CHAPTER I.

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

MISS DEVEREUX, SPINSTER

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

_AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON AND STARS," "SWEETBRIAR," ETC._

_"Take thou no thought for aught save right and truth,_

_Life holds for finer souls no equal prize."_

L. MORRIS

NEW EDITION

LONDON

JAMES CLARKE & CO., 13 & 14 FLEET STREET

[All rights reserved]

CONTENTS

BOOK I.

IN CHILDHOOD'S HOUR.

CHAPTER

I. A MIDDLE-AGED YOUNG LADY

II. TAKING SHAPE

III. "DEAR AUNT"

IV. SEVERELY SMITTEN

V. QUITE TOO UTTERLY

VI. AN APPEAL AND ITS RESULTS

VII. PREPOSTEROUS

BOOK II.

AFTER SEVEN YEARS.

I. MRS. KENNEDY'S NOTIONS

II. MUD AND BRAMBLES

III. HUSBAND AND WIFE

IV. A STRIFE FOR THE MASTERY

V. IN THE GORGE AGAIN

VI. FRICTION

VII. AN UNWILLING WITNESS

VIII. ON THE MARSHES

IX. BROUGHT HOME

X. THE AFTER SMART

XI. NEW GROUND

XII. THE WIGGINSES AND MAIDENHAIR

BOOK III.

ACTION AND REACTION.

I. A ROUGH DIAMOND

II. OLD FATHER THAMES

III. AMATEUR CRITICISM

IV. THE PROCESS OF FORMATION

V. PROTECTOR AND PROTECTED

VI. "NOT IN MY SET"

VII. THE SOCIAL BOARD

VIII. DARK-EYED EMMIE

IX. COMPLEXITIES OF LIFE

X. CONFIDENTIAL WITH THE DOCTOR

XI. ON THE ROCKS

XII. TAKING COUNSEL

XIII. BOULEVERSEMENT

BOOK IV.

THE UPSHOT OF IT ALL.

I. DUTTON GOSSIP

II. THE "SPANISH GIPSY"

III. IF IT WERE TRUE

IV. ROUGH WINDS

V. SUCCEEDING CALM

MISS DEVEREUX, SPINSTER

BOOK I.

IN CHILDHOOD'S HOUR.

"A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere."

JEAN INGELOW.

CHAPTER I.

A MIDDLE-AGED YOUNG LADY.

"Sensibility, how charming!"

BURNS.

"IF only I had some one to tell me what to do!" sighed Miss Devereux,

an anxious pucker wrinkling her forehead.

It was the first time in Sybella Devereux' life that she had ever had

to stand alone.

The morning-room which she occupied was better fitted for summer than

winter uses. Indian matting covered the floor; Indian drapery clothed

the walls; light cane chairs of foreign make were scattered among

tables no less fragile. This being June, a fringe of Gloire de Dijon

roses peered in at the open French window. Had it been December, the

morning-room would have been forsaken.

Sybella Devereux had taken one of the slight chairs, beside one of the

flimsy tables. A writing-case was open, and two or three letters were

outspread.

Few would have guessed her at first sight to be within a few months of

forty. She had lived the sheltered life of many English daughters in

easy circumstances—a life of moderate occupation, of small trouble or

responsibility. Sybella had taken life as she found it. She was not a

woman to carve out a career for herself in the face of circumstances.

She counted herself delicate, and liked to be comfortable. If any

latent force of character had existed in her originally, circumstances

had tended to smother rather than to draw it out.

From babyhood she had been thought of, guarded, cared for, directed,

never left to decide for herself. As an arm or leg will wither if tied

up and not used, so the power of mental decision had withered in her

from lack of exercise.

Years had trickled past in monotonous ease, and her girlhood had

lingered long after the lawful stage, "dying hard." It was ample time

for Sybella to be settling down into old maidhood; at least according

to all laws of fiction. She did not, however, yet count herself to be

an old maid.

There were no lines of grey in her hair; and if the cheeks were rather

thin, rumpling into suspicious ridges when she smiled, that was only

because she had always been "so delicate, you know!" She wore slight

mourning for a sister-in-law, the wife of her only brother, who

was expected home shortly from India; otherwise she would not have

hesitated to sport a white dress with blue ribbons, as suited to the

season.

That which marked Sybella as apart from the young ladyhood of the

day was not so much any definite look of middle-age; it was rather

a certain sentimentality, a self-conscious bashfulness, belonging

entirely to a past generation. Girls of sixteen and eighteen growing up

around Sybella were twenty times as practical, as independent, as much

at their ease, as was she.

Sybella's father, Sir John Devereux, a kind-hearted and placid old

gentleman, who, like his daughter, took life much as he found it,

had died two years earlier. He left his small property of Ripley

Brow, with the Baronetcy, to his son Theodore, a successful Indian

civilian, stipulating only that his widowed sister, Mrs. Willoughby,

for thirty-five years his companion and stay, should live there during

the rest of her life. Theodore offered no objections to this proviso.

Until the loss of his own wife broke him down, and destroyed the charm

of India, he much preferred to stay there, leaving Ripley Brow to the

management of his aunt and sister.

Or, rather, of his aunt. Sybella was the managed, not the manager.

The loss of her father made little difference in this respect. She

was still hedged round with care. She could still go on with her mild

circle of occupations—her attentions to pet plants, her scraps of

useless fancy work, her chit-chat calls upon neighbours, her epistolary

gushes to bosom friends. The circle of occupations included also

futile attempts at painting, fitful readings and copyings of poetry,

dilettante dippings into social questions beyond her depth, and through

all an unswerving devotion to her own health.

The controlling spirit of the household had ever been that of the

stately and fascinating old lady, whose forceful nature was in marked

contrast with the indeterminate outlines of Sybella's character.

Mrs. Willoughby, far from accepting life as she found it, expected

everything to bend to her will. Circumstances, in the shape of yielding

parents, an indulgent husband, a devoted and easy brother, a submissive

niece, ample means, and hosts of admiring friends, had fostered to

excess a naturally wilful tendency. At the age of seventy-eight, Mrs.

Willoughby could brook no contradiction. Yet she knew how to make

herself ineffably charming.

Sybella was always "the child" to Mrs. Willoughby. Nothing had ever

been left in her hands. She had never so much as dreamt of assuming her

rightful position in her father's house. Mrs. Willoughby had managed

everything. At thirty-nine, Sybella knew as much about housekeeping as

an infant. She had never chosen a dress for herself unadvised. She had

never written a cheque. She had never glanced into household accounts.

Now, without warning, the vigorous old lady, to whom illness was

a thing unknown, had been smitten down by paralysis. The reins of

government slid from her firm grasp into the helpless hands of Sybella.

She looked most helpless, seated beside the rickety table of

wickerwork. Knowing nothing of real illness, though much used to

cosseting of small ailments in her own person, the state of Mrs.

Willoughby weighed upon her less than the immediate need for decision

upon a hundred minor matters. In a few weeks, no doubt, her aunt would

be up and about again. Dr. Ingram had not exactly said so, it is true;

but Sybella hardly thought of any other possibility. The pressing

question was—how the world could run its course meantime, without Mrs.

Willoughby to direct it?

"If only I had some one to tell me what to do!" sighed Sybella. "Just

now especially—such an awkward time! A month later it would not have

been so bad. Dear Theodore will be at home, and men always know about

everything. Till he comes, I really have nobody to turn to. And so many

things ought to be arranged."

She drew another plaintive breath, looked towards the bookcase,

and felt tempted to solace herself with Mrs. Heman's "Songs of the

Affections."

"I suppose I ought not. These letters have to be answered; and I

don't in the least know what to say. If there were some one whom I

could consult. I am so at a loss where to turn. Mr. Kennedy—I am

sure he would do anything in his power. But then he is not exactly

businesslike. Dear aunt always says that he is not. Only last week she

was so vexed because he forgot to acknowledge that subscription. And

yet he is such a good man; and he does preach such beautiful comforting

sermons! Still I am afraid he might not know what to advise about the

lawyer's letter, and that is what I need most. Besides, dear aunt never

quite likes Mrs. Kennedy. I am sure she would be vexed if any of our

private affairs came before her. And Mr. Kennedy is so forgetful, poor

dear man! He might repeat things to his wife—men so often do. That is

the worst of being married."

Sybella twiddled her ivory pen-handle in an aimless way, as she

reviewed the situation.

"Then there is Mr. Trevelyan. If only he were a different sort of man!

It would seem so natural to turn to him—living in his Parish. Quite

impossible, of course—dear aunt disapproving of his views as she does.

And if there is one man I do dislike more than any other, it is Mr.

Trevelyan! That manner is so unbearable. Of course, not going to his

Church, one could not very well ask his help, even if dear aunt would

approve. We have kept well aloof from the Trevelyans till now—happily.

Besides, even if there were no other objections, he is a widower."

A blush mantled in Miss Devereux' cheeks.

"One has to be careful, especially in a place like Dulveriford.

Everything is so talked about. People might say—but, of course, Mr.

Trevelyan is out of the question . . . Then there is Dr. Ingram. He

will come in presently, and I might get his advice—perhaps—but I am

not sure. He is such a new acquaintance—and then he is so shy! If only

our dear old Dr. Symonds were here, he would do anything in the world

for me. Dr. Ingram is different. They say he is much cleverer than Dr.

Symonds; but I can't quite make him out. One does not feel at one's

ease with him, somehow. I should think he could be sarcastic. Besides,

he is a widower too. So, of course, I have to be careful. It is

extraordinary, the number of widowers in this neighbourhood—and rather

tiresome! I do think clergymen and doctors ought not to be unmarried,

for the sake of other people. It makes things so uncomfortable."

Sybella, leant her cheek pensively on her hand. She was given to

attitudinising in a mild fashion. A tap, twice repeated, was unheard;

and the door opened.

"If you please, Miss—"

"Pearce! Yes; do you want anything?"

"General Villiers desires to see you, Miss."

Sybella started up in a flutter.

"General Villiers! Not from India! My brother's friend! Impossible!

It must be somebody else. General Villiers would never have left Sir

Theodore to come by an earlier mail; unless, indeed, they have come

together. Sir Theodore there too? No! But you are sure it is General

Villiers, of Dutton Park?"

Pearce signified that there could be no mistake. He was an old

retainer. General Villiers was well known to him, not only as Sir

Theodore's intimate friend, but as the present owner of Dutton Park,

a neighbouring property. The estate had been left to General Villiers

some two years earlier by an aged relative, and he had not yet been

home to inspect it. He was expected to arrive three weeks later, with

Sir Theodore and little Cyril.

"I don't understand. It is so strange," Sybella went on excitedly. "If

my dear aunt—" and there was an unhappy recollection that she must

act for herself. "Perhaps I had better see him in here," she said

uncertainly.

"Yes, Miss!" and Pearce vanished.

A soldierly man entered, tall, upright as a dart, and slender still,

despite his more than fifty-five summers. He had bronzed handsome

features, and his hair was variegated with gray. Close behind walked a

small boy, white-faced and pretty.

Miss Devereux had not seen the General for fifteen years. She came

forward in a hesitating manner, to be met by a courtly bow and warm

hand-clasp.

"I am grieved to hear of Mrs. Willoughby's illness. Pardon my intrusion

at such a time. Unhappily there is reason," the General said in a deep,

moved voice.

"Yes; oh, pray take a chair." Miss Devereux glanced round in search

of a support not too ethereal for six feet two of human length. The

General relieved her anxiety by depositing himself with care upon a

fragile construction of cane. Fortunately he was not stout.

"If my dear aunt were here, she would—" Miss Devereux began, and

paused. "Yes, she is ill. I hope and trust she will soon be better. Dr.

Ingram seems to think—"

Another break. Sybella's lack of decision often showed itself in

unfinished sentences. Her words ran ahead of her ideas, and had to be

pulled up.

"Not Dr. Symonds?"

"No. Dr. Symonds retired lately. He has left Dulveriford. Everybody was

so sorry to lose him. Dr. Ingram is a very clever man. They say he is

too clever for the country, and he only came on account of his wife's

health; and, poor thing, she died soon after. But we don't know him

well yet. And perhaps—"

Ideas failing anew, her eyes fell upon the boy, standing shyly close to

the General's knee.

"Is that a nephew of yours?"

"I have no nephews. He has been in my charge." The General spoke

solemnly, an underground rumble echoing in his deep-toned voice. There

is always something impressive in a voice of that description; and it

is particularly well adapted for the carrying of bad news.

"I see. How kind! But you bring me news of my brother? Dearest

Theodore!" she ejaculated, clasping her hands. Sybella could not help

an occasional air of sentimentality. It was natural to her; or, if

acquired, it had become second nature.

"Yes—"

"He is—I suppose we are to expect him by the date he named. How

unfortunate that you had to come first!"

No reply.

"I am so looking forward to his arrival. More than words can express!

Dear Theodore!" sighed Miss Devereux. "Ten long years since I saw him

last! Will he be much changed?"

The General muttered something incoherent under his moustache.

Miss Devereux unclasped her hands, and clasped them anew.

"If only dear Theodore could have resolved to come home a year or two

earlier! I never could think why he would not. Keeping that poor little

Cyril out all this time—it really has been reckless. Nearly ten years

old! Enough to ruin the child's constitution."

"Particularly healthy station," murmured General Villiers.

"Yes, but the native surroundings—I have always heard that the evil was

so great—"

"It has been guarded against."

The boy pressed closer to the General's knee, his tiny hand stealing

into the veteran's brown fingers.

"They would do all they could, of course. But since poor Olave's death,

how could Theodore have time?—A busy civilian, you know. I am afraid it

has been a mistake. And dear Evelyn all these years at school, never

seeing her parents or brother! Ten years' separation! It cannot be

right! Yes, she spent her holidays here—at first, always. She has had

a great many invitations of late from schoolfellows, which she seemed

to prefer. My dear aunt has been pained, but Evelyn asked her father's

consent. I have not seen the dear girl now for eighteen months. Last

summer, she went abroad with friends, and last Christmas she had German

measles, so my dear aunt was afraid of the infection for me."

This had no ludicrous sound for Sybella's ears. Though close upon

forty, she was so used still to being cared for as if she were a maiden

in her teens, so used to have her health counted a prime consideration,

that the statement came as a matter of course.

If the General had been less sad, he might have found it hard to

restrain a smile.

"It will be all right now, however—now that our dear Theodore is coming

home, I shall be so glad to have his advice and help. My dear aunt has

always seen to everything, and I am so inexperienced."

"Could I help you?" asked the General. He had something to say which he

did not know how to say. With the moral cowardice of many a physically

brave man, he was willing to put off the evil moment.

"Would you not mind?" Sybella hesitated, recollecting that here was

another widower. But he had come to her; she would not have to go to

him; and he was an old family friend.

"Would you really not mind? There is a letter from my brother's lawyer

which I cannot understand. Something about investments. He uses such

odd phrases. And a cheque has come, which I sent to the Bank, and they

would not change it. They said it was not endorsed. Pearce says that

means writing one's name at the back. I have had to do it before, but

I never can remember if I ought to write across or lengthways, and at

which end."

General Villiers solved this knotty point, and glanced at the lawyer's

letter.

"Nothing of importance," he said. "I will explain it by-and-by. I must

not delay longer—speaking. I have brought you sad news."

Sybella looked inquiring. General Villiers drew the child forward.

"Can you see no likeness?"

The boy turned his face towards her—a fragile colourless face, with

violet eyes so dark as to be almost black, and a mass of brown hair

curling thickly over the little head.

"Sweet child!" murmured Sybella. Then, with a start, "Yes, I do see!

Surely! He is like poor Olave—strangely like. Hers was such uncommon

beauty. Dear little boy. He must be a nephew—but Olave had no brothers

or sisters. You don't mean—it can't be that he—"

"Cyril, kiss your aunt."

Cyril crossed the short space between, and flung his arms around Miss

Devereux with a short sob, as if his heart were full.

"My dear boy! You sweet child!" exclaimed Sybella, embracing him with

effusion. "Then this is our precious Cyril, and Theodore has come home.

Why has he stayed behind? Is he not well? Tired with travelling? Cyril,

my pet, don't cry. Oh, pray don't. Is he hungry? What can I get for

him? Some seed-cake? Dear little boy! Why, Cyril, who would ever guess

you to be more than seven years old? Such a tiny mite!"

