“I must, mother darling.”
“My dear child, your present strange proceedings agitate me a good deal.”
“Dearest mother! you shall know everything as soon as ever I can tell you. Perhaps to-night you shall know all.”
My mother sighed. “And where is the good of vexing George?” she continued.
“George shall not stand between us and—and happiness,” I said with vehemence. “Mother, it is impossible for me to explain. I shall, I must, I will go to London to-day. Mother darling, you won’t blame me when I tell you everything by and by.”
“I never blame you, Rosamund,” said my mother; “you are the great comfort of my life. How could I possibly find fault with you, my dear, dear daughter?”
She kissed me as she spoke.
I ran up-stairs for my hat and jacket, and as my father was putting on his great-coat in the hall, I tripped up to him, equipped for my little expedition.
“So you are coming, Rosamund?” he said. “Yes, of course,” I replied, “if only to show that George is not to lay down the law to you.”
Oh! how double I felt as I said this. I hated myself. I blushed and fidgeted. It is a most uncomfortable sensation to fall a peg or two in your own estimation. It ruffles the nerves in the most extraordinary manner. As I walked to the station, leaning on my father’s arm, I kept saying to myself, “Rosamund, you are a detestable, double-minded, deceitful girl. You must do penance for this. You must be punished by yourself—by the better part of yourself, Rosamund Lindley. Some day, Rosamund, you will have to confess your real motives to your father. You must let him know what a low, double sort of a creature he has got for a daughter.”