Bertha sighed gustily.
“One only wonders how you can manage in the marvellous way you do, with so much upon your hands,” said Minnie, feeling that this remark, although far from being original, came at any rate from a safe stock, and might be more acceptable than further questions.
At all events it steered the conversation into smoother channels, and no further allusions were made in public to Hazel’s affairs, until three days later, when Hazel herself returned to Porthlew.
Rosamund was instantly conscious of an indefinable change in her cousin.
Self-possessed Hazel Tregaskis had always been, but the youthful security of her manner had somehow deepened into an impression of inward assurance that held less of self-confidence, and more of some larger stability, that would not be easily shaken. When her mother greeted her with matter-of-fact warmth, and said gaily, “Well, my little girl, I’m glad to have you under my wing again; I think it’s the last time we must let you go gallivanting off on your own for the present,” Rosamund saw that Hazel did not give the petulant shrug or grimace with which the girl Hazel would have received such a greeting, but looked at her mother with a strange, remote look that held something of an almost impersonal compassion.
It was that same look, Rosamund thought, which angered Mrs. Tregaskis when her daughter resolutely asked her for an interview that evening.
“No, my darling; I’m not going to let you stay and chatter now. You’ve had a long journey, and must pop off to bed early. We’ll have a long talk to-morrow. Dad and I are not at all angry with you, but I’ve had a letter from Jessie Alistair, and it’s quite plain that I ought never to have let you go and stay away without me. Now run along with Rosamund, my pet.”
“What did Lady Alistair say?”
“I shall talk to you about that to-morrow. I am not at all angry with you, Hazel, but one thing you and Rosamund may as well understand, since I suppose you’ve told her all about it. You may flirt with boys of your own age, if you like, and have all the fun that’s natural and proper, but——” Bertha Tregaskis paused. She spoke with a quiet and good-humoured implacability, her hands resting on her broad hips, and her resolute mouth set firmly. “But—to flirt and get yourself talked about with a married man, is—a—thing—I—don’t—allow. See, darling?”
Rosamund caught her breath and looked at her cousin. Hazel, who seldom or never blushed, had flushed the slow, deep crimson of a woman who hears herself insulted.