Arthur had not stirred from his post by the foot of the couch. He stood there, massively, filling his pipe. And Frances lay, breathing quickly, her letter unopened in her hand.
Suddenly the man’s eyes looked across at her, straight and challenging. “Aren’t you going to read it?” he said.
She quivered at the abrupt question. She knew that she could not open that letter in his presence.
He realized the fact instantly, and she saw an odd gleam of triumph in his eyes. He turned and picked up his cap.
“All right. I’m going. But don’t forget—whatever he has to say—you’ve promised to stay here for the present!”
He was gone with the words, striding away towards the house, leaving her oddly disconcerted and unsure of herself.
Yes, she had promised to stay. At the bidding of this man whom she scarcely knew, she had yielded the point and she knew that he would keep her to it. His attitude was wholly incomprehensible to her, convinced as she was that he had wished her gone. But in his taciturn, ungracious fashion he had somehow made it impossible for her to go. She wondered, as she watched him depart, if he were pleased—or otherwise—with his morning’s work. Even with his last words vibrating in her mind, she greatly doubted if he had acted in accordance with his own inclination. She knew he had meant to be kind, but was it under pressure perhaps from someone else—Dolly, his mother, or the old tired man his father, who had evidently but just returned to the farm after a prolonged absence? It was impossible to tell. She was bound to suspend judgment. And meantime—meantime that second letter from Montague Rotherby was yet unopened in her trembling hand.
CHAPTER VI
MAGGIE
It was still unopened when Dr. Square came out of the house with Dolly, and at his approach she pushed it behind a cushion.
Whether he noted any agitation on her part or not she could not say, but he was very emphatic in his orders to her to rest, and impressed upon Dolly the necessity for absolute quiet. Then he departed, and, before she could open her letter, Milly came out with her work and a chair and sat down beside her with the evident intention of remaining. Milly was the silent one of the family, a shy, diffident girl who shared Ruth’s adoration for her mother, but had little in common with the rest. She was stitching at a flannel shirt for Arthur, and she worked steadily without lifting her eyes.