Mrs Calderwood rose and moved about the room. She was startled out of her usual quiet by the girl’s changing colour and the sad eagerness of the eyes that looked out upon the sea. She was afraid of what might be said if they went on. She wished to hear no sorrowful secret from the girl’s lips. She would hear none, she said to herself with a sudden sharp pang of remembrance. George Dawson’s daughter could have nothing to say to which it would be right for her to listen. At last Jean left the window and came and stood near the fire.
“I came in to ask you if I might have Marion home with me for a day or two. I am ‘my leafu’ lane,’ as Tibbie says. And I think she would like to come with me.”
“There is little doubt of that,” said Mrs Calderwood sitting down with a sense of relief, for she thought the danger was over.
“There is no danger of her falling behind in her lessons for a day or two, and I can help her with her music. I will take good care of her, and her company will be a great pleasure to me.”
There was no sufficient reason why the child should not have this pleasure—at least there was none that could be spoken about. She had no time to make clear to herself why she would have liked to refuse, she could only say,—
“You are very kind. The child will be pleased to go,” and Jean thanked her, accepting it as consent.
She was still standing with her muff in her hand as though she were about to take her leave. But she did not go. She stood, not looking at her friend, but past her, seeing nothing, with her eyes full of eagerness and anxiety, and before Mrs Calderwood, moved by a sudden fear, could find words to avert it, that which she feared had come upon her. Jean came a step nearer.
“Mrs Calderwood, may I tell you something? I have no one else, and you will at least help me to be patient. You were my mother’s friend, and you have had much to bear, and will you help me?”
But there was no friendly response in Mrs Calderwood’s face. She withdrew herself from the eager girl, with something like terror in her eyes, actually moving away till she touched the wall of her narrow parlour, holding up her hands entreatingly.
“No. Do not tell me. I am not the right person to receive confidences from—from any one. I am not sympathetic I do not care to hear secrets. And—you have your aunt.”