"You will not let my father come back alone?"
"No, Miss Trevelyan, I won't! Not if it's ever so!"
Jean was fain to submit. She knew from her father's face, the uselessness of further protest.
He drank his coffee, allowed her to put his comforter over his mouth, gave a little parting smile of encouragement, and was off.
Jean followed him to the front door, where the cold chill of the almost freezing fog struck them as with an invisible hand. Then she was ordered back; but not before the thought came—what would the gorge be like, on such an evening? For herself, she would have thought nothing of it; but for Mr. Trevelyan—!
Jean took off her walking things, and resolutely returned to the Parish accounts, putting from her as far as possible the fears which sought to obtain dominion.
She had wanted a quiet hour, and now she had it. The Parish accounts were gainers thereby; but at the hour's end, Jean could do no more. Even her self-mastery for once failed under the strain. She could neither work nor read, but could only walk to and fro, restlessly questioning with herself; one moment bitterly regretting her own action; the next, feeling that if all should come over again, no other decision would be possible. She knew well that, if she had not called her father, she would be quite as unhappy now from the opposite cause.
Another ring—this time at the front door—and James Trevelyan walked in.
"Jem, if you had only come an hour ago!" was his unexpected greeting.
"Why, Jean! You are as pale as a ghost."