She tried to speak of her father's state, of the peril to him of such an expedition; but the words died on her lips. Jean knew already that the thing had to be.
"Wait here till I come back," she said; and she went upstairs.
What ought she to do? That question stood out prominently. She had no doubt at all as to what her father would expect her to do; but the question was, ought she to sacrifice him to the needs of Barclay?—She, his child!
It might mean the sacrifice of his health, if not worse. Jean faced this fact. In his weakened state, a long walk in such weather after dark might mean a fatal chill. The possibility was not so vivid for Jean, as it would have been for most people, since she been educated to disregard questions of health; still she was conscious of danger. Dr. Ingram had spoken serious warnings.
If she awakened her father, and appealed to his judgment, he would go. Jean knew this perfectly well. He had never been used to put his own comfort or safety before the needs of his people; and she knew that he would not do so now. By calling him, Jean would practically decide the matter.
He would inevitably blame her if she did not call him; he would be displeased—nay, more than displeased, absolutely wrathful. Jean had never yet dared to go against Mr. Trevelyan's iron will; but she had it in her to dare, if only she could feel herself right in so going. She would be able to face his anger, if only convinced of what ought to be done. Would she be right to leave him in ignorance of Barclay's state?
Jean had fought the same battle many a time in miniature; but she had never known so hard a fight. She could far more easily have sacrificed herself than another. That her lips should be the ones to summon him to peril was bitter indeed. Yet from the main question she did not flinch. If the thing were right, she would do it. Many a woman in her place would have very easily decided to let Mr. Trevelyan sleep on, sending the messenger to Jem; but with Jean, such a course of action was impossible, unless she deliberately felt it to be her duty. Then she would be strong to do, and brave to endure all consequences. But if she saw distinctly the peril to her father, she saw no less distinctly the reverse side of the matter—Barclay's need, and Mr. Trevelyan's responsibility.
He was sleeping still when she entered the room; drops of heat and weakness standing on his brow; the face drawn and thin. A great wave of distress and perplexity rolled over Jean. She to have to rouse him from his quiet sleep; to send him forth into the chill evening air; to summon him, perhaps, to his death. And for what? For a graceless wretch who, during long months, had stubbornly resisted Mr. Trevelyan's kindness, had utterly refused his offered help.
And yet—if she did not?
Barclay had had a loveless and embittering life. He had been almost without softening influences. If now, at last, he were repentant—if in his dire extremity and ignorance, he craved help—if Mr. Trevelyan alone could give that help—might Jean, dared Jean, deny it to him, knowing her father's great pity for and interest in the man?