The child pressed his face into her shoulder, and General Villiers

spoke slowly—

"Your brother was breaking down fast. The doctors said our only hope

was to get him away at once. It made no difference to me, for I was

waiting to come with him. He would not let me telegraph word of our

changed plans, for his wish was to surprise you."

"And—" Sybella said.

"For a day or two on board, he seemed to rally, but it did not last."

"And—" repeated Sybella.

The General bent his head.

"This is now Sir Cyril Devereux!" he said.

CHAPTER II.

TAKING SHAPE.

"Follow light and do the right—for man can half control his doom—

Till you find the deathless angel, seated in the vacant tomb."

TENNYSON.

JEAN TREVELYAN stood at the gate of the Rectory kitchen-garden, gazing

down the lane.

She was an only child, about nine years old, of tall and slim make,

with a straight back and a well-balanced head. The face was oval,

but too thin for prettiness; indeed, nobody called Jean pretty. She

had a pale complexion, light hair cut short like a boy's, and odd

greenish-brown eyes, in sunshine yellowish like a topaz, and capable of

expression to any degree. Jean wore a loose brown holland frock, and

held in one hand a brown hat, round the crown of which a brown ribbon

was tied. Simplicity could not further go.

"Oswald!" she cried.

No answer came.

Jean waited patiently for some seconds, a hungry look in her eyes. Then

she called again:

"Oswald! Os-wald! I'm here!"

A figure emerged from the gooseberry bushes, where it had been stooping

out of sight.

"What are you making that noise for, Jean?"

"I want Oswald, aunt Marie."

"Well, you must have patience. He will come in good time."

The tone was not unkind; it was only indifferent. Mrs. or Madame

Collier was not a person to enter into a child's desires.

Jean had no mother. She could barely remember her mother. Mrs. Collier,

the widowed sister of Mr. Trevelyan, had lived there almost as far back

as Jean's memory could reach, keeping house for her brother, precisely

as old Mrs. Willoughby had lived with old Sir John Devereux, keeping

house for him since Sybella's infancy. Sybella's complaints of many

widowers in the neighbourhood was not without foundation.

Mrs. Collier's real name was Maria. Having married a Frenchman—in

virtue of which she was still known as Madame Collier—and having spent

her married life abroad, she preferred to be called 'Marie.' She was

perhaps some five years older than Sybella, with the air of twenty

years' seniority. She was angular in make, with high cheek-bones,

marked feature, iron-grey hair, and permanent sunburn. Moreover, she

wore caps indoors and old fashioned bonnets out of doors. She could

occasionally appear en grande tenue; yet her usual attire was a very

embodiment of plainness. At this moment, she had on a rusty black

alpaca, frayed at the edges; a big crochet shawl, secured in front

by a skewer-like pin; and an enormous garden hat of untrimmed straw,

reminiscence of foreign life.

Marie Collier had been tossed early upon her own feet, and forced to

stand alone, if she would stand at all. This was bracing, to begin

with! Probably she could never, under any conditions, have been turned

into a helpless young (?) lady of thirty-nine, unable to endorse

a cheque, but no doubt a somewhat different creature might under

differing influences have emerged from the chrysalis stage of existence.

The Trevelyan nature was one which needed softening, since it stiffened

easily; and softening influences had not in her case been abundant.

Both her early life and her married life had been to a great extent

hardening.

In some measure the same conditions surrounded the little Jean. There

were barriers of repression, of non-comprehension, of outward coldness,

fencing her in. But Jean was an Ingram as well as a Trevelyan. She had

inherited from the two families a jumble of opposite characteristics.

There was all the Trevelyan pride, with any amount of Ingram

tenderness. There was the Trevelyan reserve, with the Ingram craving

for sympathy. There was the Trevelyan hauteur, with the Ingram shyness.

There was the Trevelyan disdain, with the Ingram susceptibility. There

was all the force of the Trevelyan will, and with that there were odd

touches of the Ingram readiness to yield.

Here was the rough ore of the nature, out of which the future character

had to be formed. The main question was—which of the opposing elements

would be fostered, which would be crushed or starved out of existence?

A child of nine has begun to take shape, but the materials are soft,

and malleable by a touch.

Jean did not call again, after her aunt's rebuke. She stood and watched

with craving eyes, into which a look of loneliness had crept. Jean was

always lonely when not with her brother Oswald. She loved Oswald with

an absorbing devotion.

He had rushed away, "promising faithfully" to return in five minutes

for a game of bowls. The five minutes were long past, and he had not

come. Lesson-time was drawing near. In forty minutes Madame Collier,

with inexorable punctuality, would summon Jean to the dingy schoolroom,

where she daily spent five hours of misery. These were the first days

of Oswald's midsummer holidays—old style, meaning real midsummer;—but

Jean, learning at home, was not supposed to need holidays.

"Marie!" another voice called: a man's voice now.

"Yes," Madame Collier answered. She straightened herself a second time,

and looked towards the house, flushed with stooping.

A gentleman came down the path with vigorous strides. He was of

medium height and muscular in build, having strongly marked features.

Permanent indentations stamped the brow, and the wide mouth closed

habitually into a straight line; while the manner was prompt and

resolute. His dress was severely clerical; the coat long.

"Marie, I want a word with you." He did not observe the motionless

figure of his little daughter, and Jean was wrapped up in her patient

watch. "Bad news from The Brow."

Dulveriford commonly spoke of Sybella's home as "The Brow" rather than

by its full name of "Ripley Brow." The curtailment saved trouble.

Madame Collier forgot Jean, or she would have sent the child out of

hearing. It was a principle with that excellent lady that children

should never hear aught beyond what directly concerns themselves.

"Bad news!" she repeated, grasping with both hands her basket of

gooseberries. "Mrs. Willoughby worse?"

"Not materially. I suppose it to be merely a question of weeks with

her; but I do not know that she is worse to-day than yesterday. The

news is from abroad. Sir Theodore is dead!"

"You don't say so! Dear me!" Madame Collier adjusted the big white

skewer in her shawl, thereby showing that her feelings were not deeply

stirred. "Dear, how unfortunate! But I never liked the accounts of his

state."

"General Villiers arrived yesterday, bringing the boy."

"Well—!" in a tone of consent to what could not be helped. "I suppose

the General will be the children's guardian."

"No. That is the strange part of the matter—General Villiers is one of

the trustees. Miss Devereux is sole guardian—"

Madame Collier's eyes grew round. She set her gooseberry basket down

and held up two hands, as if speech failed her.

"Sole guardian to both children. I believe her brother expressed a

wish, when dying, that she would appeal to General Villiers for advice."

"She will need advice from somebody! Of all incompetent women—! Well—!

I should as soon have expected—!"

"Sir Theodore has always been fond of his sister. He used to say there

was plenty of natural capacity, if only it had opportunity to develop."

"Too late now! When a woman is going on for fifty, she can't be remade."

"Miss Devereux is a good way off from fifty."

"O, I know!" with a shrug of her angular shoulders. "Juvenile bonnets

and ribbons can't throw dust in my eyes! You men are so easily taken

in."

Madame Collier's glance fell on Jean, with a twinge of vexation at

having said so much, and of consequent displeasure at Jean's presence.

"What are you doing there, Jean? Wasting your time!"

"I'm waiting for Oswald."

"Where is Oswald?" demanded Mr. Trevelyan.

"I don't know, father."

"Then why wait?" Mr. Trevelyan's manner was not stern; it was only

repressed and repressing. His eyes surveyed her gravely. He might be a

most affectionate father—anybody may be anything below the surface!—but

the affection was not allowed to appear.

"He said he would come for a game of bowls—presently." Jean carefully

abstained from saying "in five minutes," for that would have meant

blame to Oswald.

"Go and find him. Don't dawdle about doing nothing."

Jean made an effort at resistance. "I don't know where he is."

"Go and see."

Jean obeyed with a heavy heart. Whichever way she went, Oswald was

as likely as not to have taken the opposite road; and while she was

absent, he would return to the gate. The one chance of seeing him

was to wait there, and that chance was denied her. It was a small

disappointment, yet a very real trouble to Jean.

Mr. Trevelyan's word was law, however. Nobody ever thought of evading

it; and Jean dared not explain her trouble, for fear of an inquiry into

the strict terms of their arrangement.

"I do wonder where Oswald can be," she said sorrowfully.

Jean was too honest, as well as too obedient, to linger about within

view of the gate while out of her father's sight. After walking down

the lane, however, she climbed a grass bank, whence she could obtain a

glimpse of the spot where her hopes were centred. No signs of Oswald!

The most likely place would be down by the river. Devotion to water,

indigenous in the English boy, was a marked characteristic of Oswald.

Jean made her way thither by the shortest route, which meant at the

last a steep descent. Somewhat higher up, the stream flowed between

rocky and overhanging strata, but here the banks were wide apart,

leaving space for the water to spread itself out, rippling in a shallow

flow over a floor of golden sand.

Evenly placed lay the stepping-stones, square and large, reaching

to the other side. Except in occasional flood-times, an easy mode

of crossing was provided thereby. Jean thought so little of running

over, that she would have done it in the dark, if required, without a

moment's hesitation.

A glimpse of the narrowing banks above could be obtained from the

stepping-stone level. This Ripley Gorge, locally known as "The

V-Gorge," was counted worth seeing by many who were conversant with

Swiss scenery. One arm of the V began not far from the stepping-stones;

and near the point of the V was the heaved-up rock promontory—like a

coast-headland, only no sea washed its base—popularly called "The Brow."

The small Devereux property, bounded on one side by this precipice, had

from it and The Gorge combined the title of "Ripley Brow;" and village

colloquialism had rendered "Up at the Brow" no less descriptive of the

house than of the actual promontory.

Jean raced down the slippery grass at a reckless pace, which yet was

not reckless, since she was sure-footed as a goat. To follow the zigzag

would have been in her eyes a dire waste of time.

Nearing the bottom, she found to her supreme delight an open penknife

lying on the ground—Oswald's! Then he had come this way, and she would

find him. Jean's heart leaped as she secured the knife. In that moment

she heard a plaintive utterance—

"Oh! O please! Please!—O please! O come!"

Not Oswald's voice! Jean dashed downward faster still. Child as she

was, she already had the instinct of helping others, more or less the

gift of all purer natures.

"O please! O come!" wailed the frightened tones.

Jean reached the level belt beside the river, where a ghost of a

path might be found amid coarse grass and weeds. A rough but easy

descent led thence to the stepping-stones. On one of the stones, near

the middle of the stream, sat a small boy, lifting up a thin and

high-pitched voice of dire tribulation.

"Why, what's the matter?" cried Jean.

The sobbing lessened, but the boy did not move. Jean cleared the lower

bank at a run, and tripped over the stones till she reached him.

"What's the matter?" she repeated.

"I can't get on. I'm afraid," moaned the depressed little mortal.

"There's nothing to hurt. If you fell in, you couldn't hurt. Afraid!

You—a boy!" said Jean, with infinite disdain.

She had been trained to look with contempt upon cowardice, especially a

boy's cowardice. Oswald never showed fear; and Oswald was her hero.

But the tender and pitying side of her nature asserted itself, when

she looked at the little fellow's white cheeks; not pale only, but

dead-white, as with abject terror; and at the small shaking hands.

"Come!" she said gently. "I'll take care of you. I won't let you slip.

Stand up, and hold me tight. I'll take you across."

She put a protecting arm round him, and guided his steps with a

mother-like care, droll yet pretty in one so young. Jean had all the

instincts of womanhood, though her recollections of a mother's love

were dim.

"There!" she said, as they reached the bank on the Rectory side.

His face having been turned that way, Jean had taken it for granted

that he wished to cross.

"Now you are all right. You see how easy the stones are, so you won't

be frightened again. Boys never ought to be afraid. Oswald isn't!"

proudly, with a gleam in her greenish-brown eyes. "But you are such a

mite! Where do you want to go?"

"I want to go home," came plaintively in answer.

Jean stood looking at him. He was a lovely little boy, but Jean had

hardly reached an age appreciative of mere beauty. The sweet wistful

eyes and delicate outlines were lost upon her. Jean's notion of a boy

was of something reckless, dashing, untidy, headlong, noisy—of Oswald,

in fact. This dainty small creature, with lace collar and spotless

hands, by no means answered to the description.

"Where is your home?"

"Over there."

"Where? What—'The Brow!' Why, what's your name?"

"I'm Cyril John Devereux."

A pause of astonishment.

"And I'm Jean Trevelyan. But you're not—Cyril!" said Jean. "Aunt Marie

said Cyril was ten years old."

"I'm ten next August."

"Ten! Stand up—straight."

Cyril obeyed.

Jean placed herself beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

"I'm ever so much the tallest—and only nine last month."

"Ah, but I shall grow," said Cyril confidently. "I'm going to be a man."

"A man!" Jean looked him all over again, disdainful and compassionate.

"What a pity you weren't made a girl!"

"Father liked me best to be a boy," asserted Cyril.

Jean suddenly remembered his father's death, and as suddenly she

recalled the game of bowls.

"Oh, I can't wait. I'm forgetting," she cried. "I must find Oswald."

"Aunt Sybella said there was a boy called Oswald."

"He's my brother!" proudly again.

"Is he nice? Is he like you?" The violet eyes were fixed upon Jean with

unspeakable admiration.

"Nice! There never was such a boy as Oswald in all the world—never!"

declared the little sister, her soul shining in her face. "No, he isn't

like me. Oh, of course not! I'm ugly; and he is—Oh, you don't know

Oswald yet! Wait till you do! He is—he is—just Oswald!" cried Jean

rapturously, as if the name implied everything.

"You're not ugly."

"Yes, I am. Everybody says so. It doesn't matter. I've got Oswald."

"Shall I like him?"

"I shouldn't like you, if you didn't."

Cyril looked thoughtful.

Jean was longing to be off; but a sense of this little fellow's

helplessness restrained her.

"Where do you mean to go?" she asked.

"I don't know the way back."

"Why, over the stones, of course—as you came."

"Oh, I can't. I couldn't go across again—it frightened me."

"But you're a boy. You ought not to be frightened. Oswald never is."

Cyril glanced at the river and shivered, tears filling his eyes.

"I can't," he said.

A whoop rang out, and Jean's contemplative face changed to one of

delight.

"Oswald!" passed her lips, as a boy came rushing along the grass-grown

path beside the river.

A genuine boy this time—strong and vigorous, hot and muddy, round-faced

and rosy, nearly twice the size of the little baronet, though only two

years or so his senior. His complexion was sunburnt, his hands were

soiled, the cap was slipping off his tumbled hair, the trousers were

torn at his knees.

"Hallo, Jean! Did you think I was lost? I say—what shrimp have you

fished up there?"

Jean sprang to meet her brother.

"It's Cyril Devereux," she whispered energetically. "He's come home,

and his father is dead, and he's afraid of the stepping-stones."

"Whew!" Oswald contented himself with this brief commentary. "Well,

come along; just time for a game of bowls."

Jean was nearly torn in half, between the pulling of her own desires on

the one hand, and the pulling of duty on the other hand. Her whole soul

was bent upon the promised game with the brother whom her little heart

worshipped. But this poor small baronet, with his dread of the river,

how could he ever find his way home?

It was one of those everyday occasions, when the child's decision one

way or the other, does much towards the formation of that child's

character. Either the bent towards right, the devotion to duty—the

Pflichttreue—is strengthened, and the passion of self-pleasing is

weakened; or vice versa.

Jean was sorely tempted; but her home training from babyhood had aimed

to teach her one thing—always to do the Right, irrespective of cost

to self. Such early training is an untold power for after-good. Every

time the will conquers, it gains strength; every time it is overcome,

it loses strength. Mere habit, one way or the other, has the compelling

force of iron bands in later life. These bands were already in process

of formation; and Jean did not hesitate long.

"I can't," she said; "he doesn't know the way round by the bridge. I

must show him."

"Rubbish! A boy not able to find his way!"

"He isn't like most boys. He is so—funny!" Jean said, lowering her

voice. "So little!"

"Little goose! Time he should learn to be like other boys."

Jean was silent.

"Well, you needn't ask me to come back for a game with you another day!

That's all."

Jean's heart was ready to break under his displeasure, yet she stood to

her duty.

"I'll make haste," she tried to say.

"Make haste to lessons, you mean! Stuff! Well—will you come?"

"I can't," she murmured.

"Then you're an ass! I shan't play with you again."

Oswald dashed off in a huff, and Jean's eyes were full.

She turned to the other child:

"Come," she said huskily, "we've got to make haste."

