“You do?” I exclaimed.
“Of course I do,” she said. “It’s about Rose. She’s bolted.”
“But surely the villagers aren’t talking?” I said in a panic of alarm. “You don’t mean to say it’s not a secret!”
“No one knows but you and me,” said the old lady.
“And Suzanne,” I corrected:
“O, Suzanne! She doesn’t matter. She’s an ally. But no one else knows. I know because I had a letter to-day. Rose took me some way into her confidence when she was staying with you. Old people often get told things. But don’t worry; it’s all right.”
“All right?” I echoed. “What do you mean? Do you want young wives to behave like this?”
“When they’re like Rose—yes,” she said. “The poor lamb was miserable. That iceberg of hers was no good except to freeze her. She wants life, love, human emotions, and she’ll get them with the young Captain.”
“But—” I exclaimed, aghast at this Bolshevism. “You talk as if people had the right to do as they please—break laws—anything.”
“Not all of them by any means, the idiots,” she replied. “But Rose—yes. Rose ought to have all she wants. I advised her to. It’s—no don’t interrupt me—it’s your own doing very largely. You brought her up to be happy and true to herself. She saw you always at work ministering to other people—Oh! I know you were paid for it—I’ve paid you myself—money thrown away too, for I only get worse—but that doesn’t matter: you’re a soft old thing at heart. Anyway, there was Rose, the apple of your eye, with a natural sweet disposition, and the centre of your circle of friends, and the mistress of your easy-going prosperous house, and she gets into kindly humane habits. Then she marries this refrigerator K.C., or whatever he is, and begins to miss everything that she had been used to. He’s a stupid fellow—he hasn’t even the sense to be ill and touch her heart that way—he can’t lose his temper—can’t swear—only be politely rasping now and then—and he gradually wore her down, diluted her sweetness, crushed her nice impulses, made her live according to Cocker.”