John Thorpe was jealous of the honor of his house. The mere thought of its possible violation bruised and lacerated him.
Proud of his high position in society; proud of his high rectitude; proud of his father’s untarnished life; proud of the fact that not the faintest shadow of scandal could ever attach to his house or name—the hinted criminations of his his orphan niece, maintained in his home as one of the family, beat upon him with much the same effect as the horrifying wings of a bat upon the face of a frightened child.
Virginia saw and felt that the crisis of her ruse was near. Again a flush of daring sprang into her eyes, ominous of deeper sin, but John unconsciously spared her from further commitment. Doubt was master at last, for he chose to lean toward Virginia.
“Hazel!” he exclaimed, his white, grave face betraying a keen sense of his shame. “Your rash fondness for that man is a sacrifice of affection, and I shall forbid him visiting our house.”
“A wise precaution,” commented Virginia.
At last Hazel’s indignation broke through all restraint.
“I am astonished at your implications,” she retorted, her voice becoming pathetic with the sense of her wounded honor. “My ‘rash fondness’! Uncle!” and she drew her slight form up erect, her eyes flashing defiance: “If to believe in Mr. Corway’s preferment is a sacrifice of affection, then that sacrifice is to me an exalted honor, for I have consented to become his wife!”
“Hazel!” gasped John Thorpe, amazed and dismayed at her declaration.
“I have suspected such a calamity would happen—but even now it is not too late to prevent it!” exclaimed Virginia, sharply.
“Why, Virginia,” reproached Hazel, with a stamp of her foot. “You insult me!” and she turned away to conceal the tears that arose.