“I met her several times. They were travelling out of the usual routes. I have exchanged a few chance words with her at the door of a hotel, or on the road, changing horses. I am sorry to say that was all, Miss Trevanion.”
“Last year; that is later than we have heard. And was she well? Was she very sad? Did she say anything? But, oh, how could she say anything? for she could not tell,” cried Rosalind, her eyes filling, “that you were coming here.”
“Hush, Rosalind. You say they, Rivers. She was not alone, then?”
“Alone? oh, no, there was a man with her. I never could,” said Rivers, lightly, “make out who he was—more like a son or brother than her husband. But, to be sure, you who know the lady—”
He paused, entirely unable to account for the effect he had produced. Rosalind had grown as pale as marble; her mouth quivered, her hands trembled. She gave him the most pathetic, reproachful look, as a woman might have done whom he had stabbed unawares, and, getting up quickly from his side, went away with an unsteady, wavering movement, as if it were all her strength could do to get out of the room. Hamerton rushed forward to open the door for her, but he was too late, and he too came to look at Rivers with inquiring, indignant looks, as if to say, What have you done to her? “What have I done—what is wrong, Trevanion? Have I said anything I ought not to have said?” Rivers cried.
The only answer John Trevanion made was to drop down upon the seat Rosalind had left, with a suppressed groan, and to cover his face with his hands.
CHAPTER XXX.
Rosalind came down to breakfast next morning at the usual hour. She was the most important member of the household party, and everything depended upon her. Sometimes Aunt Sophy would have a little cold and did not appear. She considered it was her right to take her leisure in the mornings; but Rosalind was like the mother of the young ones, and indispensable. Rivers had come down early, which is an indiscreet thing for a stranger to do in a house with which he is unacquainted. He felt this when Rosalind came into the breakfast-room, and found Sophy, full of excitement and delight in thus taking the most important place, entertaining him. He thought Rosalind looked at him with a sort of question in her eyes, which she turned away the next moment; but afterwards put force upon herself and came up to him, bidding him good-morning. He was so much interested that he felt he could follow the processes in her mind; that she reproved herself for her distaste to him, and said within herself, it is no fault of his. He did not yet at all know what he had done, but conjectured that the woman whose photograph was on Rosalind’s table must be some dear friend or relation who had either made an imprudent marriage, or, still worse, “gone wrong.” It was the mention of the man who had been with her which had done all the mischief. He wished that he had bitten his tongue rather than made that unfortunate disclosure, which evidently had plunged them into trouble. But then, how was he to know? As for Rosalind, her pain was increased and complicated by finding this new visitor with the children; Sophy, her eyes dancing with excitement and pleasure, doing her utmost to entertain him. Sophy had that complete insensibility which is sometimes to be seen in a clever child whose satisfaction with her own cleverness overbalances all feeling. She was just as likely as not to have poured forth all the family history into this new-comer’s ears; to have let him know that mamma had gone away when papa died, and that nobody knew where she had gone. This gave Rosalind an additional alarm, but overcame her repugnance to address the stranger who had brought news so painful, for it was better at once to check Sophy’s revelations, whatever they might have been. That lively little person turned immediately upon her sister, knowing by instinct that her moment of importance was over. “What a ghost you do look, Rosie!” she cried; “you look as if you had been crying. Just as I do when Miss Robinson is nasty. But nobody can scold you except Aunt Sophy, and she never does; though—oh, I forgot, there is Uncle John.”
“Miss Robinson will be here before you are ready for her, Sophy,” said Rosalind. “I fear I am a little late. Has she been giving you the carte du pays, Mr. Rivers? She is more fond of criticism than little girls should be.”
“I have had a few sketches of the neighborhood,” he answered quickly, divining her fears. “She is an excellent mimic, I should suppose, but it is rather a dangerous quality. If you take me off, Miss Sophy, as you take off the old ladies, I shall not enjoy it.”