"Was that boy cross with you?" demanded Cyril, as they set off. He

clenched his tiny hand, and the blue eyes sparkled. "If anybody is

cross with you, I'd like—I'd like to fight him."

"No, you wouldn't! He is my brother. You are never to fight Oswald."

"But I will, if he is cross to you."

"It doesn't matter. He is only sorry I can't play. And so am I," added

Jean, her chest heaving. "You must learn to get over those stones, you

know. Boys never ought to be cowards."

Cyril looked up gravely.

"No, I won't," he said. "Father wouldn't like me to be a coward. I'll

try to get over the stones all alone—some day."

CHAPTER III.

"DEAR AUNT."

"Though man a thinking being is defined,

Few use the grand prerogative of mind;

How few think justly of the thinking few!

How many never think, who think they do!

Opinion, therefore—such our mental dearth—

Depends on mere locality or birth."

JANE TAYLOR.

"EVELYN!"

"Yes, aunt."

"Where are you going?"

"Into the garden."

"My dear, you have thin shoes on."

"Thick enough for August."

"No, indeed. The dew was quite heavy last night. And I heard you cough

yesterday."

"Cough! I don't know what it is to take cold."

Sybella's brow puckered. "Really, Evelyn, that is childish. Everybody

takes cold sometimes."

"I don't."

"My dear, I cannot let you risk it. I really cannot. And, besides—"

"Yes?" Evelyn stood, careless and graceful, outside the French window

of the morning-room. She was a marvellously fair young creature; but

the fringed black-blue eyes, like those of her little brother in shape

and colour, wore a combative expression, as they met the anxious orbs

of Sybella.

"My dear, I wished—I thought I had made you understand—I should like

you to give up an hour or two every morning—two hours it ought to be—to

some useful occupation. Dear aunt always insisted on that with me, when

I was long past your age."

Miss Devereux sighed, and her voice grew plaintive. She, like Evelyn,

wore heavy mourning, not alone for Sir Theodore, but also for old Mrs.

Willoughby, who had passed away within a week of General Villiers'

arrival, having never so much as heard of her nephew's death.

Two months had elapsed since then. Sybella stood alone in the world,

so far as her accustomed props were concerned, but with a fresh and

absorbing interest in life. She had the children to care for. Sir

Theodore had appointed her sole guardian of Evelyn and Cyril Devereux.

It was an interest which brought weighty responsibilities in its train.

"The children—" there was the rub! If it had but been only "the child!"

Miss Devereux' whole heart went out from the first towards the gentle

boy, who was always ready to respond to her caresses, always eager to

give love for love. Every day the fascination grew upon her. From early

morning till late at night her one idea was "Cyril." She dressed him in

the daintiest garments compatible with mourning; she cultivated each

curl and wave of his brown hair; she revelled in her new charge.

Cyril might undoubtedly be considered old enough for school. All the

world agreed on this point. But Sybella had a mortal aversion to

schools, diligently instilled into her by Sir John Devereux and Mrs.

Willoughby, through the best part of her forty years. What they had

thought, she continued to think, and if she lacked decision on many

points, she knew her own mind here.

She displayed a sudden resolution which took people by surprise. School

for Cyril! That little delicate darling to be knocked about by a horde

of great rough boys! It would be the death of him! For once Sybella was

determined, asking no advice. She would go in for any amount of advice

on matters unimportant, but in this case she declined counsel, having

her aunt's strong opinion to serve as a guide.

General Villiers reasoned in vain; friends lifted their eyebrows in

vain. Sybella would teach the precious boy herself for the present,

till he had rallied from the weakening effects of the Indian climate;

and then—well, then she would consider. A tutor, perhaps, or even a

day-school. Time enough for that. Miss Devereux was beginning to be

conscious of her own power, and to resent what looked like interference

with a guardian's prerogatives.

There might be no difficulty as to the actual lessons. Sybella, though

not mentally gifted, had had a good education; and Latin was easily

to be procured. But there was the question of boyish games, of boyish

companionship; not to speak of the perils of over-petting and spoiling.

Miss Devereux was afflicted with a mortal horror of cold, of damp,

of east winds, of draughts, of wet feet, of unwholesome food, of

over-exertion. She did her best to instil this compound horror into her

young charge. She watched and discussed everything that found its way

into the baronet's pretty mouth. She examined the weathercock each day,

before allowing him to go out. She tenderly consulted his looks and

symptoms.

Sir Cyril was a most responsive little boy. He had always been

delicate, and he was used to anxious petting. There were no struggles

between the two. Miss Devereux found him malleable as wax in her hands.

His sweet grave sayings, his trained politeness, his un-childlike

understanding of some things, combined with a more than childlike

timidity, his love of Bible stories, his readiness to be taught, his

affectionate clinging to herself—all these were in Sybella's eyes

"beautiful." She could not praise him enough to friends.

"The child is heavenly," she said often, with a gush of enthusiasm

which made some smile, while others were touched, and yet others hoped

that the little baronet "wouldn't be a prig!"

So for the present all went if not wisely at least smoothly, as

regarded Cyril. But as regarded Evelyn, matters were far different.

Miss Devereux had sent for her in haste, on receipt of the sad news

brought by General Villiers, feeling sure that the poor dear girl must

be heartbroken, unable to give thought to lessons.

Evelyn came, though not too willingly. She was not broken-hearted; and

anybody less sentimental than Sybella would hardly have expected her to

be so, for a father whom she had not seen during ten years. The loss

was a loss, and Evelyn knew it; nevertheless she grudged missing the

final examination before leaving school.

It had been a settled matter that she should quit school after this

term, to join her father either in India or in England.

Now all was changed. Evelyn had to live at Ripley Brow, under the

guardianship of an aunt whom she did not love.

For the maiden lady of forty, with her unpractical ways, her

pseudo-poetical tastes, her tendency to overstrained sentiment, her

generally old fashioned ideas, never had "got on well," as the saying

is, with the brilliant yet sensible and practical niece. Miss Devereux

was secretly proud of Evelyn, but scarcely fond of her.

Evelyn had learnt before eighteen what Sybella did not learn till

after forty—to stand alone. She had not been hardened like Madame

Collier, for everybody loved Evelyn, who came within reach of her magic

wand; and love is softening. She was accustomed to the worship of her

schoolfellows, to the devotion of governesses and friends. It was a

matter of course in Evelyn's life that wherever she went, she should

win affection. The one exception among all whom she knew—the one rift

in her environment of adulation and love—was Sybella. Evelyn's wand had

no power over Sybella; and Sybella was a perpetual irritation to Evelyn.

A stronger contrast could hardly have been found than between this aunt

and niece. While Evelyn had not suffered hardening, she had been in a

manner both braced and repressed by long years of school-life, with

absence of home associations. Her training had been the precise reverse

of Sybella's. She had developed under it rapidly; and few could believe

her to be still not eighteen.

Sybella might have belonged to two generations earlier. Evelyn was

a thoroughly modern girl; cool, self-possessed, independent, at her

ease, afraid neither to speak nor to act, yet always entirely ladylike.

Sybella was alarmed at her own shadow, frightened as to proprieties,

seldom sure what she wished, rarely certain of her next step, and

direfully in need of props.

Side by side with all this, however, Miss Devereux had distinct notions

of subordination for young girls and of her own rights. She looked upon

seventeen as scarcely past infancy, with need still for leading reins.

"When I was seventeen—" settled the question. Evelyn, on the contrary,

regarded herself as emancipated from all save a light authority, and

well capable of judging in minor matters.

It was almost impossible that these two minds, brought together, should

not suffer friction, each exciting the other.

Sybella had been brought up from infancy on a rigid and limited

selection of doctrines, carefully expressed; and it had never so much

as occurred to her that further truths might exist beyond the boundary

of the said selection. Her ideas on religious subjects were petrified

into a permanent shape; that shape which had been handed to her

ready-made in childhood; and whatever did not fit into the said shape,

like a pudding into a bowl, was at once rejected. The vigorous though

narrow mind of the older lady had entirely formulated the niece's

belief. What Sybella had received in early youth she had as a matter of

course swallowed whole unhesitatingly; and she continued to hold the

same unquestioningly.

Of reasons for accepting this or rejecting that, she cared little

and knew less. Discussions terrified her, historical facts were

"dangerous," and from "evidences," she fled in alarm. She believed

what she believed because she believed it; and because she believed it

anybody who did not believe it was in error.

The niece was again in these matters a contrast to her aunt, unable to

look upon things from Sybella's standpoint. She had early worked her

way to a disdain of mere party oppositions on religious questions; and

her young wide awake mind, eager with the spirit of the age to dive

below the surface, and to know the why and wherefore of things, was

perpetually fretted by Miss Devereux's illogical fears and unreasoning

positiveness.

Troubles were fast springing up between them. The Devereux household

always went to St. John's Church, Dutton—not to Dulveriford

Church—always had done so, and as a matter of course, always would. The

Devereux household was traditionally extremely "Low" in its views; and

the successive Dulveriford clergy had long been more or less "High";

therefore like oil and water, they flowed apart, failing to mingle.

Moreover, Mr. Trevelyan's predecessor had been personally obnoxious to

Mrs. Willoughby; and Mr. Trevelyan, stepping into his place, had small

chance of pleasing her. To be obnoxious to Mrs. Willoughby was to be

obnoxious to the family. If easy-going old Sir John spoke a pleasant

word now and then to his Rector, he did it sub rosa, concealing the

delinquency from his sister. Sybella, indoctrinated from infancy with

her aunt's notions, counted no condemnation too strong for the doings

of "that man." Had not "dear aunt" always "strongly disapproved" of him?

But Evelyn counted St. John's architecturally ugly, and she found

Mr. Kennedy prosy. His mild "comforting" sermons, which delighted

the hearts of the middle-aged ladies and elderly gentlemen of the

congregation, had only a soporific effect upon Evelyn. Her cultivated

musical taste, repelled by the tuneless shouting of St. John's, was

attracted by the well-trained choir of Dulveriford.

The next step was a warm liking on her part for Mr. Trevelyan, and a

girlish readiness to submit herself to his teaching. How much of this

preference sprang from a spirit of opposition, it would be hard to say.

No doubt it was real of its kind.

Miss Devereux could not prevent the personal acquaintance. The two

families had lived too long in close neighbourhood to be strangers;

and, so far as his connections went, Mr. Trevelyan might be counted

unexceptionable. Mrs. Willoughby had, however, always strenuously

resisted the growth of acquaintanceship into friendship; and Sybella

set herself to do the same. Thereby, at once, she enhanced the value of

the friendship to Evelyn.

There were bones of contention enough between them, without this in

addition. Whatever the one thought, the other did not think, on every

conceivable subject, from questions of Church and State, down to the

quilling of a frill.

Sybella's incessant quoting of Mrs. Willoughby provoked Evelyn. She did

not see what it had to do with her occupations, or why she needed to

follow certain rules, merely because Sybella had followed them at her

age.

"I don't intend to pass my days uselessly," she answered.

"But some regular plan—Indeed, I assure you, it is really necessary for

young girls. Dear aunt always said—"

Evelyn's involuntary movement was like that of a high-mettled horse,

akin to a shake of the mane, with a backward step, as if in retreat.

"Wait a moment. Pray do not be so impatient, Evelyn. It is necessary

that I should sometimes speak; and you ought not to be annoyed. It is—"

plaintively, "only for your good."

"Well?" in a questioning tone.

"There is one thing I must mention. I am sorry, but it is my positive

duty to—otherwise I would—If I am not misinformed, you went yesterday—I

have reason to believe that you were at the Rectory—that you called

there."

"Yes."

"It was not necessary—so soon. Only last week, and again yesterday! I

thought had made this clear to you, but I seem to have failed. I must

speak more plainly. I do not wish to complain, but, once for all, pray

remember that I object to any intimacy in that direction. I have said

this before, and it seems to have had no effect. You must please to

recollect. An occasional call is all very well, but not oftener than is

necessary."

"Why not?"

"We have never been intimate with the Trevelyans, and I do not intend

to be. I could not allow it. Dear aunt very much disapproved of certain

things—of Mr. Trevelyan's opinions, and—Pray listen to me, Evelyn. You

need not look so impatient. He holds most erroneous views about—and at

one time dear aunt found him most unpleasant—"

"Erroneous views about what?"

"I see no necessity for explaining more. You are a mere child still,

and cannot enter into these questions. Only you must understand

that I should not think of allowing any intimacy. It is out of the

question—and I expect strict obedience in the future." Sybella was

becoming agitated, and she twirled her hands nervously. "Dear aunt

would have said the same, and I am sure, if she had ever thought—My

dear, pray listen to me."

"I am listening. I cannot say that I understand. The Trevelyans seem to

me the nicest people about here."

"That is all perversity, Evelyn. You do not really know anything of

them. They are well-connected, but as for manner—! It is out of the

question that anybody should think Mr. Trevelyan attractive. And as for

Mme. Collier—!" Sybella's tone spoke the very quintessence of contempt.

"She is odd, but I like her. I like her immensely. She is so genuine.

And Jean fascinates me. And Mr. Trevelyan is the best—the most really

truly good man I ever came across. I could listen to his sermons for

hours. Of course I have only heard him two or three times—I have not

been to Dulveriford Church since you said I must not. But one very

soon knows what does one good. I like even his queer dry manner. He is

different from everybody else, and that is so refreshing."

"You are saying all this to vex me, of course," quavered Sybella,

reddening. "Just because you know how I feel. Go to Dulveriford Church!

I should think not indeed!—From Ripley Brow at all events! And I expect

the same obedience as to the acquaintance. Just politeness and no more.

When, all these years, we have kept so carefully aloof—"

"I don't think one ought to keep aloof from one's Rector. I don't think

it is right."

"Really, Evelyn—! But it all comes from your training. I always have

felt it a thousand pities that you went to that school. If your dear

Papa would have taken our advice—"

"My father was the best judge."

Evelyn made another backward step, which landed her on the lawn—a happy

occurrence. It diverted Miss Devereux's attention from the Trevelyans

to her pet hobby—health.

"Child! The grass! And your thin shoes!"

Evelyn turned and fled. She could not trust herself to remain longer;

but it was a pity that she ran straight across the lawn. The deed

looked like defiance.

CHAPTER IV.

SEVERELY SMITTEN.

"She should never have looked at me,

If she meant I should not love her."

R. BROWNING.

SYBELLA'S forehead wrinkled as Evelyn fled, and she sighed pensively.

"I shall have to appeal to General Villiers," she murmured. "He has

more influence over the girl than I have. So very wilful and obstinate!

It is most melancholy. But she will listen to General Villiers, because

he was her father's friend; and he will not approve of such conduct. I

must certainly speak to him. He is almost sure to look in by-and-by."

This was true. General Villiers had taken to "looking in" on most days:

and undoubtedly he had a strong influence over Evelyn. Sybella thought

him most kind and fatherly to the child: only perhaps a little too

ready to show how very pretty he thought her.

Sometimes it struck Sybella that he came to the house rather often, all

things considered. There were a good many arrangements to be made, and

he had constituted himself general adviser and helper: but still—! Now

and again this thought would recur, bringing a blush with it. Could he

mean anything particular? General Villiers was only about fifty-five

in age, and except for his grey hairs, he did not look so much. He was

handsome and gentlemanly; a person of good standing and of considerable

wealth. His antecedents were irreproachable. Sybella herself was barely

forty. Fifteen years of difference on the right side! What could be

more suitable?

Some such ideas floated vaguely through her mind, as she came indoors

and sat down. She was not in the least in love with General Villiers;

but she was quite ready to fancy herself so, if desirable; and she felt

that matters began to look suspicious. That poor dear man might well

feel lonely at Dutton Park, with no companion. Sybella woke up at the

sound of an "Auntie darling!" to find Cyril by her side.

"Auntie darling, may I go out?" He systematically addressed her thus—to

the delight of Sybella, but not at all to the delight of Evelyn. The

iteration was apt to grow tiresome.

"Yes, my pet. But you must put on your overshoes, and your coat and

necktie. The wind is east."

"Yes, auntie darling."

"And don't go on the grass, or sit down anywhere."

"No, auntie darling."

"You are pale, my sweet. Not a headache, I hope?"

Cyril had to consider. "Just a little wee one, auntie darling."

"Then you must not play in the sun. Walk in the shade; and mind you

don't run fast so as to get too hot."

"No, auntie darling."

