“I feel half guilty because I’ve been so calm since I came here, but I can’t believe the worst. You have reassured me.” She paused and added softly: “And I’m very grateful.”
“I’m glad.” Prescott’s tone was sympathetic. “But I can imagine what your father feels. From a few things he has told me, he seems to have led a smooth, well-ordered life; no doubt he made too much of the trouble your brother caused him.”
“Yes; I think so now.”
“Perhaps he half-consciously formed an idea that things would always go tranquilly with him, and when it came without warning the shock of Cyril’s disappearance was too strong. And yet I firmly believe he’s mistaken in his fears.”
Gertrude made a sign of agreement.
“Nothing I can say calms him. One can only wait.”
“And that’s always hard,” Prescott said gently.
She roused him to strong compassion. She had, he thought, no great depth of character, but her development had been checked by many restraints. Her father had curbed each natural impulse, until the little originality in her withered and died; she had grown up cold and colorless, with narrow views, and petty, if quite blameless, aims. Prescott, however, was wrong in crediting Jernyngham with too great a success. Gertrude’s nature had not been utterly repressed and stunted, and now, in time of stress, it was expanding.
Romance had come late to her, but she was dimly conscious of it at last. Her senses were stirring and she felt a half-guilty pleasure at seeing the bronzed rancher’s eyes bent on her tenderly. To think of him except as her host for a few weeks was, of course, folly; but there was a fascination in the gentleness he showed her. She was beginning to understand and sympathize with Cyril’s rash daring and contempt for restraints. She felt tempted to follow her impulses; her frigid reserve was melting.
“Will you have more tea?” she asked, shrinking back to safe ground.