‘I wonder,’ observed the latter, ‘whether Jerome will come over here for Christmas? Do you think he will? Does he ever say anything to you?’
‘Never,’ said Sara, with a smile. ‘But I have very little doubt that he will come.’
‘It would be so delightful—a real German Christmas at the Wilhelmis’, with a tree, and everything proper.’
‘For that matter, you may have a tree here, if you like. But—ah, here’s the postman. And a letter from Jerome,’ she added, as she took it from Ellen’s hand, and read it.
‘Dearest Sara,
‘I write in exceeding haste to tell you that an excellent opportunity offers for Avice to come to England. My friend Father Somerville, of whom I have so often spoken to you, is travelling at present in Belgium on business connected with the college. He has to visit Cologne before his return, and means to travel by way of Elberthal, Rotterdam, and Harwich, and he has offered to take charge of my sister. He will be about two days in Elberthal, and I asked him to call upon you at once, to explain his arrangements. I expect it will be the end of this week before he arrives. This had all been arranged in such haste that I could not possibly let you know before. And now I have no time to write as I should wish to do. I have had troubles—money troubles. I will explain as soon as I am able to write to you. Meantime this must go to the post. Excuse its hastiness. Give my love to my sister, and believe me,
‘Your devoted
‘J. W.’
When Sara had finished reading this letter, she passed her hand over her eyes, trembling strangely. She could not understand it. It was like some hateful, inexplicable nightmare. That the hand which had all along caressed, should thus suddenly strike—and strike hard—passed her comprehension. The voice which had been so tender was in a moment shouting out a harsh command. No reasons given—no one word of explanation as to why Avice was so suddenly to be taken away from her. It was incredible. There had never been any spoken or written agreement, but always a tacit understanding that Avice was to remain with her until she and Jerome were married, and that then she should share their home. It seemed it was not to be so.
‘What is the matter, Sara? Has anything happened to Jerome—tell me!’
For all answer, Sara handed her the letter. She could not speak—could not explain it.
‘What—why?’ exclaimed the girl, in a tone of dismay. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Nor I, dear!’ was the answer. ‘I know exactly as much about it as you do.’