"If you see Evelyn, don't let her excite you. And if the headache

doesn't go soon, you must come in and lie down. Something must have

disagreed with you yesterday. Perhaps it was the baked apple. I think

you had better have only broth to-day for dinner—and just a little dry

toast."

"Yes, auntie darling."

Cyril obeyed the various directions given, so long as he remembered

them. He crept about in the shade, like a venerable invalid, till near

the river. By that time the fresh air, acting upon so much of a boyish

nature as had been allowed to develop in him, overcame the cultivated

languor, and he began to run. A bright idea sprang up, and Sybella's

cautions vanished.

He had never yet made a second trial of the stepping-stones. He would

do it now. Jean had urged him to conquer. He would not be a coward.

There was natural force of will in the boy, though his fond parents had

done their best in the past to weaken it; though his doting aunt was

now doing her best to carry on the process.

"You don't like so-and-so! Then don't do it, darling!"—had been the

manner of his training hitherto. Such treatment is an absolute cruelty

to a child, unfitting him for the exigencies of future life. To teach

a child to master his own will, to control his own inclinations, is a

grand beginning for life. To wrap the will in cotton-wool, and slay its

vitality through disuse, means often a terrible after-slavery to the

inclinations. "If I like!" becomes the rule of action in place of "If I

ought!"

Cyril had enough of latent vigour to prevent his succumbing utterly to

even Sybella's training. As yet, however, he was very young for his

age; small, timid, almost babyish; and his affectionateness made him

the more malleable. The chief bracing influence in his little life was

Jean Trevelyan. Oswald frightened him; and he shrank from Evelyn's high

spirit; but he was ready to do or bear anything for Jean.

So he made the effort bravely, though his heart fluttered, and dire

sickness crept over him, as the waters ran past. He knew no more than

did Jean of the physical weakness which caused these sensations. It

was "cowardice" in his eyes as in Jean's; and it had to be conquered,

because she said so.

From stone to stone, he struggled on—whitening, shivering, hardly able

to hold himself upright, till the middle of the stream was reached.

Then he could do no more. Water and banks swept round with dizzy whirl,

and as he crouched down in a forlorn little heap, he seemed to be

sinking through unfathomable depths. He would not cry this time, for

Jean despised boyish tears, but further advance was not possible.

"Hallo! What's wrong?"

It was a man's voice, full and musical; a voice unknown to Cyril. A few

strides brought the owner of the voice near, and Cyril was lifted in a

pair of strong arms, to be carried the rest of the way.

"What's the matter, you poor little chap?"

Cyril burst into tears. "Oh, I did want to get over," he sobbed, "and I

couldn't; and Jean—Jean—"

"What about Jean?"

"Jean says—says—it's so cowardly—and she won't—won't love me!"

"What's cowardly?"

"I can't get across the stones."

"Turns you giddy, eh?"

"Yes," sobbed Cyril, from the depths of his heart.

"Never mind. I wouldn't cry. When I was a little fellow like you, I was

just the same—every inch as bad; and you see I don't mine the stones

now."

Cyril was wonderfully comforted. Tears lessened, and he could manage

to look up into the other's face—a young face, frank and kindly; with

a mouth of exquisite curves, sweet, strong, and smiling; with a broad

forehead above the grey eyes, which were full, half of mockery, half of

tenderness, a touch of sadness running through both.

"Please put me down," entreated Cyril, direfully afraid of seeming

girlish.

The young man obeyed very gently, as if he were handling a piece of

porcelain. There was something porcelain-like in the child's look.

Cyril tottered, and caught at his new friend.

"Dizzy still, poor little man? Sit on this bank."

"I mustn't. Auntie says the grass is damp to-day. And I promised."

"Whew! Quite right to do as you are told. Well; you won't find me damp.

I'll be your cushion."

He threw himself down, lifted Cyril on his knee, and encircled the

child with kind arms. Cyril rested his curly head on the broad

shoulder, with evident relief.

"That's better, eh? Now tell me your name. Cyril! What—little Devereux?

I know all about you. And is Jean a friend of yours?"

"Jean? O yes! I do love her so."

Pretty, but hardly boy-like, the young man thought.

"She's a jolly little girl, isn't she?"

"Do you know Jean?"—with great eagerness.

"Rather! I should think so! Hasn't she ever talked to you about Cousin

Jem? If not, I'll pay her out."

The mocking grey eyes sparkled, then grew soft as they glanced down

on Cyril's tiny white hand. Jem's oppositions of mood were almost as

marked as those of Jean.

"O yes; I know. Jean told me. She said Cousin Jem was a sort of a

cousin. And she likes him—you, I mean—ever so much. Next after Oswald,

you know. And I think I shall like you next after Jean. And Evie said

you were coming to stay with General Villiers. But—" with an elderly

air—"I didn't know it was you, of course, at first: because Evie called

you a boy."

Cyril was regarding, in his turn, the muscular brown hand beside his

own, a hand of aristocratic outlines and powerful grasp, matching well

the lithe muscular figure.

"Evie calls everybody boys."

"Does she? Who is Evie?"

"Oh, she's my sister. She's so pretty. I love Evie; only not like

Jean." A pause, as if for reflection. "I mean to marry Jean, some day."

"Ah!" said Jem. "Have you told her so?"

"O no!" Cyril's voice had a sound of indignant surprise. "I haven't

told anybody."

"Except me!" Jem Trevelyan was used to this. He had the indescribable

power over all who came in contact with him, which causes unlimited

confiding. Young as he was, other people were perpetually telling him

things which they "had told nobody else." He never knew why: neither

did they: but in a tête-à-tête with Jem, secrets were sure to ooze out;

and Jem never abused anybody's trust.

"You won't tell Jean!"

"Not a word. You needn't be afraid. I wouldn't advise you to tell Jean

either. Many a lady is lost through the gentleman speaking too soon."

Jem stated this as seriously as if he had been addressing a full-grown

man; and indeed the little fellow's intense seriousness hardly admitted

of a joke. "Wait a while."

"How long?"

"Oh, wait—let me see—how old are you?"

"I'm just ten."

"Well, you must wait ten or twelve years at the very least. Perhaps

more. Never do to speak sooner."

"Jacob waited fourteen years."

"So he did." Jem mentally contrasted the patriarch with this dainty

infant, and had difficulty in keeping his lips straight. "If you have

to wait fourteen years, it's nothing. Just bring you to twenty-four."

"And then I'll marry Jean."

"Supposing Jean consents. There's that little point to be considered.

I'll tell you one thing—Jean will never marry a man to whom she can't

look up. Do you understand? You must grow into a real man before you

speak—strong and brave and good—a man she can respect and lean upon,

not a twopence-halfpenny creature in a coat."

The words sank deep; deeper than Jem knew.

"Yes, I will!" said Cyril.

"And don't mind waiting. Don't be easily disheartened, or get into a

tiff and throw it up, because she isn't to be had at the first go. If

she's worth winning, she's worth waiting for."

Cyril heaved a sigh. Sybella was always giving vent to audible

expirations of air, and the trick is infectious.

"I think Jean is just exactly like Rachel," he said. "Rachel was so

beautiful, you know."

Jem's expression became comical. Had he uttered his thought, he would

have said, "She's a queer little scarecrow, but she'll improve."

Happily he was spared the need for a reply.

"Hallo! There she is! Wait and see if she knows me. We've not met for

two years."

Jean advanced slowly, recognising Cyril, and perplexed at his position.

Cyril would have struggled up, but for Jem's grasp. When Jean came

near, a flash of light appeared in her eyes.

"Cousin Jem!" she cried.

Jem pulled her down on the grass beside him, and kissed her cheek.

"How d'you do, little one? Can't get up, for I'm acting bolster. Here's

somebody in mortal dread of a scolding from you. Tried to get over the

stones, and turned giddy."

"Cyril is always frightened," Jean said, with disdain.

"It's not fear. He can't help the dizziness."

Jean looked up in surprise. "Can't he?"

"No. The feeling isn't cowardice. If he caved in, and made up his mind

to be beaten, that would be cowardice. But he won't."

"I won't, really and truly, Jean," pleaded Cyril. "I did try so hard."

Jem's hand went with a tender motion over the curly hair. Jean saw and

understood, the soft side of her nature springing in response.

"You won't mind some day, Cyril."

"Not he," said Jem. "He'll be as plucky as anything! See if he isn't!

You must give him time. Everything isn't easy to everybody, you know.

It really is braver of Cyril to get half over, feeling as he does, than

for you to run backwards and forwards fifty times. Yes, of course, much

braver!"—emphatically. "Because one is hard, and the other isn't. Mind,

Cyril, don't try it alone for a time or two. Take Jean's hand, and try

a few stones. Do a little more every day. By-and-by you won't care a

rap."

"No, I won't," assented Cyril.

"It's a nasty feeling. I used to be just as bad—got into an awful funk

if I had to walk along a board. Had a hard fight too, before I could

master it. But it had to be mastered. If I'd given in, and been a slave

to that, I should have been a slave to a hundred other fancies as well;

and think what a useless fellow I must have grown. Always a bother to

myself, and a hindrance to everybody else."

"I won't!" declared the little baronet, with concentrated earnestness.

"That's right. You'll conquer, never fear! Now you're better, eh? Able

to stand again? Why!—Who—?"

Jem, otherwise James Trevelyan, sprang to his feet, snatching off his

cap.

He had seen pretty girls in his lifetime—any number of them; and his

pulse was not wont to beat fast at the sight. They did beat now,

furiously. For not many "pretty girls," so called, could match the one

coming at this moment across the stones.

She was tall for her age, slight and willow-like in figure. Brown

hair clustered thickly about the brow; and dark curled lashes fringed

the violet eyes. Other features, if not classically beautiful, were

delicate, unobtrusive, and set off by a rare complexion of ivory and

pale rose. One ungloved hand held a garden hat, the other guarded a

crape-trimmed skirt.

In leisurely style she drew near; not troubling herself to put on the

hat; not in the least embarrassed by Jem's bewildered gaze. Evelyn saw

it, of course; but admiration was an everyday thing in her life. It

came and was accepted, much in the same fashion that sunshine comes and

is accepted.

Had admiration failed, Evelyn would have felt the loss. Having it in

superabundance, she received it carelessly. While aware of her own

exceptional charms, and appreciating the privileges of beauty, she

was far less vain, far less occupied with her own looks, than many a

girl not one tithe so fair. Evelyn was much more disposed to vanity in

respect of her mental gifts than of her pretty face.

"That's Evie," announced Cyril.

"Who?"

"It's Cyril's sister—Evelyn," said Jean, wondering what had come over

"Cousin Jem."

Jem stood motionless, cap off, till Evelyn quitted the last stone. Then

he went forward, and offered his help for the ascent of the bank.

"Thanks!" Evelyn said, smiling, and just touching the brown hand. She

needed no help, but she was too gracious a being to refuse. "Thanks!"

she repeated, reaching the level path, with a kind look at Jem which

finished him off completely, though it was no more than she would have

given to gardener or butler for a service rendered. "Is anything wrong

with Cyril?"

"He turned giddy, crossing the river," said Jem.

"But I'm going to try again, and I mean to do it," exclaimed Cyril. "He

says he was just as bad, Evie, and he got over it. And I mean to be

brave. Jean says I must."

"Jean says!" repeated Evelyn. It recalled Miss Devereux's perpetual

citing of "dear aunt."

"He's a boy," explained Jean.

"And I'll be a man some day," cried the little baronet. "You'll see,

Evie. I'll take care of Jean when I'm a man."

"Jean is more likely to take care of you at present."

"That state of things is often reversed later," observed Jem, feeling

for once unaccountably shy, and striving after self-possession.

He was not given to shyness commonly. "Cyril and I had to perform

self-introductions. Jean was our connecting link."

"Then perhaps you are General Villiers' friend?"

"And he isn't a boy," cried Cyril, drowning Jem's assent.

Evelyn did not blush. She said, "No?" and looked straight at Jem with

a soft laugh, which put him at his ease, but tightened the strings of

fascination.

"I reached Dutton Park last night. General Villiers, is an old friend

of some of my family. A delightful man."

The girl's eyes drooped. "He is—I don't know anyone like him!"

"A sort of modern preux-chevalier style."

"And always so gentle."

Jem wondered whether any human being could be otherwise than gentle to

Evelyn. He knew little of Miss Devereux.

Evelyn made a move as if to go. "Come, Cyril—" she said; "we will

walk round by the bridge. I suppose you have had enough of the

stepping-stones for one day."

"There's a prettier path to the Brow up the glen—crossing the rustic

bridge," observed Jem. "But of course you know."

"Oh, I know it all. I have spent so many of my holidays here—only not

very lately. That is my favourite ramble. But it is supposed to be too

lonely for me, with only Cyril; and somehow nobody is ever free to

escort us."

"Why, I go alone anywhere," said Jean.

Jem's glance went from the one to the other. "That is different,"

he remarked; and then he turned again to Evelyn, audacious though

embarrassed. "If you would not mind—Jean and I would gladly act escort.

The glen is perfect just now. You really ought to see it. I have been

the whole round this morning."

"Thanks!" in a considering tone.

"Jean and I are cousins," apologetically. "So I thought—"

"A sort of cousins," corrected Jean, trained in habits of rigid

accuracy.

"My father was first cousin to Jean's father, so Jean and I are

'seconds.' It is a convenient tie where people suit; and Jean and I do

suit; so perhaps—"

"Perhaps, on the strength of it, we may count ourselves acquainted."

"There is General Villiers as well to vouch for my respectability."

"Ah!"—with a smile.

"Then you really will make use of us! I'll walk behind, if you would

rather."

Evelyn laughed. She found the proposal tempting, and could see no harm.

"I don't think a rearguard will be needful," she said. "Thanks—if it

really is not giving you trouble—"

"Trouble!!" protested Jem.

CHAPTER V.

QUITE TOO UTTERLY.

"A dim Ideal of tender grace

In my soul reigned supreme;

Too noble and too sweet, I thought,

To live, save in a dream—

Within thy heart to-day it lies, and looks on me

from thy dear eyes."

A. A. PROCTER.

THE winding glen in its tangled beauty, far surpassed ordinary English

types of scenery. It might almost have served for a Swiss ravine, but

for the lack of enclosing mountains; and, indeed, the range of great

hills, not many miles away, where the river had its birth, might not

inaptly have been called "mountains," at least as an act of courtesy.

Banks, rising on either side of the gorge to a height of two hundred

feet and more, were carpeted thickly with moss, decked with ferns, and

clothed with trees which descended to the very brink of the swirling

stream, there to overhang its surface. The path led through a prolonged

bower of foliage, occasional gleams of sunshine creeping through.

Gnarled roots projected themselves fantastically; and large flat

stones, now high and dry, showed the wash of the water in flood-time.

Cyril grew timid at the nearness of the path to the steep lower bank.

He slid his hand into Jean's, and she did not rebuff the appeal, for

Jem had taught her a lesson. She put him on the side away from the

stream, and held his fingers protectingly.

Jem did not mark this. Usually he saw everything; but his whole

attention was given to Evelyn. Her delight with the exquisite tints,

the lights and shades of the gorge, was pretty as a study; and it

meant more than a study to Jem. She did not use up a vocabulary of

adjectives, but the closed lips parted, the violet eyes deepened, the

blush-rose tint of her cheeks grew bright. She went slowly—it could

not be too slowly for Jem!—devouring with earnest gaze every detail of

light and shadow. Jem was enchained with the grace of her movements,

the more remarkable from utter absence of self-consciousness. He had

never come across any one like her before, though the girls he had

known were in number legion.

Still Evelyn said nothing till they reached a wilder part, less shut

in. Trees grew scanty, and the rocks were steep and bare, while the

stream rushed swiftly through a straitened bed, foaming past with a

sweet high note. Then she did say "Oh!" and her eyes went in a swift

appeal for sympathy to Jem. Not in the least because he was Jem, but

only because in her joy she wanted a response from somebody.

Jem could hardly be expected to understand exactly how things were. He

realised only that a new world was opening out before him—a new world

in the shape of Evelyn Devereux. If he had not been already taken

captive, this one glance would have done the business. Such a pair of

great violet eyes, liquid, radiant, fringed all round with even lashes,

turned full upon him, as if he, and he alone, could enter into her

delight—what chance had he? And yet he was nothing to Evelyn. She would

have bestowed the same look upon almost anybody who had happened to

stand in his place at the moment. It was simply the natural expression

of her pleasure.

