent with Lady Argent, and she was far more physically shaken by the strength of her undisciplined emotions than she realized.
On the night of her return to Porthlew, Cousin Bertie had said very kindly: “I see how it is, my child,” and had sent her to bed at once, and come up twice to see that Rosamund had all she wanted, and was really going to sleep. She had asked no questions, only saying: “You shall tell me all about it to-morrow.”
And now to-morrow had come, and Rosamund, who had slept heavily and dreamlessly until after nine o’clock, was to tell them all that had happened during her brief stay at the convent, all the details about Frances that her little circle wanted to know, give them all the loving messages that Frances had sent.
She wished dully that she could apply some kind of spur to her brain, which felt oddly and inexplicably incapable of transmitting into images any impression of the convent she had visited. Even her tongue felt curiously weighted, as though speech were an almost impossible effort.
“Come,” said her guardian encouragingly, “how does the little thing like it? Her letters don’t tell one very much, but perhaps that isn’t altogether her fault.”
“No, I don’t think it is.”