Frank Raynor made the best of his way across the windy plain, and lifted the latch of Dame Bell's door. She stood at the table, ironing by candle-light, her feet resting upon an old thick mat to keep them from any draught. Frank, making himself at home as usual, sat down by the ironing-board, telling her to go on with her occupation, and inquired into her ailments.
"You ought not to have taken the journey," said Frank, promptly, when questions and answers were over. "Travelling is not good for you."
"But I could not help taking it," returned Dame Bell, beginning upon the wristbands of a shirt she was ironing. "When Rosaline never came home, and paid no attention to my ordering her to come home, it was time I went to see after her."
"She has not come back with you?"
"No, she has not," retorted Dame Bell, ironing away with a viciousness that imperilled the wristband. "I couldn't make her come, Mr. Frank. Cords would not have dragged her. Of all the idiots! to let those Whistlers frighten her from a place for good, like that!"
"The Whistlers?" mechanically repeated Frank, his eyes fixed on the progress of the ironing.
"It's the Whistlers, and nothing else," said Mrs. Bell. "I didn't send word to her or her aunt that I was on my way to Falmouth: I thought I'd take 'em by surprise. And I declare to you, Mr. Frank, I hardly believed my eyes when I saw Rosaline. It did give me a turn. I was that shocked——"
"But why?" interrupted Frank.
"She's just as thin as a herring. You wouldn't know her, sir. When I got to the place, there was John Pellet's shop-window flaming away, and lighting up the tins and fire-irons, and all that, which he shows in it. I opened the side-door, and went straight up the stairs to the room overhead, knowing I should most likely find Rosaline there, for it's the room where my sister Pellet does her millinery work. My sister was there, standing with her back to me, a bonnet on each of her outstretched hands, as if she was comparing the blue bows in one with the pink bows in the other; and close to the middle table, putting some flowers in another bonnet, was a young woman in black. I didn't know her at first. The gas was right on her face, but I declare that I didn't know her. She looked straight over at me, and I thought what a white and thin and pretty face it, was, with large violet eyes and dark circles round 'em: but as true as you are there, Mr. Frank, I didn't know her for Rosaline. 'Mother!' says she, starting up: and I a'most fell on the nearest chair. 'What ever has come to you, child?' I says, as she steps round to kiss me! 'you look as though you had one foot in the grave.' At that she turns as red as a rose: and what with the bright colour, and the smile she gave, she looked a little more like herself. But there: if I talked till I tired you, sir, I could make out no more than that: she's looking desperately ill and wretched, and she won't come home again."
Frank made no rejoinder. The ironing went on vigorously: and Mrs. Bell's narrative with it.