At the same moment Whitwell came round the corner of the hotel from the barn, and approached them: “Jeff, I guess I better tell you straight off that we're goin', the children and me.”
“All right, Mr. Whitwell,” said Jeff, with respectful gravity; “I was afraid of it.”
Westover made a motion to rise, but Whitwell laid a detaining hand upon his knee. “There ain't anything so private about it, so far as I know.”
“Don't go, Mr. Westover,” said Jeff, and Westover remained.
“We a'n't a-goin' to leave you in the lurch, and we want you should take your time, especially Mis' Durgin. But the sooner the better. Heigh?”
“Yes, I understand that, Mr. Whitwell; I guess mother will miss you, but if you must go, you must.” The two men remained silent a moment, and then Jeff broke out passionately, rising and flinging his cigar away: “I wish I could go, instead! That would be the right way, and I guess mother would like it full as well. Do you see any way to manage it?” He put his foot up in his chair, and dropped his elbow on his knee, with his chin propped in his hand. Westover could see that he meant what he was saying. “If there was any way, I'd do it. I know what you think of me, and I should be just like you, in your place. I don't feel right to turn you out here, I don't, Mr. Whitwell, and yet if I stay, I've got to do it. What's the reason I can't go?”
“You can't,” said Whitwell, “and that's all about it. We shouldn't let you, if you could. But I a'n't surprised you feel the way you do,” he added, unsparingly. “As you say, I should feel just so myself if I was in your place. Well, goodnight, Mr. Westover.”
Whitwell turned and slouched down the hill, leaving the painter to the most painful moment he had known with Jeff Durgin, and nearer sympathy. “That's all right, Mr. Westover,” Jeff said, “I don't blame him.”