“If only we knew what was going to become of us,” sighed Frances in Miss Carlyon’s ear. “It is so dreadful to feel day after day passing and not to have the least idea what Mamma will do. Sometimes Austin and I think she really does not understand that we must leave Elveley immediately; but if we try to talk about it she will not listen.”
“Dear child, your mother has received a very heavy blow. Who can wonder if it has prostrated her?”
Miss Carlyon’s tone was extremely pitiful, though she could hardly think without impatience of the crushed, broken woman who, even for the sake of her children, would not rouse herself out of her state of despondency. The girl and boy whose future had promised to be so bright were surely the chief sufferers; but Mrs. Morland’s pride saw as yet only her personal defeat—her loss of position, her coming poverty.
“I know how very hard it is for Mamma,” said Frances; “Austin and I would scarcely mind at all if only Mamma need not lose all her things. I do want to help her, but she says I am just a girl, and of no use. And Austin is not grown-up yet. Oh, Miss Carlyon, is there no work I can do? I think I could take care of children, and I would do anything.”
“Dear Frances, you are so young to leave home.”
“Should I have to leave home? I don’t think I could bear to go quite away among strangers. What would Austin do?”
“What, indeed? And how could your mother part from her only daughter? Your place is at home, darling.”
“I don’t know,” said Frances in a shaky voice. “I don’t seem much good to Mamma; and perhaps, after all, Austin would not mind now. He does not want me as he used to.”
“How is that?” asked Miss Carlyon gently, while she stroked the girl’s bent head.
“It is because I am different,” said Frances dejectedly. “I have been mean and horrid, and Austin knows.”