Jean looked at her with surprise but with no anger in her eyes.
“My aunt! I tried to tell her once, but she said unless I were quite sure that she could help me, I should not speak. It would have grieved her—and—”
“She was quite right, I have no doubt,” said Mrs Calderwood. “The least said is soonest mended, as the old saying has it. Silence is almost always best, even between friends.”
Mrs Calderwood had come forward again to the table, and her hands were busy moving about various things upon it, hurriedly and heedlessly, as though she hardly knew what she was doing; while Jean looked on saying nothing for a little.
“Is silence always best? It would be such a comfort to me to be able to tell some one. I daze myself thinking about it. I am sorry now that I did not tell my father at once, though at the time it did not seem the wisest thing to do—or even possible. It was on the very day the ship sailed—the tenth, ye ken. And—”
“Whisht, lassie! I will not hear your secret,” said Mrs Calderwood with a cry which told of many things. “It is to your father that you must tell it, if you have not the sense and courage to keep silence forever. As for me, I will hear no secret from the lips of your father’s daughter. No good could come of it. Oh! must I go through with all that again! And my poor, foolish Willie that I thought so wise and strong!”
She hardly seemed to know what she was saying for the moment. But she made a great effort to restrain herself, and rose and came forward, holding out her hand as if the visit were at an end. But she paused, startled as she met Jean’s look.
A sudden momentary wave of colour crimsoned her face and even her throat, and passing left her as white as death. Through it all she never turned her eyes from the face of her friend.
“Mrs Calderwood,” said she in a voice that scarcely rose above a whisper, “I think I must tell you now—that my brother George sailed in the ‘John Seaton.’”
Mrs Calderwood sat down on the sofa without a word. Of what horrible thing had she been guilty? What words had she spoken? She could not recall them, but the girl’s changing colour showed that her thoughts had been understood. In her sorrow and shame she could have knelt and entreated forgiveness. But she well knew that now at least, silence was best. No words of hers could help the matter now. It cost her positive pain to raise her eyes to the girl’s face. The colour came and went on it still, almost at every word; but Jean spoke quietly and firmly, and never turned her eyes from the face of her friend.