Mrs. Ogilvie threw up her hands in protest.
“There you go,” she said. “Mr. Rochester has been saying almost the very same words, Lady Helen. Now let me tell you that Sibyl is not your child; no one can be more charming to strangers.”
As Mrs. Ogilvie spoke she walked a few steps away; then she turned and resumed her conversation.
“The annoying part of this letter,” she said, “is that Philip has written a private communication to Sibyl, and when she hears of his absence she is to be given this letter, and I am not even to see it. I don’t think I shall give it to her; I really must now take the management of the child into my own hands. Her father will be absent——Oh, there you are, Sibyl. What are you doing, loitering about near windows? Why don’t you play with your companions?” For Sibyl had burst in by the open window, looking breathless.
“I thought—I thought,” she began; “I thought, mother, that I heard you——” her face was strangely white, and her wide-open eyes looked almost wild in expression.
“It’s not true, of course; but I thought I heard you say something about father, and a—a letter I was to have in his absence. Did you say it, mother?”
“I said nothing of the sort,” replied Mrs. Ogilvie, flushing red, and almost pushing Sibyl from the room, “nothing of the sort; go and play.”
Sibyl gave her an earnest and very penetrating look. She did not glance either at Mr. Rochester or Lady Helen.
“It’s wicked for good people to tell lies, isn’t it?” she said then, slowly.