Well, it was useless to ask questions. Jane knew her brother too well to presume to do this. If he had come to his senses, so much the better. It was not to be expected that he would admit it. That was not his way. Any change in his mental attitude would be quickly apparent, however, in his actions, his deeds confessing the faults his lips were too proud to utter. She must await developments.
Hence when he rose, she offered him her customary casual good night and listened to his slow tread upon the stairs. That unelastic step only served to further convince her that something recent and deep-acting had taken hold on the man and was tormenting him.
She was roused from her musings by Eliza’s voice:
“What can be the matter with Martin?” she said in a tense whisper. “He never said 145 a word. Here I was shakin’ in my shoes, dreadin’ every minute to have him launch out in one of his tirades. You could ’a’ knocked me over when he didn’t do it.”
“Maybe he’s goin’ to wait until to-morrow,” Mary replied.
“No. He never waits,” Eliza declared. “When he’s mad he lets fly while his temper is up. You know that as well as I do. There’s no coolin’ off with him an’ then warmin’ up the leavin’s of his rage the next mornin’. He believes in servin’ things hot an’ fresh.”
“I never knew him to be so sort of cowed down,” reflected Mary. “You don’t s’pose he’s sick, do you, Jane?”
Mary turned anxious eyes toward her sister.
“Of course not,” Jane retorted promptly. “Don’t go worryin’, Mary, an’ start to brew him some thoroughwort in the hope of havin’ him down with a fever.”
“I don’t hope he’ll have a fever,” objected Mary in an injured tone.