“No,—no use,—nobody can help me,—I only want to be let alone.” And then he actually broke quite down, and sobbed,—great strong fellow that he was. I put my hand on his, but he shook it off, as if hardly able to endure a touch.
“Jack, if anybody can comfort you, don’t you think your mother can?”
“Nobody can,” repeated the poor boy. “Mother, please leave me alone,—just a few minutes. I’ll come soon. I’ll meet you at the landing.”
“And you won’t tell me what is wrong?”
Jack rolled over and hid his face. “I’ve no hope of Maimie,” he muttered. “There! you have it now. I can’t talk about it.”
“No hope of Maimie!” I repeated, at the moment stupidly not understanding. Did he mean that he thought her ill,—hopelessly ill? This absurd idea actually occurred to my mind first.
“Yes,—no hope,” repeated Jack fiercely. “Isn’t that plain enough? She doesn’t care for me,—any more than for anybody else. O Maimie!”
The choking sobs came back. What could I do? To leave him was impossible; yet I hardly dared speak or touch him. After a minute I ventured to suggest,—“You are both so young,—Maimie almost a child.”
“Oh, I thought you were gone,” Jack said, with a kind of gasp, and he sat up, then started to his feet. “Mother, you needn’t say anything about me to the others. I’ll be at the landing—” and he rushed away.
Why Jack had come to Bushey Park at all, when he could not bear to be spoken to, was rather a mystery to me, since he knew we should be all there. But it was just like his simple and impulsive way of doing things. Probably he could have given no clear reason himself.