mention of what had formerly been an inexhaustible topic—­the genius, goodness, and brilliant hopes of Franks.  Now she wrote as if in utter despondency, a letter so confused in style and vague in expression, that Bertha could gather from it little or nothing except a grave doubt whether Franks’ marriage was as near as he supposed.  A week or two passed, and Rosamund again wrote—­from Switzerland; again the letter was an unintelligible maze of dreary words, and a mere moaning and sighing, which puzzled Bertha as much as it distressed her.  Rosamund’s epistolary style, when she wrote to this bosom friend, was always pitched in a key of lyrical emotion, which now and then would have been trying to Bertha’s sense of humour but for the sincerity manifest in every word; hitherto, however, she had expressed herself with perfect lucidity, and this sudden change seemed ominous of alarming things.  Just when Bertha was anxiously wondering what could have happened,—­of course inclined to attribute blame, if blame there were, to the artist rather than to his betrothed—­a stranger came to inquire about the house to let.  It was necessary to ascertain at once whether Mr. Franks intended to become their tenant or not.  Mrs. Cross wrote to him, and received the briefest possible reply, to the effect that his plans were changed.

“How vexatious!” exclaimed Mrs. Cross.  “I had very much rather have let to people we know I suppose he’s seen a house that suits him better.”

“I think there’s another reason,” said Bertha, after gazing for a minute or two at the scribbled, careless note.  “The marriage is put off.”

“And you knew that,” cried her mother, “all the time, and never told me!  And I might have missed twenty chances of letting.  Really, Bertha, I never did see anything like you.  There’s that house standing empty month after month, and we hardly know where to turn for money, and you knew that Mr. Franks wouldn’t take it, and yet you say not a word!  How can you behave in such an extraordinary way?  I think you really find pleasure in worrying me.  Any one would fancy you wished to see me in my grave.  To think that you knew all the time!”

CHAPTER 12

There passed a fortnight.  Bertha heard nothing more of Miss Elvan, till a letter arrived one morning in an envelope, showing on the back an address at Teddington.  Rosamund wrote that she had just returned from Switzerland, and was staying for a few days with friends; would it be possible for Bertha to come to Teddington the same afternoon, for an hour or two’s talk?  The writer had so much to say that could not be conveyed in a letter, and longed above all things to see Bertha, the only being in whom, at a very grave juncture in her life, she could absolutely confide.  “We shall be quite alone—­Mr. and Mrs. Capron are going to town immediately after lunch.  This is a lovely place, and we shall have it to ourselves all the afternoon.  So don’t be frightened—­I know how you hate strangers—­but come, come, come!”