Jem was a devotee of Nature commonly; but the sole item of Nature which

he had eyes for on this particular day was a human item. The fair

scenery of the gorge was lost upon him. He forgot even the presence of

the children, and saw only Evelyn.

She had the dumb response she wanted, and went on, thinking no more

about him. Jem was content not to talk. His one wish was to be allowed

to walk beside Evelyn indefinitely, watching the play of feeling in

her face. But this could not last; and somewhere in his mind, he was

counting on five minutes of her free attention, when they should have

crossed the rustic bridge, into the path which led away from the gorge,

straight to the Ripley Brow grounds. The gorge itself would take a

sharp bend just after the bridge, becoming then the second arm or

branch of the letter V, and growing for a while even more rugged and

wild in character, before it flattened and sobered down.

When, however, the bridge had been crossed, and Jem's hopes were high,

a clerical figure could be seen striding down the glen towards them.

"Mr. Trevelyan!" exclaimed Evelyn.

She had taken, as already intimated, a strong girlish fancy to the

Rector; and, as also intimated, the fancy was being fed by opposition.

Left alone, it might have sunk into insignificance. Stamped upon, it

was sure to flourish.

"How do you do?" said Mr. Trevelyan. He had always a curt and rigid

manner, but a certain softness crept into his eyes as he bent them on

Evelyn; for no man could be grim to Evelyn Devereux.

Jem received a handshake, and a brief, "Heard you were coming."

"Have you been for a walk?" asked Evelyn wistfully.

"On business. Not pleasure. A man ill in cottage."

"And you are going home down the gorge?"

"No; I have another visit to pay beyond your sapling plantation."

"O then you were coming our way; so I need not trouble Mr. Trevelyan

any longer. He has been so kindly taking care of us through the glen.

Thanks; I am so much obliged to you for coming all this distance," she

said, giving her hand to Jem with bewitching graciousness. "It has been

lovely."

Jem submitted to her decision with lifted cap, and did not betray the

depth of his disappointment. Evelyn would scarcely have seen it, if he

had, for she was busied with her new companion.

"Jean, it is nearly time for you to go home," said Mr. Trevelyan, as he

turned away.

The tiny baronet, with a parting glance at Jean, trotted in the rear

of the retiring two. He was desperately in awe of Mr. Trevelyan, and

seldom by choice approached within fifty yards of him; so Evelyn was

likely to have what she thoroughly enjoyed, a tête-à-tête talk with

the Rector. His characteristic air of dry attention did not repel her,

as it would have repelled many girls; and there was nothing small or

nagging about his severity. She felt the man to be thoroughly genuine

in all he said or did. If the path of duty should lead him through fire

and water, he would follow it unhesitatingly. Whatever his faults might

be—and faults, of course, he had, being human—self-indulgence was not

one of them. Evelyn's keen insight read him truly.

Jem would have given all he possessed, which was not much, to follow

Evelyn along the path, and into the "Brow" grounds; no matter at what

distance. But gentlemanly feeling rendered this impossible. He stood

like a statue, gazing fixedly till the three had vanished, unconscious

of Jean's watchful attention.

"Well—" he said at length, and he made an effort to pull himself

together, to awake to common life once more. "Well, Jean?"

"Do you think Evelyn very pretty?" asked Jean, with a child's

directness. "Is that why you stare at so?"

Jem felt ruffled. His worst enemy could not lawfully accuse him of

anything so objectionable as "staring."

"Rather a rude remark, Jean!"

"I don't mean to be rude. But you did," asserted Jean.

"I beg your pardon! Looking is not staring. A gentleman never stares."

"Do you think her very pretty?" repeated Jean, dropping what she

counted an unimportant question.

"Yes. Don't you?"

"Not so much as some people."

Jem was amused. He planted himself with his back against a tree, and

scanned curiously the straight supple child.

"Who is prettier than Miss Devereux, among your acquaintances?"

Jean was puzzled. "Miss Devereux isn't pretty. She's too old. Aunt

Marie says she is fifty."

"Oh, I see. But I mean Miss Evelyn Devereux. I say, Jean, don't you go

about talking Of Miss Devereux as fifty years old. She wouldn't like

it."

"Aunt Marie said so."

"You needn't quote Aunt Marie. Come—who is prettier in your estimation

than Miss Evelyn Devereux?"

The answer was delayed. Jean seemed to be weighing the matter. She said

at length composedly:

"You!"

Jem did laugh. He had a pleasant musical laugh, round and full like his

voice. It rang out now, not loudly but irresistibly. Jem held on to a

bough, and bent with his merriment; while his eyes danced, and fairly

ran over with tears of fun.

"Jean, you are past everything. It's the best compliment I ever had in

my life," cried Jem, nearly convulsed.

"It's true," sturdily answered Jean.

Jem mastered himself, though every muscle in his face was twitching yet.

"Are you sure you don't mean Oswald?"

"Oh no. Oswald says boys are never pretty; only brave. But I think men

are pretty sometimes."

"What do you find pretty in me? Eh?"

Jean found response easy. "Your eyes are pretty," she said. "They

look so funny. And your mouth is pretty, only you're getting a horrid

moustache. And I like the way you do your hair. It's got a nice wave

just on the forehead. And you laugh so often. Nobody's pretty that

doesn't smile."

"But Miss Evelyn Devereux smiles."

"Oh, not like you."

"What a pity Jean doesn't smile more!"

"I shouldn't be pretty, anyhow."

Jem could not contradict this. He patted her arm.

"Never mind. You are a nice little girl, and I like you. What is to be

your next step?"

"Now? I'm going home to lessons."

"Not holidays yet!"

"I don't have holidays. I wish I could. Aunt Marie says they are such

waste of time."

"I'll see if I can't beg you off a day or two. Come along! Yes, this

minute!"

Jean's face of wondering delight was worth inspection. A passing

question slid through Jem's mind—was she so plain, after all? But he

did not trouble himself to answer the question. He was longing to get

away from everybody, that he might dream over his new vision of beauty.

Perhaps not many in his place would have voluntarily put aside the

longing, to beg a treat for a child; and he half regretted his own

offer the next instant, though he never thought of drawing back. Jem

was essentially kind-hearted.

Together they went to the Rectory; and Jem pleaded so successfully

that four whole days were granted. This was Friday. Lessons should not

begin again till the Thursday following. Jean heard in a maze of silent

rapture. Five days of uninterrupted freedom, counting Sunday! Freedom

to devote herself to Oswald!

Jem did a good deal of walking and fishing those days; and a good deal

more of dreaming. Whatever else he might have in hand, Evelyn was never

out of his mind.

He saw her each day, one way or another. Sometimes it was only a

glimpse, of which Evelyn knew nothing. Once they met in the road, and

had a little chat. Once General Villiers took him to the Brow for

afternoon tea, and Jem was in her presence for an hour. It all meant to

Evelyn—nothing. To Jem it meant—everything.

CHAPTER VI.

AN APPEAL AND ITS RESULTS.

"And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,

Each was nought to each, must I be told?

We were fellow-mortals, nought beside?"

R. BROWNING.

"I CERTAINLY am surprised! I could not have expected such a want of

correct feeling!" Miss Devereux spoke in tremulous accents, moving her

hands nervously with a washing gesture, one over the other.

Sybella's hands were seldom at rest. Either she was twiddling her

chain, or she was drumming the table, or she was going through some

other digit-exercises of her own devising. People who have unpretty

hands, and do not wish to call attention to them, should refrain from

needless gestures. Sybella had not pretty hands, but she was far from

following this rule.

Miss Devereux's face was in a flutter, as well as her extremities,

and her eyes roved anxiously about. Evelyn's composure made her

increasingly nervous.

"I certainly am surprised," she reiterated. "Such an extraordinary

thing to do. My dear aunt would have been quite shocked: she would

indeed. I am sure, when I was your age, I should as soon have thought

of flying as of such an impropriety!"

"Impropriety! To let that boy walk up the glen with us!"

"James Trevelyan is not a boy. You cannot pretend to think him so. He

has been through college."

"Twenty-two, is he not? I know he said he could not be ordained for

another year."

"Five years older than yourself."

"Ten years younger in mind and character."

"Really Evelyn—"

"And I shall be eighteen in a week."

"Really, Evelyn, if you persist in this sort of thing, I shall have—I

shall be compelled to appeal to General Villiers."

Evelyn laughed, but it was easy to see that the threat told.

"Ask General Villiers whether I may walk in the company of a big boy

and two children, for fifteen or twenty minutes!"

"Your flippant tone only makes me feel—"

"General Villiers told me yesterday all about young Mr. Trevelyan,"

said Evelyn. She was not rudely interrupting her aunt. Sybella's

sentences were apt to die away unfinished, as ideas or language failed.

"He must be a nice lad."

"Mr. Trevelyan may—That has nothing to do with your conduct! Your

conscience must convince you how wrongly you are behaving! I shall

certainly have to appeal to General Villiers," quavered Sybella.

"General Villiers!" announced Pearce.

With more than usual gravity, the General entered. No doubt he had

heard the words last spoken, for Miss Devereux's voice always grew

shrill under excitement. She greeted him with a disturbed air, while

Evelyn stood in the centre of the room, carrying her head like a young

princess.

"I hope nothing has happened," General Villiers said, with his air of

polished politeness. He kept Evelyn's hand, scrutinising the unwonted

spot of crimson on either cheek. The exceeding kindness of his look was

almost too much for her self-control; and tears flushed her eyes.

"Aunt Sybella is vexed," she said. "Your friend, Mr. James Trevelyan,

was so good as to walk up the glen with us, the day he arrived. I had

been longing to go there, and nobody was ever free to take me. I am

told I must not do it alone. He and Jean and Cyril and I were together.

Was it so very objectionable?"

General Villiers could not drop the small hand, which seemed to creep

into his for protection. He stood looking down upon Evelyn, with

mingled sympathy and admiration. Evelyn's lip quivered, and two large

tears fell despite all her efforts. She dashed them away with the free

hand, as if ashamed.

"Evelyn is of course making the best possible story for herself,"

complained Miss Devereux. "My dear aunt always trained me to be so very

particular—"

"But perhaps—" the General said, taking advantage of a hiatus.

"And Evelyn pays no regard to my wishes. None whatever! I am sorry

to have to complain of her, but I feel it to be my duty. My feelings

matter little, but there is Evelyn's future—and what may be said of

her. I feel that I ought to appeal. It is not the one thing only. I

am sure if I could have known what these two months would be—Evelyn

running deliberately in the face of my wishes—disregarding my

opinions—setting up her own judgment—forming friendships which she

knows I must disapprove—disobeying my express commands! And then the

temper and annoyance, when I venture to remonstrate. If I had guessed—"

"But about Jem?" said the General.

"When I was Evelyn's age, I am sure I should never have dreamt of such

a thing as a walk with a stranger—a young man!!—absolutely without even

an introduction! But then I was so carefully brought up! I could never

have stooped to such an act. I would have walked twenty miles round

sooner! Such a want of self-respect."

There was a dangerous flash in Evelyn's eyes. "It is you who give the

false impression now," she said. "Mr. Trevelyan helped Cyril when he

was frightened; and that was an introduction. I knew all about him; and

the two children were there. We went up the glen together, all four of

us; and as soon as Mr. Trevelyan appeared—our Mr. Trevelyan, I mean—I

said good-bye to him. Was that so dreadful?"—her eyes going to General

Villiers. "I did want to see the glen again."

"Why did you never ask me to take you, my child?" the General asked

naturally. "However—I think Miss Devereux must have misunderstood

matters. Now that it is all cleared up, shall we—?"

"I beg your pardon; it is you who do not understand," tartly

interrupted Sybella. "But perhaps I had better say no more. Evelyn

is bent upon taking her own way. Dear aunt would have been sadly

grieved. If Evelyn did not feel herself to be in the wrong, why

did she never tell me what she had done? Why did she so studiously

conceal it—and no doubt induce her little brother to do the same?

Such underhandedness—But I feel it is useless for me to pursue the

subject. I have said all that is needful, and I have done. Perhaps, if

you are alone with Evelyn, you may induce her to speak the truth. My

remonstrances are thrown away."

Miss Devereux's voice was so high-pitched and shaky as to suggest an

imminent breakdown. She left the room, and Evelyn's eyes were again

full.

"O it is hard—hard to have to live with her," the girl murmured. "I

have never had to bear coldness before: Aunt Sybella cannot endure me.

Everything I do and say is wrong. Perhaps I ought to have told her of

that walk, but I knew she would worry, and it did not seem worthwhile.

Sometimes I almost think I must run away—everything is so wretched. She

is winning even Cyril from me."

"My poor child!"

"You feel for me, I know," she said, raising her eye frankly, as

to a father. "That is my one comfort. If it were not for your

kindness—knowing that you understand—I think I should go wild. I

cannot tell you what the pressure is, all day long. One is never left

in peace, never allowed to have one's own opinion. Everything must be

discussed, and aunt Sybella must always prove herself to be in the

right. The weariness of that incessant tittle-tattle—what this person

says, and what that person thinks. The only being never in the wrong is

aunt Sybella! You are not even allowed to differ in silence. You must

listen, you must answer, and you must be convinced."

"I don't wonder that you find things trying."

"Oh, if you knew—how trying. I may speak out this once, may I not?

You are my father's friend, and she has appealed to you. I have never

ventured before. I did not even ask you to take me up the glen, because

she is so jealous of any kind word spoken to me. Don't you see how hard

it is?—How alone I am? If only I might go back to school! They did love

me there."

A sob broke into the words. General Villiers was deeply moved. Evelyn's

face did not lose its attractiveness, even under agitation. Her very

weeping was controlled, and her features were not distorted by the

muscular expression of distress; but the violet eyes grew pathetic, and

large drops fell slowly.

"Two months? They seem like two years to me! How shall I ever bear

whole years of it, with no hope of escape? She will never learn to love

me."

"She must—in time."

"She will not. I have no power over aunt Sybella. We repel one another

at every point. Isn't there a sort of mutual repulsion between certain

people?" Evelyn tried to laugh. "I think I shall grow a bad temper

here. I never knew that I had one before; but she makes me naughty. Do

things lie dormant in us sometimes, till we get into a new atmosphere?

Aunt Sybella will be my temper-growing atmosphere, I am afraid. If

people love me, and I love them, I can be vexed at nothing. Real love

doesn't get vexed, you know. But she—oh, she makes it so hard to be

good; so hard to do right."

General Villiers might have whispered patience to the tried young

spirit. He might have told her that the very "atmosphere" which

threatened to develop a temper ought rather to be the means of

developing a spirit of endurance. He might have suggested that one can

never learn to bear bravely and Christianly, without having something

to bear. He might have reminded her that life and its surroundings are

modelled for each individual by ONE who knows that individual's need.

But his overwhelming sense of sympathy prevented a dispassionate view

of matters.

While feeling for Evelyn, he ought also to have felt for Sybella. The

very weakness of character and narrowness of intellect, which made her

so trying a companion for Evelyn, added to her perplexities in dealing

with Evelyn. She was much to be pitied for those perplexities, and for

the enervating education which had fostered her natural feebleness.

General Villiers could not see Sybella's side. He had eyes only for

Evelyn's trouble.

The past two months of constant intercourse with this young girl, fresh

from school, had worked a revolution in his being. After long years of

widowhood, wherein no thought of marrying again had come to the fore,

he found himself passionately in love with a pretty creature, not yet

eighteen, a complete child in comparison with himself!

The thing was wild, of course; inconceivable. The idea of marriage

could not be cherished for a moment. General Villiers had not cherished

it thus far. He had scarcely even admitted to himself that he loved,

other than in a fatherly way. Or if at times he allowed the fact, he

was resolved to keep his secret, to be only her true and father-like

friend, to watch over her life, to guard her so far as he might from

sorrow, to find his joy in seeing her happy.

So matters might have gone on indefinitely, but for this scene.

General Villiers was a man of peculiarly simple nature, single-eyed

and straightforward, but by no means incapable of taking a false step.

The very directness of his aims, and the childlike eagerness of his

impulses, combined with a certain innate incapacity to look upon both

sides of a question, made him the more liable to such a step. Evelyn's

distress, her free speech, her instinctive turning to him, broke

through his purposes of self-restraint. The love, which had smouldered

hitherto, leaped up in a fierce flame, and bore down all barriers. He

thought how he might bring her speedy relief; and he did not think how

the manner of that bringing might possibly mean a fresh thraldom. At

the moment it seemed to him that for her sake he might speak.

