“It’s all nonsense,” he said, assuming a confidence he did not wholly feel. “She’s no more drowned than I am.”
“Faith, I had me fears for you, wid such a dale of tears let loose upon ye,” remarked Mother Agnes, dryly.
The young man looked straight into the reverend countenance of the superior and confided to it an audacious wink.
“I’ll be back in no time,” he said, taking up his hat. “Now don’t you fret another bit. She’s all right. I know it. And I’ll go and find her.” And with that he was gone.
An ominous silence pervaded the reception hall. The two nuns, still standing, stared with wrathful severity at Mrs. Fergus. She bore their gaze with but an indifferent show of composure, patting her disordered crimps with an awkward hand, and then moving aimlessly across the room.
“I’ll be going now, I’m thinking,” she said, at last, yet lingered in spite of her words.
The nuns looked slowly at one another, and uttered not a word.
“Well, thin, ’t is small comfort I have, annyway, or consolation either, from the lot of ye,” Mrs. Fergus felt impelled to remark, drawing her shawl up on her head and walking toward the door. “An’ me wid me throubles, an’ me nerves.”
“Is it consolation you’re afther?” retorted Mother Agnes, bitterly. “I haven’t the proper kind of shoulder on me for your variety of consolation.”
“Thrue ye have it, Agnes O’Mahony,” Mrs. Fergus came back, with her hand on the latch. “An’ by the same token, thim shoulders were small consolation to you yourself, till you got your nun’s vail to hide ’em!”