“Even I,” said Rosalind, hastily, “and I have nothing to hide—even I have had to make secrets from papa.”
“That is the penalty, of course, of a temper so passionate. But she should not have let you do so, Rosalind.”
“It was not she. You think everything is her fault; oh, how mistaken you are! My mother and I,” cried the girl, impetuously, “have no secrets from each other.”
John Trevanion looked into the young, ingenuous countenance with anxiety: “Then, Rosalind,” he said, “where is it that she goes? Why does she go out at that hour of all others, in the dark? Whom does she meet? If you know all this, I think there cannot be another word to say; for nothing that is not innocent would be intrusted to you.”
Rosalind was silent. She ceased to look at him, and even withdrew her clasping hands from his arm.
“You have nothing to say? There it is: she has no secrets from you, and yet you can throw no light on this one secret. I have always had a great admiration and respect for your stepmother, Rosalind.”
“I wish you would not call her my stepmother! It hurts me. What other mother have I ever known?”
“My dear, your love for her is a defence in itself. But, Rosalind, forgive me, there is some complication here. If she will not explain, what are we to do? A mystery is always a sign of something wrong; at least, it must be taken for something wrong if it remains unexplained. I am, I hope, without passion or prejudice. She might have confided in me—”
“If there was anything to confide,” Rosalind said under her breath. But he went on.
“And now your father has sent for his lawyer—to do something, to change something. I can’t tell what he means to do, but it will be trouble in any case. And you, Rosalind—I said so before, you—must not stay here.”