There was again a pause, so continued, that Christobelle believed her mother slept; at last she heard her name pronounced.
"Bell."
"Yes, mamma, I am close to you."
"Perhaps, Bell, as you have influence with your father, you can find out his intentions with respect to Sir Foster. I can't think he would break off such a match, but I am too unwell to enter upon the subject with him now. Go down, Bell, and manage your father, as I used to do, only bring me some intelligence."
"Shall I ask the question for you, mamma?"
"Don't be stupid, Bell; ask questions? Nonsense! You will never get the truth from man by a direct question, foolish child. You know what I mean; now go and glean his intentions with cleverness; it will be practice for you; there, no reply, Bell; no sentimentality; I detest it!"
Christobelle left the room, not quite comprehending her mother's words. She could not understand the "gleaning," neither did she know the meaning of the word "sentimentality," but she went to her father's study, and found him in his arm-chair, the candles standing before him unsnuffed. It was nearly twelve o'clock when she entered. Her father held out his hand, and drew her to him.
"You are still up, my child, and it is very late."
She told him her mother had slept long, and was very anxious to know whether he really intended to quit Wetheral.
"Your mamma sent you to inquire, my love?"