His mind was full of what had happened that morning, but he told himself with relief that of what was apparently being said in Grendon Dr. Maclean knew nothing.
“Come, come, man—show a little courage! You’ve a long life of happiness and prosperity before you. How few can say that!”
“I know that I’m not reasonable,” muttered Garlett.
“But there’s one thing, Harry”—the older man bent forward and laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “There’s one thing, my boy, I’m minded to say to you, and I expect you to take it in a sensible, upright way.”
“I’ll try to, sir.”
“Both Mrs. Maclean and myself feel very strongly that during this time of waiting you should see very little of Jean. We haven’t the heart to say you’re not to meet at all, though we think that would be the best plan. But we do think you should do nothing to give cause for any talk or gossip—even in the village.”
As Garlett made no answer, the doctor went on reluctantly, “I can hardly bear to bring myself to soil my lips with what, however, I feel must be said. You are probably not aware that there has been talk about you and Jean?”
“I was not aware of it till this morning,” said Garlett in a low, shaky voice, “though of course Kentworthy asked me some strange questions.”
“Ay, so he did me! Even here there’s been, it seems, a lot of poisonous gossip. I’ve traced one story direct to Miss Prince—a story of how you and that poor girl upstairs walked home on the day before your wife died.”
“Did we?” said Harry Garlett in a dull voice. “I’d forgotten that. I daresay we did. For the matter of that I’ve walked home from Grendon to Terriford with most of our neighbours in the last thirteen years, including Miss Prince herself.”