He dropped her hand and leaning forward put both of his own to his head.  He knew how strong was her will and how futile would be his efforts to change her mind unless her conscience agreed.

“I won’t,” he answered, as a strong man answers who is baffled.  “I did not mean to be impatient or exacting.”  Then he raised his head and looked steadily into her eyes.  “What would you have me do, then?”

“Wait.”

“But you give me no promise.”

“No, I cannot—­not now.  I am like one staggering along, following a dim light that leads hither and thither, and which may any moment go out and leave me in utter darkness.”

“Then there is something you have not told me?”

“O John!  Can’t you trust me?”

“And yet you love me?”

“As my life, John.”

When he had gone and she had closed the door upon him, she went back to the sofa where the two had sat together, and with her hands clasped tight above her head, sank down upon its cushions.  The tears came like rain now, bitter, blinding tears that she could not check.

“I have hurt him,” she moaned.  “He is so good, and strong, and helpful.  He never thinks of himself; it is always of me—­me, who can do nothing.  The tears were in his eyes—­I saw them.  Oh, I’ve hurt him—­hurt him!  And yet, dear God, thou knowest I could not help it.”

Maddened with the pain of it all she sprang up, determined to go to him and tell him everything.  To throw herself into his arms and beg forgiveness for her cruelty and crave the protection of his strength.  Then her gaze fell upon her father’s portrait!  The cold, steadfast eyes were looking down upon her as if they could read her very soul.  “No!  No!” she sobbed, putting her hands over her eyes as if to shut out some spectre she had not the courage to face.  “It must not be—­it cannot be,” and she sank back exhausted.

When the paroxysm was over she rose to her feet, dried her eyes, smoothed her hair with both hands, and then, with lips tight pressed and faltering steps, walked upstairs to where Martha was getting Lucy’s things ready for the coming journey.  Crossing the room, she stood with her elbows on the mantel, her cheeks tight pressed between her palms, her eyes on the embers.  Martha moved from the open trunk and stood behind her.

“It was Doctor John, wasn’t it?” she asked in a broken voice that told of her suffering.

“Yes,” moaned Jane from between her hands.

“And ye told him about your goin’?”

“Yes, Martha.”  Her frame was shaking with her sobs.

“And about Lucy?”

“No, I could not.”

Martha leaned forward and laid her hand on
Jane’s shoulder.

“Poor lassie!” she said, patting it softly.  “Poor lassie!  That was the hardest part.  He’s big and strong and could ‘a’ comforted ye.  My heart aches for ye both!”

CHAPTER VIII