“How could it hurt anybody?”
“They say Aunt Affy is—scheming,” she said, watching the effect of her words.
“Scheming. What about? What does she gain?” asked Judith, provoked.
“The gain is for you,” said Jean, at last, desperately; “they say she wants to marry you to the minister.”
Now she had said it. She stood still, frightened. Judith left her without another word, going straight on to the parsonage. After a moment Jean turned and went home.
What would Judith do? She looked angry enough to do anything. But she had shielded her from further talk. Bensalem should have no more to say.
Judith went on dazed. Now she understood it all; Martha was coming that she might go; they did not like to tell her to go; they were all too kind. As if Aunt Affy could plot like that. As if Aunt Affy cared for that: Aunt Affy who wanted to keep her always.
Had Marion heard the talk? And Roger? Was he glad to send her away with his mother? She would fly to Aunt Affy that very night; the old house would be her refuge. She would go back to Aunt Affy—and her mother’s home. Roger, her saint, her hero, her ideal—he could never think of her—like that.
She opened the door and went in. Marion had taken her mother for a drive. The study door was shut, the usual signal when Roger was busy. But she often ventured; the shut door had never barred her out. Nothing had ever kept her away from Roger. She tapped; Roger called: “Come in.”
He was writing and did not lift his eyes.