"I should think so—all these weeks of nursing! She won't care to see me, not a scrap! So what's the good of my going? Jean never did like me, and I don't see why she should. It isn't opinions. People can like one another, without thinking just identically the same about every single thing that ever was heard of. But we don't suit somehow! Only if I could be of any use? You can ask her for me. I shan't go unless I'm sent for."
After this positive assertion, nobody at all acquainted with Mrs. Kennedy need have been surprised that within half-an-hour she was on her way to Dulveriford Rectory.
Jean came to see her when summoned. Her father was asleep, she said; and one of the maids would keep watch for a few minutes. Had Mrs. Kennedy come on business? Jean looked pale and thin, with the stress of long nursing and suspense, through her father's complicated and dangerous illness. She had an air of rigid composure, as she rang for tea, and sat down to answer Mrs. Kennedy's questions.
Yes; her father was better; really better, and on the whole out of danger. At least Dr. Ingram hoped so. Recovery would be slow, of course; it could not be otherwise; and great care would be needed. There must be no thought of work at present—probably not for months. Dr. Ingram talked of a year's rest. The strain had been kept up far too long. Nothing was settled yet, but Dr. Ingram wished him very much to go for a voyage—perhaps to the Cape, or perhaps to Australia.
"My dear, I'm most dreadfully sorry! But you would go with him, of course?"
"No; it would cost too much. One has not to think of oneself," said Jean with a forced smile. "If it is necessary for him—Yes; I suppose we shall have to get a locum tenens. He could not start for another three or four weeks; and Mr. Marson, who is helping now, can stay a little longer . . . Oh, there is no difficulty about me. Jem Trevelyan and his mother will take me in . . . Yes, my father knows—and of course he will do what is right. I am only so thankful that he is better. It might have been—!"
Jean counted her own self-command inviolable; but she was not prepared to be taken into a large sympathetic embrace; to have motherly kisses on her cheek; and to hear a motherly voice saying, "You poor dear child! I am, so sorry."
Jean broke into one irresistible sob, and a few hot tears fell in quick succession; but she struggled back to composure, and gently released herself—not without a sense of comfort.
"Thank you very much: you are very good," she said. "But of course I do not mean to be selfish. If he will only come home strong, it will be all right. May I give you a cup of tea? I am afraid I ought to go upstairs soon."
"I never quite knew before what nice feeling there is in Jean," murmured Mrs. Kennedy as she trudged homeward. "Really, she isn't half so stiff and shut-up when one gets to know her; and she does seem so fond of her father. Perhaps even he isn't always so starched as he seems sometimes!—"