Sarah cast a quick, inquiring look at her friend; but the eyes of Anna were thrown downward on the carpet, while the bloom on her cheek spread to her temples. Her friend saw that, in truth, Jack was no brother of hers.
“What I mean is this”—continued Sarah, following a thread that ran through her own mind, rather than anything that had been already expressed—“Jack is making himself a very silly fellow just now.”
Anna now raised her eyes; her lip quivered a little, and the bloom deserted even her cheek. Still, she made no reply. Women can listen acutely at such moments; but it commonly exceeds their powers to speak. The friends understood each other, as Sarah well knew, and she continued her remarks precisely as if the other had answered them.
“Michael Millington brings strange accounts of Jack’s behaviour at Biberry! He says that he seems to do nothing, think of nothing, talk of nothing, but of the hardship of this Mary Monson’s case.”
“I’m sure it is cruel enough to awaken the pity of a rock,” said Anna Updyke, in a low tone; “a woman, and she a lady, accused of such terrible crimes—murder and arson!”
“What is arson, child?—and how do you know anything about it?”
Again Anna coloured, her feelings being all sensitiveness on this subject; which had caused her far more pain than she had experienced from any other event in her brief life. It was, however, necessary to answer.
“Arson is setting fire to an inhabited house,” she said, after a moment’s reflection; “and I know it from having been told its signification by Mr. Dunscomb.”
“Did uncle Tom say anything of this Mary Monson, and of Jack’s singular behaviour?”
“He spoke of his client as a very extraordinary person, and of her accomplishments, and readiness, and beauty. Altogether, he does not seem to know what to make of her.”