“Yes, but do you think I should burn it, Charles? Only think if this were the only copy of the poem! Perhaps he wants to have it printed!”
“He is not going to print such stuff about any sister of mine!” said Mr. Rivenhall grimly, holding out an imperative hand.
Lady Ombersley, always overborne by a stronger will, was just about to give the paper to him when a trembling voice from the doorway arrested her, “Mama! Do not!”
Chapter 2
LADY OMBERSLEY’S hand dropped; Mr. Rivenhall turned sharply, a frown on his brow. His sister, casting him a look of burning reproach, ran across the room to her mother, and said, “Give it to me, Mama! What right has Charles to burn my letters?”
Lady Ombersley looked helplessly at her son, but he said nothing. Cecilia twitched the open sheet of paper from her mother’s fingers, and clasped it to her palpitating bosom. This did goad Mr. Rivenhall into speech. “For God sake, Cecilia, let us have no play acting!” he said.
“How dared you read my letter?” she retorted.
“I did not read your letter ! I gave it to Mama, and you will scarcely say that she had no right to read it!”
Her soft blue eyes swam with tears; she said in a low voice, “It is all your fault! Mama would never — I hate you, Charles, I hate you!”
He shrugged, and turned away. Lady Ombersley said feebly, “You should not talk so, Cecilia! You know it is quite improper in you to be receiving letters without my knowledge! I do not know what your papa would say if he heard of it.”