“I could come back and live there very soon, couldn’t I?” she asked that same evening of Lady Argent. “You know I always meant to.”
“Yes, indeed, and one knows that if that poor dear little angel had been spared to us, you could have gone there together, except, of course, that it was perfectly obvious from the very beginning that she had a true religious vocation, and couldn’t have been anywhere but where she was. But girls can do almost anything nowadays, and I’ve no doubt that you could find some very suitable person to live with you, since you’re of age, and have your own money; and then you know, my dear, you’re sure to marry. But I quite see that what you want now is just the quiet of it all, and then being fond of the place and everything. Only if you won’t mind my asking, and, indeed, dear, you know it’s not from curiosity, are you quite sure that you don’t want to go back to Porthlew?”
“Yes. I know how good Cousin Bertie’s been, but indeed I don’t see any object in our living together. I worried her dreadfully when I was there, and it was quite decided that when I came of age some other arrangement would be made. You know, she has such hundreds of interests—all her work and her charities and everything—and Miss Blandflower gives her all the help she ever wants. I don’t think I was much use there, ever.”
There was a silence.
“I know it sounds as though I were ungrateful,” said Rosamund desperately, “but I’m trying so hard to get at the truth of things. I don’t feel a bit that my place is at Porthlew—I don’t know where it is. I want to come home—but I don’t feel even that to be a solution.”
“Poor child! If only you and dear Bertie——” said Lady Argent helplessly. “But I know what that sort of thing is—so hopeless, I always think, when two people are both willing and ready and tolerant as can be, and yet they don’t seem able to understand one another. And, of course, as you say, Bertie always has her hands full, and I know that very capable people don’t much like being helped—I shall never forget poor Fergus—my husband, you know, dear—over his telescope and things, even when one only wanted to clean the lenses or some tiny little thing like that. But that was only one thing, and he was quite ready to ask for help about anything else. At least, almost anything else.”
Lady Argent’s expression became rather pensively reminiscent.
Rosamund remained vaguely wondering.
She felt during those days in the Wye Valley as though she were seeking for a conviction, latent in her mind, but that yet delayed formation and continued to evade consciousness. Once grasped, she would be in touch with reality and in some strange way closer to Frances.
She questioned herself helplessly.