“I know, I know. If this is all you wanted to say—”
“Almost all. That you must think of your duties, dear. It is unfortunate for you, oh, very unfortunate, to be left so young; but your Uncle John will be your true friend.”
“Well, that don’t matter much. Oh, I dare say he will be good enough. Then you know, mammy,” said the boy condescendingly, giving her a hurried kiss, and eager to get away, “when there’s anything very hard I can come and talk it over with you.”
She did not make any reply, but kissed him, holding his reluctant form close to her. He did not like to be hugged, and he wanted to be back among the men. “One moment,” she said. “Promise me you will be very good to the little ones, Rex.”
“Why, of course, mother,” said the boy; “you didn’t think I would beat them, did you? Good-night.”
“Good-bye, my own boy.” He had darted from her almost before she could withdraw her arm. She paused a moment to draw breath, and then followed to the door of the drawing-room, where the other ladies were gone. “I think, Sophy,” she said, “I will take your advice and go to my room; and you must arrange with Rosalind to take her home with you, and Sophy too.”
“That I will, with all my heart; and I don’t despair of getting you to come. Good-night, dear. Should you like me to come and sit with you a little when you have got to bed?”
“Not to-night,” said Mrs. Trevanion. “I am tired out. Good-night, Rosalind. God bless you, my darling!” She held the girl in her arms, and drew her towards the door. “I can give you no explanation about last night, and you will hear other things. Think of me as kindly as you can, my own, that are none of mine,” she said, bending over her with her eyes full of tears.
“Mother,” said the girl, flinging herself into Mrs. Trevanion’s arms with enthusiasm, “you can do no wrong.”
“God bless you, my own dear!”