“Oh, I have always heard from all the old ladies that I am dreadful. But certainly the thing we do now-a-days is to speak our mind—rather a little more than less, don’t you know. We don’t carry any false colours, or pretend to pretty feelings, like the girls in the story-books. What humbugs you must have been in your time!”
“I don’t think we were humbugs,” said Evelyn. She was beginning to be amused by this frank young person, who made her feel so young and inexperienced. It was Evelyn who was the little girl, and Rosamond the sage, acquainted with the world and life.
“Father says so; but then, he thinks all people are humbugs. He says we really can think of no one but ourselves, whatever we may pretend.”
“But you mustn’t believe in that,” said Evelyn. “It is a dreadful way of looking at the world. Nobody can tell how much kindness and goodness there is unless they have been in circumstances to try it, which I have. You must not enter upon life with that idea, for it is quite false.”
“What! when father says so? Oughtn’t I to believe that he knows best?”
“Oh, when your father says so!” said Evelyn, startled. “My dear, I don’t think your father can mean it. He may say it—in jest——”
“Oh, don’t be afraid, Mrs. Rowland,” cried the girl, cheerfully. “I don’t take everything he says for gospel. He’s a disappointed man, you know. He never got exactly what he wanted. Mother and he did not get on, I am told: and there is every appearance that Eddy will be a handful, as I suppose father was himself in his day. And then he’s paralysed. That should be set against a lot, shouldn’t it? I always say so to myself when he is nasty to me.”
“I am very glad that you do,” said Evelyn, with tears in her eyes. “It should indeed stand against a great deal. And as you grow older you will understand better how such dreadful helplessness affects the mind——”
“Oh,” cried Rosamond, breaking in, “if you think there’s any softening of the brain or that sort of thing, you are very very much mistaken. If you only knew how clever he is! I have heard him take in people—people, you know, like my uncle the bishop, and that sort of person, with an account of pious feelings, and how he knows it is all for his good, and so forth. You would think he was a saint to hear him—and the poor bishop looking so bothered, knowing too much to quite believe it, and yet not daring to contradict him. It was as good as a play. I shrieked with laughter when he was gone, and so did father. It was the funniest thing I ever saw.”
“My dear!” cried Evelyn again, wringing her hands in protestation; but what could she say? If she had been disposed to take in hand the reformation of Edward Saumarez’s daughter, it could not be by adding to her unerring clear sight and criticism of him. “Do you see much,” she said, in a kind of desperation, “of the bishop?” with a clutch at the moral skirts of some one who might be able to help.