This done, however, a slight reaction set in, and having taken off her hat and shawl, she dropped listlessly on a chair by the window, but as suddenly rose and took a seat in the darker part of the room. She felt that she had done right, that highest but most depressing of human convictions! It was entirely for his good. There was no reason why his best interests should suffer for his folly. If anybody was to suffer it was she. But what nonsense was she thinking! She would write to him later when she was a little cooler,—as she had said. But then he had distinctly told her, and very rudely too, that he didn't want her to write. Wanted her to make SIGNALS to him,—the idiot! and probably was even now watching her with a telescope. It was really too preposterous!
The result was that her brother found her on his return in a somewhat uncertain mood, and, as a counselor, variable and conflicting in judgment. If this Clementina, who seemed to have the family qualities of obstinacy and audacity, really cared for him, she certainly wouldn't let delicacy stand in the way of letting him know it—and he was therefore safe to wait a little. A few moments later, she languidly declared that she was afraid that she was no counselor in such matters; really she was getting too old to take any interest in that sort of thing, and she never had been a matchmaker! By the way now, wasn't it odd that this neighbor, that rich capitalist across the bay, should be called Fletcher, and “James Fletcher” too, for Diego meant “James” in Spanish. Exactly the same name as poor “Cousin Jim” who disappeared. Did he remember her old playmate Jim? But her brother thought something else was a deuced sight more odd, namely, that this same Don Diego Fletcher was said to be very sweet on Clementina now, and was always in her company at the Ramirez. And that, with this “Clarion” apology on the top of it, looked infernally queer.
Mrs. Ashwood felt a sudden consternation. Here had she—Jack's sister—just been taking Jack's probable rival into confidential correspondence! She turned upon Jack sharply:—
“Why didn't you say that before?”
“I did tell you,” he said gloomily, “but you didn't listen. But what difference does it make to you now?”
“None whatever,” said Mrs. Ashwood calmly as she walked out of the room.
Nevertheless the afternoon passed wearily, and her usual ride into the upland canyon did not reanimate her. For reasons known best to herself she did not take her after-dinner stroll along the shore to watch the outlying fog. At a comparatively early hour, while there was still a roseate glow in the western sky, she appeared with grim deliberation, and the blue lamp-shade in her hand, and placed it over the lamp which she lit and stood on her table beside the window. This done she sat down and began to write with bright-eyed but vicious complacency.
“But you don't want that light AND the window, Constance,” said Jack wonderingly.
Mrs. Ashwood could not stand the dreadful twilight.
“But take away your lamp and you'll have light enough from the sunset,” responded Jack.