"That is not the language of friendship, Mr. Mowbray. Were poor Helen here, I trust you would not answer her inquiries so harshly."
"Harshly? If so, I have been very wrong. Forgive me.—Could you have heard the language this man held to me,—could you have seen him enthroned in my poor father's library, and heard him tell me that when I passed before the windows I must take care not to approach too nearly,—oh, Rosalind! could you have heard all this, you would not wonder if I answered even madly to any questions asked."
Rosalind stood silently before him when he had ceased to speak, her hands tightly clasped, and her eyes riveted on the ground. "I will ask you but one question more," said she after a long pause.
"And what is that, Miss Torrington?"
"Miss Torrington!" said she, muttering between her teeth. "Alas!—how madly have I acted! and how difficult is it to retrace a wrong step once taken!"
She trembled violently; so violently, that she was obliged to support herself by leaning on the back of a chair which stood near her. Charles Mowbray's head again rested on the sofa, and his eyes were hid from her. She felt that he saw her not, and this perhaps it was which gave her courage to proceed in the task she had determined to perform; but her breast heaved almost convulsively, and her mouth became so parched that it was with difficulty she could articulate these words: "I learn from Sir Gilbert Harrington, Mr. Mowbray that—I have the power—of making him my guardian"—
"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Charles, interrupting her; "I thank Heaven for it, Miss Torrington.—You may then escape, and immediately, from this place of torment. This will indeed help me to bear it better."
He spoke the last words more composedly, but again buried his face on the sofa.
"But think you, Mr. Mowbray, I would leave Helen here?"
"I fear you will have no power to take her," he replied.