CHAPTER IV.
‘WOO’D AND MARRIED, AND A’.’
With the morning, when Jerome asked her what she was going to do, Avice replied:
‘The only thing, there is for me to do I suppose. I must go and see her, since you insist upon it.’
The flash in her eyes, as she spoke, was as far removed from meekness as anything well could be. Jerome recognised, he could not help it, traces of Sara’s influence–of her free, grand, bold nature in his quiet little sister.
With Sara no good quality was suppressed, and he had noticed, even yesterday, a franker, freer, more open bearing in his sister. It was disagreeably apparent again to-day, because, of course, independent outspokenness must be inconvenient and irksome to a selfishness which has had to descend to subterfuge and intrigue, and the conscience of which is no longer a ‘flawless crystal.’ Yes, he recognised the broad, bold seal of Sara’s soul stamped upon this fragile-looking girl.
‘I am glad you have begun to think and speak more reasonably,’ he said coolly.
‘I do not think any differently,’ she flashed out. ‘I think exactly the same; but I have heard things about Miss Bolton which make me think that I ought to pity her, not hate her; and I shall be silent about you and what you have done, because I believe it will be for the best–not because I agree with you.’
‘I shall be in to lunch at half-past one,’ he said, ‘and afterwards we can go up to the Abbey.’
He could not answer her, but he could not silence her, and his feelings were not enviable. Avice, he perceived had the whip-like tongue of her father, only with her the whip was used to scourge all that was not ‘pure and of good report.’