"I cannot thank you!" she said. "I owe you—so much! Come, Jean, dear."
That walk always stood out before Jean in after life, as one of the worst experiences she had ever had to go through. Her most pressing desire was to keep Evelyn well ahead, that she might not see aught of what went on behind. There was to be no delay. Mr. Trevelyan and the two men would start at once with—it—alas! No longer him—hoping soon to meet coming aid, which indeed would be needed.
A whisper from Mr. Trevelyan urged Jean to haste; and Evelyn herself probably felt that she had not strength to endure the sight. She made no effort to hang back, and never cast a glance to rear. Weary she must have been, and the fixed face was white as snow in the moonlight, yet she walked swiftly, unfalteringly, making no hardship of the stiles, scarcely pressing on Jean's arm.
No words passed between the two for the greater part of the way. Even when they encountered young Ricketts and the lodger, bearing the shutter between them, it was Jean, not Evelyn, who begged them to make haste.
Evelyn only shivered silently. Jean bent her whole attention to guiding Evelyn's steps, to giving all possible support: while Evelyn seemed to be hardly conscious where she was or what she did.
Not till the marshes were left behind, not till the large final meadow between marsh and high road were reached, did Jean venture to say—
"If you would only lean upon me more! You must be so tired!"
Evelyn's answer, not an answer in reality, came as if wrung from her: "O Jean, if I had been different! If I had only been different! If I had never given him pain!"
Jean dared not go into that question. She could trust neither herself nor Evelyn, after all they had gone through. She knew by Evelyn's shortened breath and failing steps that tears were streaming; and it was only by a fierce bracing of her own powers that she could force herself to say in everyday accents—
"I think you might make more use of my arm. We shall soon be at home now. Are you very wet?"