She made no reply, did not turn her head, or acknowledge that she heard him, a few minutes more she stood, then went below in silence, and Malcolm saw no more of her that night.
CHAPTER LII.
HOPE CHAPEL.
It was Sunday, during which Malcolm lay at the point of death some three stories above his sister’s room. There, in the morning, while he was at the worst, she was talking with Clementina, who had called to see whether she would not go and hear the preacher of whom he had spoken with such fervour. Florimel laughed.
“You seem to take everything for gospel Malcolm says, Clementina!”
“Certainly not,” returned Clementina, rather annoyed. “Gospel now-a-days is what nobody disputes and nobody heeds; but I do heed what Malcolm says, and intend to find out, if I can, whether there is any reality in it. I thought you had a high opinion of your groom!”
“I would take his word for anything a man’s word can be taken for,” said Florimel.
“But you don’t set much store by his judgment?”
“Oh, I daresay he’s right. But I don’t care for the things you like so much to talk with him about. He’s a sort of poet, anyhow, and poets must be absurd. They are always either dreaming or talking about their dreams. They care nothing for the realities of life. No—if you want advice, you must go to your lawyer or clergyman, or some man of common sense, neither groom nor poet.”
“Then, Florimel, it comes to this—that this groom of yours is one of the truest of men, and one who possessed your father’s confidence, but you are so much his superior that you are capable of judging him, and justified in despising his judgment.”
“Only in practical matters, Clementina.”