“No, no—only tired. Don’t ye fash yourself,” said the good woman.
And then the door of the doctor’s study opened.
“Come in here, Garlett, just for a minute, will you?”
Was it his fancy, or was Dr. Maclean’s voice cold—cold to sternness?
“Jean was in the churchyard last night,” began the doctor without any preamble. “She didn’t mean us to know—but my wife got it out of her—and it’s smashed her up. I’ve given her a soothing draught, and I want her to stay in bed quietly all to-day. I meant to ring you up, but we didn’t expect you till this afternoon.”
He spoke in a low, preoccupied tone. “I’m sure you’ll understand, my dear fellow,” his voice softened as he used the affectionate appellation, “that I think it’s best you shouldn’t see her to-day. You’ll see her to-morrow, no doubt.”
Harry Garlett remained silent. He was sick with horror at the thought that Jean had been in the churchyard.
“Why did you let her come last night?” he asked roughly.
“I let her come?” repeated Dr. Maclean sharply. “It’s the last thing I should have thought her capable of doing. It’s the first time her aunt and I have found her out in doing anything deceitful or—well, I can only call it indelicate! But there, she felt half distraught. It’s fortunate that it’s only a fortnight now—it may be three weeks at the longest—before everything will be cleared up.”
“And how are we to get through the fortnight or three weeks?” asked Garlett hoarsely.