“You remember,” he said, “the lady whom I told you I had met? I have met her again, Miss Trevanion.”
“Where?” She turned upon him with a cry, imperative and passionate.
“Miss Trevanion, I have never forgotten the look you gave me when I said that the lady was accompanied by a man. I want to explain; I have found out who it was.”
“Mr. Rivers!”
“Should I be likely to tell you anything unfit for your ears to hear? I know better now. The poor lady is not happy, in that any more than in any other particular of her lot. The man was her son.”
“Her son!” Rosalind’s cry was such that it made Mrs. Lennox stop in her talk; and John Trevanion, from the depths of the dark room behind, came forward to know what it was.
“I felt that I must tell you; you reproached me with your eyes when I said— But, if I wronged her, I must make reparation. It was in all innocence and honor; it was her son.”
“Mr. Rivers!” cried Rosalind, turning upon him, her breast heaving, her lips quivering, “this shows it is a mistake. I might have known all the time it was a mistake. She had no son except— It was not the same. Thank you for wishing to set me right; but it could not be the same. It is no one we know. It is a mistake.”
“But when I tell you, Miss Trevanion, that she said—”
“No, no, you must not say any more. We know nothing; it is a mistake.” Disappointment, with, at the same time, a strange, poignant smart, as of some chance arrow striking her in the dark, which wounded her without reason, without aim, filled her mind. She turned quickly, eluding the hand which Rivers had stretched out, not pausing even for her uncle, and hastened away without a word. John Trevanion turned upon Rivers, who came in slowly from the veranda with a changed and wondering look. “What have you been saying to Rosalind? You seem to have frightened her,” he said.