Anne walked over to Ivy Cottage the same afternoon, and Janet saw her in the distance, and fled out to her across the fields and fell upon her neck. But even Anne's tender entreaties and exhortations were of no avail. Janet understood at last that her mechanically-repeated formula was ruining her with her lover. But she had promised Cuckoo to say it, and she stuck to it.
"Why does not George believe in me even if appearances are against me?" said Janet at last. "I would believe in him."
"That is different."
"How different?"
"Because you are made like that, and he isn't. It's a question of temperament. You have a trustful nature. He has not. You must take George's character into consideration. It is foolish to love a person who is easily suspicious, and then allow him to become suspicious. You have no right to perplex him. Just as some people who care for us must have it made easy to them all the time to go on caring for us. If there is any strain or difficulty, or if they are put to inconvenience, they will leave us."
Janet was silent.
"As you and George both love each other," continued Anne, "can't you say something to him? Don't you see it would be only right to say a few words to him, which will show him—what I am sure is the truth—that you are concealing something, which has led to this false suspicion falling on you?"
Janet shook her head. "He ought to know it's false," she said.
"Could not you say to him, even though you cannot say so to your brother or Mr Brand—that you burnt some compromising papers at Mrs Brand's dying request? He might believe that, for it is known that you did burn papers, dearest, and it is also obvious that you must have burnt a good many. That one I O U does not account for the quantity of ashes."
"I could not say that," said Janet, whitening. "And besides," she added hastily, "I have said so many times" (and indeed she had) "that I burnt nothing, that George would not know what to believe if I say first one thing and then another."