She held the bedstead with one hand, looking down on the worn face, and tried to imagine herself in Mr. Trevelyan's position—bound by his duties and responsibilities, bound also in this case by a particular promise, Jean knew at once, with vivid certainty, that she would count herself bound to go, irrespective of personal risk; that she would expect to be called; that she would blame severely any one who should venture to deny to her the choice.
Suppose Mr. Trevelyan were allowed to sleep, unknowing; suppose Smithson were sent on, two miles further, to find Jem; suppose meanwhile Barclay died; suppose Mr. Trevelyan should wake up next morning to find things thus—Barclay dead, the promise not kept, the longed-for words not spoken, all through Jean's refusal, and all a part of the irrevocable past!
Jean shuddered, with a sick dread, at the thought of his look.
Yet she could have done it, could have dared all, had she felt sure she would be doing rightly. But that she could not feel. She pictured herself, for one moment in Barclay's place! Then came another question, "If CHRIST were here, would HE hold back?"
"Father," she said quietly.
He did not move.
"Father!"
"Jean! Yes."
"I don't quite know what to do."
"Something happened? Yes—tell me."