"Evelyn, my little girl," he said, and his manly voice faltered, "if I

were but younger! If I were but more fitted! I would give my life for

you! I would give all I have to smooth your way! And even as things

are—if I could be sure that I ought—"

She seemed perplexed, and said, "I don't understand."

"You are too young—only seventeen! Far too young for an old fellow like

me. Yes, I am old compared with you, my child! The discrepancy is far

too great. It would be wrong! You are such a child. You cannot know

your own mind yet. Still I could give love as strong—stronger, I think,

than any mere boy. I do give—but how can I ask your acceptance? It

would be a cruelty to your future."

She gazed wistfully into his agitated face.

"I don't quite understand," she repeated. "At least I am not sure. But

you are the best and kindest friend I have ever had. Nobody can be to

me what you are. And I am not a child. I am just eighteen. I have not

been a child for years. They said at school that I grew into a woman

long before the right time. I don't care for young people or boys.

There is always a want in them. Why should you talk as if there were

such a very great difference between you and me? I think age has more

to do with mind than body."

The words dropped slowly from her soft rosy lips, each with an

intonation of serious thought. General Villiers was swept away by them.

He took her hands into his own, kissing again and again the slender

fingers.

"My little girl! Can it be true? Will you be mine? Could you make up

your mind to marry me, my Evelyn—to let my home be yours?"

"Marry you! Live at Dutton Park!" And her eyes opened wider. Despite

her would-be middle-aged manner, she looked inordinately young at that

moment, her ivory skin and delicate bloom contrasting with his grizzled

locks and developing crow's feet. The innocent surprise was so like a

child's pleasure. "Live at Dutton Park!" she said. She did not add—"Get

away from aunt Sybella!"—but unquestionably that idea was prominent.

"Would you? Could you? Do you feel that it would be possible?" faltered

the General. He could hardly speak, he was so stirred and shaken by the

rush of his great love; while she was entirely calm, only surprised and

pleased. "My Evelyn! My darling can such joy be?"

"Yes, I will indeed," she answered.

CHAPTER VII.

PREPOSTEROUS!

"What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?"

R. BURNS.

"I NEVER heard anything so preposterous in all my life!" declared

Madame Collier, in a muffled tone of righteous indignation.

The muffled sound was due to a physical cause, not to a mental

condition. Madame Collier was putting a false hem to an old serge

skirt of Jean's for lengthening purposes; and the process required a

plentiful use of pins. Two or three white points protruded from each

corner of her mouth. She wore her huge untrimmed garden hat, having

been previously fruit-gathering; and the rusty alpaca was looped up,

Dutchwoman-wise, nearly half-way to her knees, displaying ankles formed

rather for strength than grace.

Marie Collier had her little vanities, like most people; as, for

instance, in the matter of her name. She plumed herself on being

"Madame Collier;" not plain prosaic "Mrs." In the matter of dress, she

did not study the becoming. Vanity here took the opposite course, not

necessarily less vain. She prided herself on a stoical indifference to

appearances.

"Preposterous!" she repeated, taking a pin from her mouth, sticking it

into the serge, and reaching energetically across the dining-room table

for scissors. Mr. Trevelyan stood on the other side, upright and stern.

"I declare the world is going crazy. General Villiers, over sixty years

old—and a baby of sixteen! Preposterous!"

"Matters are bad enough without exaggeration. General Villiers is

fifty-five, and Evelyn is just eighteen."

"Eighteen and fifty-five! He might be her grandfather! It is wicked!

Downright wicked!" declared Madame Collier, paying off her heat of

spirit into the folding and pinning. "I never heard such an idea in my

life. Who told you?"

"General Villiers. I met him half-an-hour since. He seemed too much

delighted to keep the thing to himself; but it is not to be known just

yet."

"And Miss Devereux?"

"I gather that she is taken by surprise—"

"I should just think so!"

"But that she will offer no serious objection."

"Sybella Devereux would offer no serious objection if the world were to

be turned into a cream-cheese. She hasn't the wits. Oh, she will fall

in with the plan—glad to get the girl off her hands. The General can do

as he likes—though how he manages to reconcile his conscience passes my

understanding."

"He must decide for himself."

"He's sure to do that—and for Evelyn too. What man doesn't? He'll

follow his own inclinations, of course, and sacrifice that young

creature, before she understands what it all means. Why, she's an

infant! What has she seen of life? Care for him! It's out of the

question! Preposterous! Yes, I dare say she cares after a fashion—the

way a girl cares for her grandfather. Likes to be the Lady of Dutton

Park, no doubt! That's the bait. And she and Miss Devereux don't pull

together. Anybody with half an eye can see! A lucky chance of escape,

no doubt—but as for that child being in love with General Villiers—! I

know better. The girl's an actress, if she lets him think so. But it's

the General that I blame. She doesn't know what she is doing, and he

does. Don't talk to me again of his goodness! I've no patience with

such goodness! It's downright wickedness!" cried the Rector's sister,

dropping a small shower of pins by way of climax, for anger opens the

lips.

Her tone changed suddenly. "Jean! What are you doing there? You have no

business to creep in and listen to what people are saying."

"I'm just come home," Jean said in self-defence. She had approached so

near that Mme. Collier really had no excuse for not seeing her sooner,

beyond abstraction of ideas. Jean had reached the end of the table, not

creeping, but walking with her usual erect bearing and light footfall.

There she had stopped, electrified by the words which reached her ears.

She thought some dreadful calamity must be impending.

"Come home! Yes. But why don't you show yourself properly? I hate

creeping and listening ways."

Jean grew stiff under the sense of injustice. Mr. Trevelyan's eyes

travelled over her.

"Did you mean to listen, Jean?"

"No, father—" very low.

"I have a great mind to put her to bed for it," declared Marie Collier.

"Jean did not mean to listen!" Mr. Trevelyan was a strictly just man.

He had never found Jean in untruth, and until he should do so he would

trust her implicitly. "The door was not shut; and we might have seen

her come in. How much did you hear?"

This was to Jean. A lump in the child's throat almost prevented speech.

She swallowed with difficulty, and said, "General Villiers is going to

do something bad."

"General Villiers is going to marry Evelyn Devereux. That is not

'something bad' in the sense you mean. Your aunt is sorry to hear

it, because he is too old for such a young girl, and the thing is

unsuitable. But remember, it is not your business. Unless by accident,

you would not have heard it at present; and the matter must not go

further. I trust to your honour."

"She will go and talk to Cyril the first thing. I know what children

are."

Mr. Trevelyan looked searchingly into the troubled eyes of his little

daughter. They met his, clear and resolute, though pained.

"Can I depend on you, Jean?"

"Yes, father."

"It is not to be mentioned again, unless somebody speaks first to you.

And then the less said the better. You will not repeat what you heard

us say."

"No!"

A slight dry smile crept into the grim lines round Mr. Trevelyan's

mouth.

"Marie, you need not be afraid. That child is trustworthy."

Jean's face changed. Any word of praise was rare in her little life.

She hardly knew what to make of it. Mr. Trevelyan, watching still, did

not quite know what to make of her. He knew well the Trevelyan half of

Jean: but the sensitive loving Ingram half was commonly veiled from his

sight: he scarcely recognised its existence. The sudden radiance of

response in her eyes, and then the quiver of her lips, surprised him.

He did not know what he had said to bring about such results.

Before he could speak, Jean was gone. She felt a rush of tears coming,

and fled wildly away to a retired corner of the garden, there to sob

her little heart out, not knowing what made her cry.

"Why, Jean!"

Jem's voice startled her to her feet; and tears were checked by a

mighty effort. To be found in such a condition was in Jean's opinion a

dire disgrace. She stood bolt upright, herself again, though with wet

cheeks.

"Please don't tell," she begged.

"Not I! Don't you know me better? What is it all about, little woman?"

No answer came, and he did not press the question, shrewdly suspecting

that sharp words from Madame Collier or rough ones from Oswald lay

below her distress.

He was not far wrong: though indeed Jean would have found it hard to

analyse the different ingredients which went to the making up of that

distress. The actual last straw had been the softening touch of her

father's unwonted praise; but further back was the aunt's displeasure;

and further back still another grief. This was the last afternoon of

her short holiday, and Oswald had chosen to spend it away from her.

She was a lonely little being, commonly. Her fervent love had a scant

return: her thoughts and feelings were not understood. Few guessed what

a sensitive organisation underlay the somewhat curt exterior. With her

brother, the child's heart was always craving for a show of affection

which never came. No doubt Oswald loved Jean after a fashion: but he

loved himself much more; while Jean's love for him was a rapt devotion.

A woman too often lavishes gold, only to receive copper in exchange.

Jean was learning early the sense of loss entailed by such barter. At

times the vague loneliness would take shape in a thirst for her mother.

When Oswald had treated her to a boyish rebuff, she would lie awake

at night, clasping her pillow with both arms, and wondering how it

would feel to have a mother's arms thus folded tightly round her. The

Ingram part of Jean did so cry out for love and gentleness: while the

Trevelyan part was ashamed, and tried to stand independently aloof.

With Jem she had a sense of placid satisfaction, unknown in other

quarters. She did not pour upon him the frantic devotion which she

poured upon Oswald: but there was happiness in his companionship.

She could trust his unvarying kindness; and she felt herself to be

understood by him. This consciousness often drew Jean on to open her

mind to Jem, as to no other human being.

"Where is Oswald this afternoon?" Jem asked. "Cricket! Ah, that's

unfortunate. And you couldn't get there to look on. What a pity you are

a girl, as girls can't join! I say, Jean, suppose you come for a walk

with me up the gorge. I'm all alone; and I want somebody."

Which was true—for Jean's sake. He had not wanted somebody for his own

sake, unless it were a somebody unattainable.

Jem loved to haunt the gorge these days, for Evelyn's sake. He would

always associate one particular turn in the glen with her face.

They were in the wildest part of the gorge, more than an hour later,

beyond the "point of the V," and in the second arm of it. Return could

be either along that branch and across divers meadows, or else it could

be back the way they had come. Jem decided on the latter, and when they

reached the rustic bridge at the Point, he took Jean's hand for a race

down the path, resolved to shake the gravity out of her.

He had found the child a pleasant companion, fearless in climbing,

untirable in walking, full of quaint simplicity and intelligence. He

had exerted himself to interest and amuse her, till all traces of the

little trouble were gone; and she had poured out her ideas with a rare

frankness. But she had been sober throughout—a slim solemn upright

child.

Down they came now, full swing; Jem's light run well matched by a speed

of foot in Jean which few children of eight or nine could emulate. Jem

of course hung back for her sake, yet not so much as might be expected.

Jean hung on his strong hand, like a bird, rushing beside him with a

glow of pleasure, for once perfectly natural and childlike.

Jem was delighted. He had not seen her so before. Looking down into

the eager face, and at the steady shine of the greenish-brown eyes, he

asked himself again, "Will she be so plain?" Jem began to think she

would not. "But I wish the poor little mite had a brighter existence."

Faster and faster they descended the rough path, as he saw her

enjoyment. Soon they passed at a run the open space which had vividly

awakened Evelyn's admiration. Reaching an acute bend beyond, they

dashed round, glowing and laughing, to find themselves unexpectedly

face to face with another couple, slowly ascending the glen.

Jem took in the situation at a glance. A light shock darted through his

whole nervous system.

For Evelyn Devereux was there—Evelyn, by the side of General

Villiers. Her hand was through his arm; her face was upturned with

a sweet confidingness to his; and the General's head was bent from

its superior height towards the fair girl, with a fatherly—no, not

a fatherly—interest. Something altogether different from a fatherly

interest. Jem saw this. He saw the General's momentary embarrassment,

and the soft flush on Evelyn's cheek.

Jem dropped Jean's hand, and stood like one struck dumb. Evelyn's first

view of him, had been a surprise to her. She had seen him before in a

shy and admiring mood; but Jem's real nature was better shown in his

vigorous rush down the gorge. The sure free step, the well-proportioned

lithe figure, the dancing grey eyes, and the kind care of the little

child—all these came before Evelyn as a flash, unexpectedly.

General Villiers could not have pelted down the steep glen at such a

pace for any consideration. He suffered from slight rheumatism of the

knees; not enough to spoil his military walk, but enough to prevent

violent exercise; besides, joints stiffen after fifty.

In one moment, Jem's career was checked. A sudden gravity crept into

the warm face, and the grey eyes, emptied of their sunshine, looked

earnestly, questioningly, at Evelyn.

"Nonsense!" Jem was saying to himself, putting aside a sick fear.

"Nonsense! Absurd! It can't be!"

But General Villiers, embarrassed no longer, looked smilingly at the

small hand on his arm, then at Jem.

"I meant to tell you this evening," he said in a deep tone of

happiness. "You have found us out sooner. My darling—she is mine now!"

He glanced at Jean, who had moved delicately away, with a child's sense

of being de trop. "My own!" the General repeated. "Who could have

dreamt that such happiness would be for me?"

The healthy glow was gone from Jem's face. He looked grave,

dignified—taller and older too than Evelyn had imagined him. One hand,

hanging by his side, clenched itself till the nails almost pierced the

skin, but except in his sudden paleness, no sign of pain was allowed to

appear. Not all Jem's force of will could control the rush of blood to

the heart, as he spoke a few words of formal congratulation.

The General, wrapped up in his own delight, did not see: but Evelyn,

far more widely awake, noted at once the change. She could not fail to

conjecture its cause: and, knife-like, the question shot through her

mind—

"Have I made a mistake? Have I been too quick?"

Too late for that now! Evelyn smothered down the thought, with a

voiceless "No! No!" and clung more closely to the General's arm. His

attention was drawn by the pressure.

"Yes; we will go on—we have not too much time. I shall be back

by-and-by," to Jem. "Good-bye, for an hour or two. Yes, I know you

congratulate me. Everybody must!"

A few more meaningless words, and they parted. Evelyn had not much to

say during the remainder of the walk, but the General had plenty, so

her silence mattered less. He had reached an age when most men like a

good listener. Evelyn could safely follow her own train of thought,

while clinging to his arm. She had to follow it, had to stamp down the

questioning which threatened to disturb her peace.

Not that Evelyn was in love with Jem. Nothing of the kind. It was only

that his look had been a revelation to her. It was only that she had

awakened to the realisation of another manner of life, upon which she

had shut the door.

Too late now, she told herself firmly. She had promised, and she would

keep her promise.

Then she found the General saying something—what was it? About—how soon?

Evelyn flushed, and her eyes filled. "Oh, soon—the sooner the better!"

she said. "Why should we wait? I belong to you now."

BOOK II.

AFTER SEVEN YEARS.

"There wild woods grow, and rivers flow,

And mony a hill between;

But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean."

R. BURNS.

CHAPTER I.

MRS. KENNEDY'S NOTIONS.

"How we talk in the little town below!"

"PIPPA PASSES": R. BROWNING.

"A REGULAR niminy-piminy-molly-coddle! That's what he'll be, my dear."

"But don't you think—by-and-by—when he gets out into the world—?"

"No, I don't. Miss Devereux will have done the business by then. I

wouldn't say so much to most people, Mabel: but it's just the old story

over again—the hen with one chick, you know. And an old maid hen is the

worst of all, don't you see?"

"Only he's such a nice boy!" regretfully.

"He's lovely!" said Mrs. Kennedy. "A real out-and-out gentleman, and

the prettiest manners! Too pretty by half for a boy of seventeen! Why,

he ought to be a hobbledehoy, and there isn't a scrap of hobbledehoyism

about him. It isn't natural. It's like a tadpole growing into a frog,

without dropping its tail, you know. And it's ruination to any boy to

be treated as if he was a spoonful of salt, ready to melt. That's what

she does, don't you see?"

"But at school—"

"Oh, well, yes, there's school. Of course there's school. It's a good

school too, from all one hears. Capital masters, and all that; and a

hundred and twenty boys isn't bad. I'd sooner have him at a regular

public school: but this is next best. Only, the moment Cyril comes

home, all the good's undone. Mustn't get his feet wet, don't you know?

Dear me, if my boys were coddled like that, there'd be a rebellion, I

do believe. They wouldn't stand it, not even from their mother. But

Cyril's been brought up to like a fuss."

"He had one bad attack on his chest."

"Three years ago! I wouldn't wrap a boy up in flannel and cotton-wool

all the rest of his days, just for that. I'll tell you what, Mabel—you

get your father to interfere. A doctor always can step in. Everybody

expects good advice from a doctor."

