The farmer’s wife thought she understood.
“I’m rale sorry te hear that, yer leddyship.”
“Indeed, I regret the necessity myself. But recent events have opened my eyes to the danger of allowing my child to grow up in the untrammeled freedom which I have permitted—encouraged, I may say. It breaks my heart to be stern toward her. I must send her to the South, where there are good schools, where others will fulfil obligations in which I have failed.”
And, behold! Mrs. Saumarez choked back a sob.
“Eh, ma’am,” cried the perturbed Martha, “there’s nowt to greet aboot. T’ lass is young eneuf yet, an’ she’s a bonny bairn, bless her heart. We all hae te part wi’ ’em. It’ll trouble me sore when Martin goes away, but ’twill be for t’ lad’s good.”
“You dear woman, you have nothing to reproach yourself with. I have. Your fine boy would never dream of rending your soul as Angèle has rent mine to-day—all because I wished her to read an instructive book instead of a French novel.”
“Mebbe you were a bit hard wi’ her,” said the older woman. “To be sure, ye wouldn’t be suited by this nasty inquest; but is it wise to change all at once? Slow an’ sure, ma’am, is better’n fast an’ feckless. Where is t’ little ’un now?”
“At home, crying her eyes out because I insisted that she should remain there.”
“Ay, I reckon she’d be wantin’ te see Martin.”