‘Without even the least thought of me!’ cried Rose, indignant.
‘It was before you were born,’ said Mr. Loseby, with a laugh that exasperated her.
‘Oh!’ she cried, with an access of that fury which had frightened Keziah, ‘how horrible people are! how unkind things are! how odious it is to be set up and set down and never know what you are, or what is going to happen! Did I do anything to Cosmo Douglas to make him break off with Anne? is it my fault that he is not going to marry her after all? and yet it will be me that will suffer, and nobody else at all. Mr. Loseby, can’t it be put a stop to? I know you like Anne best, but why should not I have justice, though I am not Anne? Oh, it is too bad! it is cruel—it is wicked! Only just because papa was cross and out of temper, and another man is changeable, why should I be the one to suffer? Mr. Loseby, I am sure if you were to try you could change it; you could stop us from going back to this will of 1868 that was made before I was born. If it was only to burn that bit of paper, that horrid letter, that thing! I had nearly put it into the fire myself. Oh!’ Rose wound up with a little cry: she came suddenly to herself out of her passion and indignation, and shrank away, as it were, into a corner, and confronted the old lawyer with a pale and troubled countenance like a child found out. What had she done? She had betrayed herself. She looked at him alarmed, abashed, in a sudden panic which was cold, not hot with passion, like her previous one. What could he cause to be done to her? What commotion and exposure might he make? She scarcely dared to lift her eyes to his face; but yet would not lose sight of him lest something might escape her which he should do.
‘Rose,’ he said, with a tone of great severity, yet a sort of chuckle behind it which gave her consolation, ‘you have got hold of your father’s letter to Anne.’
‘Well,’ she said, trembling but defiant, ‘it had to be read some time, Mr. Loseby. It was only about us two; why should we wait so many years to know what was in it? A letter from papa! Of course we wanted to know what it said.’
‘We! Does Anne know too?’ he cried, horrified. And it gleamed across Rose’s mind for one moment that to join Anne with herself would be to diminish her own criminality. But after a moment she relinquished this idea, which was not tenable. ‘Oh, please!’ she cried, ‘don’t let Anne know! She would not let me touch it. But why shouldn’t we touch it? It was not a stranger that wrote it—it was our own father. Of course I wanted to know what he said.’
There was a ludicrous struggle on Mr. Loseby’s face. He wanted to be severe, and he wanted to laugh. He was disgusted with Rose, yet very lenient to the little pretty child he had known all his life, and his heart was dancing with satisfaction at the good news thus betrayed to him. ‘I have got a duplicate of it in my drawer, and it may not be of much use when all is said. Since you have broken your father’s confidence, and violated his last wishes, and laid yourself open to all sorts of penalties, you—may as well tell me all about it,’ he said.
When Rose emerged into the street after this interview, she came down the steps straight upon Willie Ashley, who was mooning by, not looking whither he was going, and in a somewhat disconsolate mood. He had been calling upon Mrs. Mountford, but Rose had not been visible. Willie knew it was ‘no use’ making a fool of himself, as he said, about Rose; but yet when he was within reach he could not keep his feet from wandering where she was. When he thus came in her way accidentally, his glum countenance lighted up into a blaze of pleasure. ‘Oh, here you are!’ he cried in a delighted voice. ‘I’ve been to Saymore’s and seen your mother, but you were not in.’ This narrative of so self-evident a fact made Rose laugh, though there were tears of agitation and trouble on her face, which made Willie conclude that old Loseby (confound him!) had been scolding her for something. But when Rose laughed all was well.
‘Of course I was not in. It is so tiresome there—nothing to do, nowhere to go. I can’t think why Anne wishes to keep us here of all places in the world.’
‘But you are coming to the Dower-house at Lilford? Oh! say you are coming, Rose. I know some people that would dance for joy.’