But Miss Susan Page was burning with impatience to know the ins and outs of the strange affair. Naturally so. It had brought more scandal and gossip on the Copse Farm than even the running away of the year before. That was bad enough: this was worse. Altogether Jessy was the home’s heartsore. Mr. Page spoke of her as a lamb, a wanderer returned to the fold, and Susan heard it with compressed lips: in her private opinion, she had more justly been called an ungrateful girl.
“Now, then, Jessy; you must let us know a little about yourself,” began Susan on this same afternoon when she was with her alone, and Jessy lay apparently stronger, refreshed with the dinner and the long rest. Abigail had gone to church with Mr. Page. Susan could not remember that any of them had gone to church before on Christmas-Day after the morning service: but there was no festive gathering to keep them at home to-day. Unconsciously, perhaps, Susan resented the fact. Even John Drench was dining at his father’s. “Where have you been all this while in London?”
Jessy suddenly lifted her arm to shade her eyes; and remained silent.
“It is in London, I conclude, that you have been? Come: answer me.”
“Yes,” said Jessy faintly.
“And where have you been? In what part of it?—who with?”
“Don’t ask me,” was the low reply, given with a suppressed sob.
“Not ask you! But we must ask you. And you must answer. Where have you been, and what have you been doing?”
“I—can’t tell,” sobbed Jessy. “The story is too long.”
“Story too long!” echoed Susan quickly, “you might say in half-a-dozen words—and leave explanations until to-morrow. Did you find a place in town?”