"Not unasked advice," Mabel said, smiling. She was a nice ladylike girl

of about nineteen, the eldest of Dr. Ingram's three daughters.

"Oh, as for advice—Miss Devereux is like other people. She doesn't ask

for advice, except when she wants to be told that she's in the right.

That's the way, don't you know? Why, she wouldn't have sent him to

school at all to this very day, I do believe, if General Villiers and

his wife hadn't made a rumpus."

"Still—five years and a half of schooling ought to have done something

for him," Mabel remarked.

This was Mrs. Kennedy's "At Home" afternoon; and she was seated in the

small drawing-room of St. John's Vicarage, expecting callers. Friday

had been from time immemorial—in other words, so long as she had lived

at Dutton—her "At Home" day.

Not that she dignified it by any such important title: "I am generally

in, you know, on Friday afternoons," was her fashion of asking friends

to call at that time. She had a free-and-easy manner of speaking. The

County people did not care for Mrs. Kennedy; not that they objected

to a touch of originality, but they were not satisfied as to her

connections.

"To talk of one's 'At Home day' sounds so fussy, don't you know," she

often said. "Not fit for such little people as we, my dear! If it was

the Canon, now!" For the mother-church of Dutton was held by Canon

Meyers.

Mrs. Kennedy was not good-looking, despite a pair of genial and

expressive blue eyes. Moreover, she posed badly, rounding her shoulders

and squaring her elbows. Though she dressed well in point of material,

her clothes were put on more or less awry; and an end of loose hair was

often out of place, needing to be perpetually tucked up. She had been

known to sit through her Friday afternoon, with a half pinned collar

dangling loosely on one side. Such little matters did not affect her

serenity. Had she discovered the collar in the midst of a room-full she

would have gone calmly to the mirror to pin it into position, without

the slightest flurry. Whereby it is evident that Mrs. Kennedy had seen

something of good society, even though her family connections might not

be altogether unexceptionable.

The frank simplicity of her manner was sometimes mistaken for

rusticity. But she was no rustic. She had considerable perception,

and not a little knowledge of human nature. There were even touches

of intellectual power, only her education had been deficient; and

when entirely at her ease, she was apt to express herself in an odd

unconventional fashion.

A more devoted Parish worker than Mrs. Kennedy could hardly be found.

Mr. Kennedy was not strong in the visiting line, having usually too

many committees and meetings on hand; but his wife did her best, as a

wife should, to supplement his deficiencies, to fill up gaps in his

administration. In public, she always appeared to be at one with her

husband in his views and proceedings; in private, she had her own views

and her own theories.

Some intimate friends would have described her as "Not quite so

desperately Low-Church as he is!"

However, as a matter of duty, she upheld him praiseworthily.

"Have you heard that General and Mrs. Villiers arrived last Monday?"

asked Mabel.

"O yes, I know. All the world knows that, my dear. Time enough

too—after nearly four years abroad! People who have got property ought

to look after it, and not go scrummaging all over the world. But of

course it's no wonder Mrs. Villiers likes change—a pretty young thing,

tied to a husband old enough to be her father, to say the very least.

And then the General's rheumatism makes such a nice excuse for keeping

him abroad. The General is a most delightful man, of course—agreeable

and all that—and I'm sure she's quite prettily fond of him. It's as

nice and proper as can be; only you know one does sometimes expect to

hear her say 'Grandpa' when she speaks to him; and when 'William' pops

out instead, it gives one a shock. And then the Park must be so awfully

dull: for it's only a certain sort of people he cares to see, you know.

Just those that think exactly like himself."

"The St. John set," suggested Mabel, with a scintillation of fun in her

quiet eyes.

"Well, my dear, the St. John set is very good. Such nice dear people,

you know. I'm sure the dear good General always says he is perfectly

content with what he finds among them: and if he and they—he and we, I

mean—Now, Mabel, don't look wicked! As to family, we've old Lady Lucas,

you know: and Miss Devereux is equal to anybody; and then nothing can

be more respectable than a lawyer and a Colonel, not to speak of the

General himself when he's at home. But still, though he likes us well

enough, I'm not sure about his wife. She comes with him always, as

regular as clockwork—used to come, I mean—but you know there's no doubt

she's got a very uncommon mind, and she reads books that you and I

wouldn't know what on earth they were all about! And I shouldn't quite

think all the dear good St. John's people would exactly satisfy her: I

mean, intellectually, don't you know? I should think she would want a

little more friction, perhaps—and originality, you know."

"So my father feels."

"Oh, your father is so clever—I don't suppose he could expect to find

his match in Dutton, dear. One can't help being a little afraid of him,

you know, he's so clever."

Mabel laughed. "I have a piece of news," she said. "Who do you think

is expected at Dulveriford Rectory in a day or two? Can't guess? Jem

Trevelyan."

"Mr. James Trevelyan! Your cousin. He hasn't been for ages. Centuries!"

said Mrs. Kennedy, with the calm air of one stating a fact.

"Not since I was a child. Yes, it is years ago. But he really is coming

at last, for a few days' rest. He has overdone himself at the East-End."

"He's a nice man—very nice! Not one of those odd sort of people that

you can't tell whatever they are after next! But my husband doesn't

quite care for him, I'm afraid."

Mabel was intimate enough, not to be classed among the horde of mere

outsiders.

"We met him in Town last year, and he said something or other—I'm sure

I don't know what, only it was something my husband didn't like. I

suppose he's just a scrap too Churchy, you know, for poor dear Thomas.

But I'm sure he's such a good man; and if anybody ever lived a real

missionary life, it's away in those horrible London slums of despond."

"There's a ring. Another call. I must go."

"Oh, to-day of course! Sometimes everybody comes all together, and then

I just don't know what to do. I feel all sat upon and 'scrushed,'"

said Mrs. Kennedy, in her unconventional language, while she looked

affectionately at Mabel with kind soft eyes. "The only thing to do,

don't you know, is to let them have it out. Everybody has always got

plenty to say. But such a crowd won't come to-day, I don't think. It's

too fine. Must you go, really? Well, good-bye, and mind you tell your

father that he really ought to look after that poor little baronet, and

keep him from being turned into a molly. Oh, I'm forgetting—there's

a note for him from my husband. Couldn't you take it? Thomas!" cried

Mrs. Kennedy, opening the door, to find herself face to face with Miss

Devereux.

Mrs. Kennedy fell back a step. "Oh, how do you do? I'm so glad it is

you—not a man. Just think if it had been a man!" she said frankly. "Do

pray come in. I'm only calling my husband to—"

Mr. Kennedy appeared through an opposite door. He was undersized,

plain-featured, and shy-mannered, with anxious pale-tinted eyes which

saw little before them, by reason of the mental eyes being bent

habitually inward. When his glance fell upon Miss Devereux, he put out

one hand, with a gradual smile, deprecating in kind.

"Mabel is just going home, dear. Would you like to send any message to

Dr. Ingram?"

"I—yes, I have a note," said Mr. Kennedy.

He did not at once go in search of it, but followed Miss Devereux into

the drawing-room, and stood looking at her with his mild blank goodness

of expression. Nobody of any penetration could see Mr. Kennedy, and not

recognise the goodness written in his face.

"Dear man! He is half in heaven already!" Some of his more attached

friends declared; though if there were truth in the words, it remains

an uncontrovertible fact that to be "half in heaven already," does not

obviate a considerable amount of earthliness about the half still upon

earth. The earthliness takes different forms in different cases.

"I hope your nephew is well this summer—growing stronger?" said Mr.

Kennedy.

"Thank you, dear Cyril is fairly well, but I have to be very careful of

him," sighed Sybella. She did not look so markedly older for her seven

additional years as might have been expected, but she had gained in

a certain conscious importance, in an air of responsibility. She had

learned by this time to appreciate her own position, and even to act

for herself. Still—Sybella was Sybella.

"He is always so delicate, dear boy! A great anxiety to me! And at

School you know—though I cannot speak highly enough of the school—your

recommendation!" effusively. "Such a delightful man, the head-master—so

truly Evangelical!—And all the arrangements so perfect. Still of course

there cannot be quite the same individual care at school as at home,

and I am sadly afraid the dear boy is sometimes a little imprudent. I

can't think how it is—boys do so dislike great-coats; and I cannot make

him say whether he always remembers to change his shoes the moment they

get damp. It is so very essential, you know. I do my best to impress

upon him the need for care. The way he gets on is really astonishing;

such a love for books! I tell him he is never happy without a book

in his hand; and he works so hard—too hard, dear boy. It makes me so

afraid for his dear brain! I really cannot let him study through the

holidays—it is quite too much!"

"Oh, I shouldn't think an hour or two a day could hurt anybody,"

suggested Mrs. Kennedy. "Keep him out of mischief, don't you know?"

"Indeed, I beg your pardon! I think I am the best judge as to that."

Mrs. Kennedy somehow always managed to excite Sybella's bristles.

"The dear boy had a headache only yesterday: and I don't like the way

he coughs. I shall have to consult Dr. Ingram."

"Oh, come, he really did look uncommonly well yesterday," protested

Mrs. Kennedy. "Not robust, of course—one doesn't expect that—but plenty

of vigour. Thomas, Mabel is waiting."

Mr. Kennedy beat a deprecatory retreat, not sorry perhaps to leave the

ladies to fight their little battle out together. After an interval of

ten minutes, he slowly returned.

"I am very sorry—I have mislaid the note," he said. "But perhaps you

would kindly take a message, asking your father to call. This is the

woman's address."

"Must my father go there to-day?" asked Mabel, dismayed. "He has been

all that round by this time."

"I am afraid it is pressing. One does not know what is the matter. I

told her your father would be sure to look in before night. The note

ought to have been sent sooner, but I—in fact, I forgot."

Mabel knew better than to protest, and she went off swiftly. Outside

the gate, a girl was waiting—about sixteen in age, with a pale oval

face, and clear greenish eyes.

"Jean, are you out of all patience?" cried Mabel. "I couldn't get away

sooner: and now I must just race home. You ought to have come in."

"I'd rather not," Jean said decisively, as they began "the race."

The two girls were second cousins.

"You don't care for the Kennedys, I know."

"I don't mind them."

"That doesn't mean liking."

"No; I suppose not. I don't think I care for a great many people!"

reflectively.

"A great many! My dear, whom do you really and honestly like, out of

your own proper circle? Except Cyril, and Jem, and I suppose ourselves?"

"Mrs. Villiers. And lots of poor people."

"You have not seen Mrs. Villiers for close upon four years. You were an

infant then."

"I don't forget."

"No—I believe that! Jean, I declare, I won't have you so frightfully

unsociable. You ought to like people more. My father says there is

something nice in everybody, if only one is willing to see it."

"Then I suppose I'm not willing," quoth straightforward Jean.

"I wish Mr. Kennedy had sent this morning. My father will have to go

all the way down to the lower end of the town again. He might just as

well have done the business when he was there two hours ago. He is so

busy to-day."

"I don't call that nice of Mr. Kennedy."

"He doesn't think."

"Then he ought."

"Jean, you are always half pleased to find some little fault in Mr.

Kennedy," murmured Mabel.

The words had no denial. Jean looked as if she had gained a new idea.

CHAPTER II.

MUD AND BRAMBLES.

"I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,

While dear hands are laid on my head,

The child is a woman, the book may close ever,

For all the lessons are said."

"I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it,

Not one as he sits on the tree;

The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it,

Such as I wish it to be."

JEAN INGELOW.

Dr. INGRAM'S house was almost outside the town, and thus far the

two girls went together. At the garden-gate they stopped; Mabel ran

indoors, after a hasty good-bye, and Jean pursued her solitary way.

Dutton was a good two miles from Dulveriford. Jean had permission to

go to and fro, by the path through meadows and fields; not by the high

road. She turned into the meadows directly after quitting the town,

and went onward in a quick steadfast fashion, not dallying. This does

not mean the absence of enjoyment. Jean had in her nature intense

capabilities of enjoyment; and the sights and sounds of country life

always thrilled her with a keen delight, which custom could not deaden.

Now and again she would pause for a few seconds to listen to the

song of some little bird, to study the markings of a butterfly as it

zigzagged past, to watch the contented munching of a pretty young cow.

There were a good many cows in one field, and a good many horses in the

next. Fear in connection with animals was a feeling unknown to Jean.

She did not, however, linger long for anything.

Jean at sixteen was simply the child of nine expanded. The straight

supple form was unchanged, only taller; the slim sunburnt hands were

only longer and more capable. The greenish-brown eyes were serious as

ever, with their old power of shining under excitement.

She was not "plain" now; the delicate straight features would admit

of no such description; but neither was she beautiful; and "pretty"

was a term which nobody could think of in connection with the severe

simplicity of Jean's outlines, dress, and manner. People generally

called her "uncommon;" a safe word which might admit of anything.

No change had taken place in Jean's manner of life. It had been a

continuous going on in the old lines; the harder part of her studiously

cultivated, the softer part stamped down and driven inward. She had

been trained in a splendid mastery of principle over inclination; she

had been taught any amount of self-repression and self-control; body

and mind had been well and wisely handled. But training and cultivation

of the heart's affections had not been equally prominent. Mr. Trevelyan

was always just and even, always entirely high-principled; and Madame

Collier was always practical. Neither of the two was in manner gentle

or loving.

Had it not been for three definite outlets, Jean's softer and more

affectionate side would have been walled up and subjected to a slow

starvation. These three were—her passionate and absorbing love for

Oswald; her quiet friendship with Cyril; her interest in the sick and

needy of the parish. Jean's tenderness thus found a three-fold vent,

and did not die; but at present it crept through those vents in a

shamefaced and surreptitious fashion.

Jem Trevelyan might have supplied a fourth softening element. During

years, however, he and Jean had seen little one of another. With her

Ingram cousins, Mabel especially, Jean was on agreeable terms, and

that was all; for the three girls, pleasant as they were, and popular

in many quarters, touched no inner chord of Jean's being. As Mabel had

said, Jean "really liked" very few people. "Really to like" in her case

meant more than mere liking, and not "really to like" meant profound

indifference.

Springing over her fourth stile, on the way homeward, she was arrested

by an exclamation:

"Jean! That's jolly!"

"Cyril! You here!"

"I'm come to meet you—by accident."

"How did you know where I was?"

"Intuition."

"Nonsense."

"Madame Collier told me you'd gone to Dutton, so of course I knew you'd

come this way. I say!—Give me that basket."

"No. Cyril, let it alone. I like to carry something."

"So do I!"—dexterously twisting the handle off her arm.

"How you bother!"

"Yes, I know. It's only for your good. What's inside the basket?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Hanks of darning cotton, I do believe. I say, Jean, you must use an

uncommon lot of old socks at the Rectory. Madame Collier's one earthly

occupation is turning them over. I never find her at anything else;

unless it is grubbing up stones in the garden."

"Stockings, you mean; not socks."

"Two varieties of the same genus. What are you hurrying for, now?"

"Aunt Marie will want me."

"Let her! I want you more."

"I can't wait, really. She will be vexed."

"Have you got to darn? I'll come and read to you, then."

Cyril had scarcely yet overtaken Jean in height. While actually almost

a year her senior, he was commonly supposed to be the younger of the

two. His make was so slight as to give an appearance of fragility, not

inconsistent with a certain wiry vigour, but heightened by the girlish

hands and pale complexion, not to speak of a face hatchet-like in

thinness. Breadth of brow gave force to the latter, but the dark hair

clustered still in thick waves; and the long-lashed violet eyes, though

redeemed from insipidity by any amount of fun, lent him so soft and

"pretty" an expression, that it was no wonder he had earned at school

the nickname of "Missy."

This did not imply contempt or unpopularity. More than five years

back, on first leaving Ripley Brow, with its enervating influences and

unlimited petting, for the rougher world of school, Cyril had suffered

much, and had had a hard battle to fight. Miss Devereux little guessed

how much of real distress had been entailed upon the timid child by her

previous policy, or how he might justly have blamed her for long months

of misery. Happily, the check of a more invigorating atmosphere came in

time to prevent life-long enfeeblement.

He had struggled through the worst long ago. He had now been for years

a boy among boys; to all appearance as spirited and careless as any of

them, when at school. If to some extent he suffered still from want of

nerve, the fact was usually veiled. But it was odd how, immediately he

came home for the holidays, he would relapse more or less into his old

ways, responding to Sybella's petting. As of yore, his affectionate and

clinging disposition, together with an easy sweetness of temper, made

him malleable; and also as of yore, the chief bracing element in his

Dulveriford life was—Jean.

