"And how did he announce to my mother that she.... I mean, how did he communicate to her the purport of my father's will?"
"Charles Mowbray!" exclaimed Rosalind passionately, clenching her small hands and stamping her little foot upon the ground--"I may be a very, very wicked girl: I know I am wilful, headstrong, obstinate, and vain; and call me also dark-minded, suspicious, what you will; but I do hate that man."
"Hate whom, Rosalind?" said Charles, inexpressibly astonished at her vehemence. "What is it you mean?... Is it Mr. Cartwright, our good friendly clergyman, that you hate so bitterly?"
"Go to your mother, Mr. Mowbray. I am little more than seventeen years old, and have always been considered less instructed, and therefore sillier of course than was to be expected even from my age and sex; then will it not be worse than waste of time to inquire what I mean--especially when I confess, as I am bound to do, that I do not well know myself?... Go to your mother, Charles, and let her know exactly all you feel. You, at least, have no cause to hide your faults."
"I will go--but I wish I knew what has so strangely moved you."
"Ask your sisters--they saw and heard all that I did; at least, they were present here, as I was;--ask them, examine them, but ask me nothing; for I do believe, Charles, that I am less to be depended on than any other person in the world."
"And why so, my dear Rosalind?" replied Mowbray, almost laughing. "Do you mean that you tell fibs against your will?"
"Yes ... I believe so. At least, I feel strangely tempted to say a great deal more than I positively know to be true; and that is very much like telling fibs, I believe."
"Well, Rosalind, I will go, for you grow more mysterious every moment; only, remember that I should greatly like to know all the thoughts that come into that strange little head of yours. Will you promise that I shall?"
"No," was the ungracious reply; and turning away, she left the room by a door that led into a conservatory.
On entering his mother's dressing-room, Mowbray found her seated between her two daughters, and holding a hand of each.
She looked up as he entered: the traces of tears were on her cheeks, and her eyes rested on him with an expression of melancholy reproach such as he had never read in them before.