“Oh, I hope so,” said Mrs. Verinder, already feeling that nobody was to be trusted, that everybody had bothering secrets which one would find out sooner or later. “Oh, yes, I think Louisa is quite trustworthy. She has been—so far.”
Then they went upstairs once more.
“It is arranged,” he said, “that you shall go to Margaret for a few weeks.”
Miss Verinder said that she would not go. Her face was white, and she spoke in a quiet but rather breathless manner.
“Oh, yes, it is all settled,” said Mr. Verinder curbing himself. Then, as he saw her shake her head negatively, he burst out. “You will do what you are told.”
“Oh, no, I assure you, father, I can’t be treated like this, as if I was a child.”
“It will do you good,” said Mrs. Verinder feebly. “You look pale and fagged. The change of air—”
“If I wanted change of air I’d sooner go to the seaside by myself. Yes, I could do that.”
“No, you couldn’t,” shouted Mr. Verinder; and he told her that if she compelled him, he would give orders that would result in total restriction of her movements. Then the servants would all know that there was something wrong in the house; they would talk, and the echo of their talk would be heard outside the house. Nevertheless, facing these risks, he would give his orders. “Understand, I am serious.”