No sooner did the atrocious idea enter his soul, than he longed to see it fulfilled. He dared not meet her eyes—even should she be unsuspicious relative to his unnatural treachery. No—it were better that she should die!
But the infernal hopes of the wicked man were not to be realized;—and, monster that he was, he could not slay her with his own hands!
Slowly, at length, her bosom began to heave—a profound sigh escaped her—she opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly around.
"Rosamond," said her father, now mastering his feelings of bitter disappointment so far as to be able to speak in a kind tone: "Rosamond, dearest—what ails you? Fear not—you are at home! But why do you look at me so wildly!"
"Oh! my God—what have I done, that I should have deserved so much misery!" exclaimed the young girl, in a voice of the most piercing anguish, as she covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood of tears:—then, raising herself to a sitting posture on the sofa, she seized her father's hands, saying in a different and more profoundly melancholy tone, "My parent—my only friend! I am unworthy to look you in the face!"
"Do not speak thus, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, seating himself by his daughter's side, and maintaining a demeanour which bespoke the deepest interest in her behalf. "Something has cruelly afflicted you?" he added interrogatively—as if he had yet the fatal truth to learn!
"Oh! heavens—your kindness kills me, dearest father!" shrieked Rosamond. "Yes—never did you appear so kind to me before—and I—I——But, merciful Saviour! my brain is on fire!"
"My sweet child," returned Mr. Torrens, whose soul was a perfect hell as he listened to the words which came from his daughter's lips,—"you can surely have no secrets from me? Has any one caused you chagrin? has any one dared to insult you? And what means this sudden arrival at home—at so late an hour—and when I fancied that you were staying with that excellent woman, Mrs. Slingsby?"
"Mrs. Slingsby!" repeated Rosamond, with a shudder which denoted the loathing and abhorrence she entertained for that woman. "Oh! my dear father, that Mrs. Slingsby is a fiend in human shape—a vile and detestable hypocrite, who conceals the blackest heart beneath the garb of religion!"
"Rosamond—Rosamond—you know not what you are saying!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens, affecting to be profoundly surprised and even hurt at these emphatic accusations.