She was quite sure within her own
bosom that she did all in love. She was devoted to her daughter. But she
was thwarted; and therefore told herself that she could best farther the
girl's interests by tormenting her. It was not meditated revenge, but
that revenge which springs up without any meditation, and is often
therefore the most bitter. "I must bring her nose to the grindstone,"
was the manner in which she would have probably expressed her thoughts
to herself. Consequently Florence's nose was brought to the grindstone,
and the operation made her miserable. She would not, however, complain
when she had discovered what her mother was doing. She asked such
questions as appeared to be natural, and put up with replies which
purposely withheld all information. "Mamma, have you not settled on what
day we shall start?" "No, my dear." "Mamma, where are we going?" "I
cannot tell you as yet; I am by no means sure myself." "I shall be glad
to know, mamma, what I am to pack up for use on the journey." "Just the
same as you would do on any journey." Then Florence held her tongue, and
consoled herself with thinking of Harry Annesley.
At last the day came, and she knew that she was to be taken to Boulogne.
Before this time she had received one letter from Harry, full of love,
full of thanks,--just what a lover's letter ought to have been;--but yet
she was disturbed by it.
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