Jean had not yet lost the impulse to take care of him, to lead, and to

expect that he should follow. Growth thus far had been faster with her

than with him. There was marked promise of intellectual power in Cyril,

but in almost all respects he was still behind his age. Jean remained

the stronger, the swifter, the more fearless, the keener in perception,

the quicker in understanding, actually the elder, so far.

It was a singular friendship between the two. Each cared greatly for

the other, but not after the same mode. While Cyril's happiness was

bound up in Jean, Jean's happiness was bound up in Oswald. Cyril cared

for no human being as he cared for Jean. Love for her had grown with

his growth, winding itself in and out with the very strands of his

being. Jean was fond of Cyril, and she missed his companionship when he

was away, but she gave him no passionate affection. That was reserved

for Oswald.

"Why are you not at Dutton Park this afternoon?" asked Jean.

"Because I'm here."

"Mrs. Villiers must want you."

"Mrs. Villiers isn't Jean, and I'm not Oswald. Why don't you call her

'Evelyn'?"

"I don't know. When did you go last?"

"When? Oh, to-day's Friday. Monday evening I was there—and Wednesday.

Tuesday she came to us. Often enough, surely. She's got a lot to do,

settling in. I'll go again soon, of course; perhaps to-morrow morning."

"It ought to be to-day."

"I'll see. What a lot you do think of Evelyn, to be sure!"

"Anyone would! If I had such a sister—"

"Well! If you had?"

"I would—Cyril, what's that?"

"Where? What are you looking at?"

"There! Don't you see?"

They had reached the next stile, and Jean stood not far from it, gazing

across a wide muddy ditch upon the bank below the hedge.

"A bird—look! It's a robin. I can see its red breast. It has been hurt."

"It's not a nestling. Too big."

"Then some horrid boy has thrown a stone. Hark! You can hear it 'peep.'

Poor little thing! It is almost too weak to move. I must get it."

"You can't; just look at that slush."

"Slush! I'm not afraid of wet feet."

The touch of scorn was enough. Before Jean could move, Cyril was down,

ankle-deep, in the very middle of the wet slush, which indeed proved to

be of the nature of thick watery mud.

"Cyril! How absurd! I didn't mean you to go. I meant to do it myself. I

should have gone to the stile, and climbed along the bank."

"You couldn't. It's all brambles."

Jean nearly said, "I don't mind scratches," but forbore. Had she

uttered the words, he would certainly have charged the brambles, to

gain scars honourable in her eyes.

"I'll come too." Jean loved a scramble.

"No, don't. Stop! It's no use. Such a mess! Wait a moment. Here he

is—poor little chap! There, don't peck! What do you mean to do with

him? I believe his leg's broken."

"Oh, bring him to me."

"All right, I'm coming."

Jean bent over to receive the fluttering bundle of feathers, and

examined it tenderly, while Cyril sprang up on terra firma. Furtively,

he endeavoured to wipe his boots on the grass; not openly, for fear

Jean should count him effeminate. He had not yet learned that a love of

cleanliness is not in essence unmasculine.

"Where's the basket? I'll make a soft bed of grass. Yes, please gather

some. You poor little thing! Fancy if we had not found you! It's

certainly a broken leg. We must get home as fast as possible, and aunt

Marie will know what to do."

"You'll have to tie up the leg in a splint."

"Yes. I'll see. A bit of match, perhaps. Aunt Marie is so clever at

that sort of thing. Cyril, your boots are soaking! You ought to go

straight home and change them."

"Fudge!"

"What would Miss Devereux say?"

"Anything she likes."

"And you may catch cold."

"I'm not going!"

Such an opportunity to assert his manliness was not to be lost. Jean

might think it her duty to uphold Miss Devereux, but he knew that if he

went, she would—well, perhaps not despise, but undoubtedly she would

pity him. To be pitied by Jean was more than Cyril could stand.

"If you catch cold—"

"I shan't catch cold."

"Well, I have warned you."

"All right."

In two minutes Jean forgot all about his boots, in attention to her

feathered invalid. Cyril by no means forgot, for their soaked condition

and outward muddiness both meant discomfort, but he never thought of

giving way.

As they reached the Rectory door, Mr. Trevelyan came out.

"Jean, just back? What are you after?" This question did not mean

displeasure. It only meant that he always expected everybody to be

"after" some definite object, and that he wished to hear specified the

precise end and aim of Jean's existence at that moment.

"I'm going in to see if aunt Marie wants me. And this bird—"

"A robin—broken leg," said Mr. Trevelyan, touching the little creature

with kind fingers. "No, your aunt doesn't want you. Give over the bird

to her, and come with me to Dutton Park."

"Now?"

"I met the General, and he mentioned that Mrs. Villiers particularly

asks an early call."

"Wouldn't aunt Marie like to go?"

"No, she prefers that I should take you."

Jean's eyes shone: her usual sign of pleasure. She never thought of

telling her father that she had already walked to Dutton and back. The

fact would have made no difference, if he counted it her duty to go now.

"I've not seen Evelyn for a day or two," remarked Cyril, the wistful

look which always strengthened his likeness to Evelyn creeping into his

eyes.

Its effect upon Mr. Trevelyan was to bring the question, "Would you

like to go with us?"

Cyril's answer, if short, was unequivocal. He had not entirely lost

a certain boyish fear of Mr. Trevelyan, but Jean was a more than

counterbalancing attraction.

They went by the road this time—a somewhat shorter route than by the

fields. Mr. Trevelyan walked fast and steadily, with long swinging

strides, and the other two kept pace with him as best they might: Jean

easily, from long practice; Cyril less easily, though he would on no

account have admitted the fact. He was better at fast running than at

fast walking; and the weight of his soaked boots pulled him back.

Outside Dutton they saw the "Brow" carriage approaching, Sybella seated

therein with state and dignity.

"I say!" muttered Cyril in foreboding accents.

The carriage drew up, and Sybella bent forward to shake hands with Mr.

Trevelyan, whom she did not exactly recognise as her Pastor, although

she lived in his Parish, since their views differed on certain points.

A puckered forehead showed discontent. She was never pleased to see

Cyril with the Trevelyans; and, considering how Cyril haunted Jean, it

was remarkable that her eyes should be so seldom vexed with the vision.

Perhaps an explanation lay in the fact that Miss Devereux loved high

roads and shops, while Jean detested both; wherefore their orbits were

seldom entangled.

"How do you do? A very fine day. I hope Madame Collier is well.

Really I must call upon her one day soon—but so many engagements, you

know—always something turning up. Cyril, my dear boy, I could not

imagine where you were. I was so anxious to take you to the Park. I

have had really quite to apologise. Two whole days since you went; and

you know it must seem strange. Where can you have been?"

"I am going to Evelyn now."

"But I could have saved you the long walk. Such a hot day! I am not

sure whether I had not better turn back—" Sybella hesitated, debating

with herself whether, in that case, it would not be needful to give the

Trevelyans a lift also.

She could hardly pick up her nephew, and leave them trudging in the

dust. But Mr. Trevelyan was not approved of by some of her friends, and

to be seen by certain of them driving through Dutton side by side with

him—by old Lady Lucas, for example, or by Colonel Atherstone—such a

juxtaposition of representative individuals was not to be thought of!

"I am afraid, though, that I cannot well spare the time. My dear boy,

you had really better put off till another day, and come back with me.

I am sure you are fatigued. This hot sun is enough to give anybody

a headache. Quite too much for him," she added reproachfully to the

Rector.

"Is it hot?" asked Mr. Trevelyan. He looked down and up, and around, as

if studying Nature for a reply.

"Exceedingly hot! Most oppressive! Surely you—But people are so

differently constituted," sighed Sybella, with an audible little puff

of exhaustion. "Now I feel to-day quite incapable—really quite feeble

and spiritless. I assure you, I could not walk a mile to save my life."

"That might prove a potent incentive," suggested Mr. Trevelyan, with

another look at the tree-tops.

His irony was lost upon Sybella.

"Robust people do not suffer in the same way, I believe. So fortunate

for them! But dear Cyril is always so very easily knocked up—and his

poor head, you know—"

Cyril grew furiously red at having to endure this, with Jean standing

by.

"My dear boy, you are quite flushed, you are indeed—quite overheated.

It makes me so anxious. I really cannot possibly allow this sort of

thing to go on. I am sure you have a headache."

"No, aunt!" Cyril's voice was seldom so gruff.

"No? But you are tired—fatigued. I am certain you will be overdone. If

I—Cyril!!"

Mr. Trevelyan lifted his eyebrows, and Jean's lips twitched. Miss

Devereux pointed with an agonised forefinger at Cyril's feet.

"Oh, I just got a little muddy. I'm all right."

"It's my fault," Jean said promptly.

"Boys don't mind a trifle of mud," quoth Mr. Trevelyan, with a solemn

smile, perhaps not realising the extent to which the "trifle of mud"

went.

"Mud! His boots are wet through and through! I can see it for myself.

Boys in general are different. Cyril is not like other boys. He must

take care. It is absolutely necessary. To go about with wet feet—I

shall have him laid up all the holidays. Another attack on his chest

like the last would—I assure you, the Brighton doctor told me, he could

not answer for the consequences," gasped the agitated lady. "My dear

boy, get at once into the carriage. I must drive you home as fast as

possible. As fast as possible, Grimshaw!" raising her voice.

And Grimshaw touched his hat.

"You must change your boots and stockings the very moment we arrive,

and I must give you something hot to drink."

Had the Trevelyans not been there, Cyril would no doubt have yielded

without resistance. He might have felt a certain boyish dislike to the

fuss—a dislike which had for some time been growing upon him; yet mere

force of habit would have won the day. To be petted and coddled by his

aunt was so much a matter of course, that hitherto he had submitted.

Jean's presence made all the difference. Cyril was fond of his aunt,

and he liked to please her; indeed, he liked to please everybody,

whether or no fondness came into the question. But his love for Jean,

his desire to stand well in Jean's eyes, his dread of being pitied by

Jean, were overwhelming motives. To step into the carriage, and be

driven home for the purpose of changing his boots, while Jean stood

looking on, was too much. For almost the first time, Sybella's petted

darling refused to answer to the pull of her rein.

"Nonsense, aunt. I'm all right. I'm going on to see Evelyn."

"If I may advise, I should not recommend a drive with damp boots," said

Mr. Trevelyan. "Exercise is safer than sitting still; and he can dry

them, if needful, at the Park."

This was reasonable. But to expect Sybella to hear reason from Mr.

Trevelyan would mean a dire ignorance of human nature.

"I beg your pardon. I think I am the best judge as to that," she said,

reddening. "Cyril, my dear boy—No, I could not possibly run the risk!"

to Mr. Trevelyan. "Cyril, my dear boy, you really must—Cyril, I insist!

You must come home with me at once. Evelyn will understand. I will

explain to her. I could not allow you to go on with your feet in such a

condition. My dear boy, it is only for your own good—Pray make haste,

and get in! Every moment's delay increases the risk. My dear boy, I

assure you—Really, Cyril, I am very much surprised—this is not like

you! I am afraid it is the consequence of—Cyril, if you do not come

at once, I shall have—Not of course that I expect you to prefer to be

with me, rather than with—It is only for your own sake! Cyril, this is

really too much! I insist upon obedience!"

Cyril held resolutely back, thus far.

Mr. Trevelyan moved a step nearer.

"My boy, the more manly part will be to yield," he said very low; not

too low for Jean as well as Cyril to hear.

The lad grow white, and looked at Jean.

"Yes, do go!" she said gently, pityingly.

Cyril could better have done without the pity: but Mr. Trevelyan's

words took effect.

"I must beg of you, Cyril, not to delay. For your own sake as well as

mine. I cannot wait any longer, and I insist upon your coming," Miss

Devereux went on with querulous repetition.

"Good-bye," said Mr. Trevelyan.

He took Cyril's hand, with a warm grasp which spoke volumes: and from

that hour, he had a hold upon the young baronet. "Come and see us again

soon."

Cyril crimsoned to the roots of his hair, and stepped in.

"Poor boy: it is hard upon him," muttered the clergyman, as they drove

off, Sybella talking still.

CHAPTER III.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

"Thus each retains his notions, every one."

JANE TAYLOR.

DUTTON PARK stood on sufficiently high ground to command a view of the

town, and of the surrounding country. In one direction Ripley Brow

might be seen, the Brow standing up boldly, more than two miles away.

Between, the river wound in curves among low green banks and meadows,

after its rush through the gorge.

On a fine day, such as this, anyone walking in the Park grounds could

see the "S-like" windings shine here and there with the brightness of

burnished metal in the sunshine; grey spaces of water intervening.

There were two ways of reaching the house from the main road. One

was by a shady drive, well bowered, the trees meeting overhead in a

continuous arch. The other lay through open park-like fields, ending in

two large ponds, one on either side of the garden entrance. Following

the latter road, Mr. Trevelyan and Jean lingered three or four minutes

to watch the swans; then they crossed the wide lawn of the garden,

which was sprinkled with pines and yews. Beds of massed colouring,

closely packed, showed rich and artistic arrangements of tints. The

house was extensive, white and low, guiltless of creepers, and on one

side, sheltered by a group of mighty elms.

The great drawing-room, over forty-five feet long, was used only on

state occasions. Evelyn's favourite resort for ordinary purposes was

the library, a long four-windowed room, well lined with books. General

Villiers had his private study besides, and Evelyn had her boudoir; but

when at home, she was usually to be found in the library.

On this particular afternoon, she stood in the end window, a large bow,

gazing somewhat pensively upon the outer view: not as if she very much

cared for it.

At twenty-five, Evelyn well fulfilled the promise of her girlhood, so

far as actual beauty was concerned. The delicacy of form and feature,

the perfection of colouring, the grace of movement, were unchanged.

They had only ripened into a fuller loveliness, with the addition of

a finished repose and graciousness of manner, an exquisite high-bred

ease, which no mere girl can show.

She wore a cream-coloured dress of India muslin, handsome in make and

rich in embroidery. There was about her every appearance of a life

of ease, of luxury, of affectionate care, every token of a sheltered

existence. Looking upon her from without, it might seem that she had

not a want ungratified.

Yet those who studied Evelyn Villiers with observant eyes were

conscious of something lacking. They knew that life to this fair

creature had not thus far been all that it might have been. The

delicate cheek had already a slight inward curve, marring its

perfect oval; a curve which in such a face could only have come from

illness or from wear and tear. The graceful bearing had about it a

touch of weariness, of listless indifference, like one tired of her

surroundings. The closed lips had gained a faintly satirical set; and

the violet eyes contained a look of forlornness, as if she thirsted

perpetually after something unattainable. It had been said that the

expression of those eyes was as of a captive creature, chained down,

and hopeless of escape.

But these were the views of those only who could see a little below the

surface. People in general said how pretty and sweet and charming she

was—only rather too exclusive, rather difficult to know! And what an

enviable life she led! To be sure, one might wish that the husband were

a few years younger: but then he was rich and gentlemanly, delightful

in his manners, and such a good man too! What mattered a little

discrepancy in age? Mrs. Villiers was a happy woman: she had everything

she could possibly desire!

"Mr. Trevelyan! How good of him! And Jean!"

Evelyn did not stir till the callers were announced. Then she went

forward, in her soft restrained fashion, holding out two hands, a rare

gesture with Mrs. Villiers.

"I am so glad to see you both. This is kind. It is just what I wanted,

treating me like an old friend! Somehow I have always had the feeling

that my most real friends were at Dulveriford Rectory; though I have

seen so little of you since my marriage. I hope to see more now. We

have come back to settle down for a time. My husband is tired of

travelling."

"General Villiers was so good as to say that we might call at once, not

waiting till after Sunday."

"Did he? That was kind. He knew I wished it. And this is Jean! The old

look, I see—hardly changed."

She kissed Jean's cheek in her winning way—for Evelyn could be

irresistibly winning when she chose, though she did not always choose.

"Do I know you well enough?" she asked.

"Jean is a child still," promptly asserted Mr. Trevelyan, while Jean

breathed a "Yes" of unlimited meaning.

Evelyn smiled. She knew in a moment her power over the girl, and she

was glad to know it. Jean interested her: not only for the sake of Mr.

Trevelyan, whom Evelyn had always liked. Jean herself was so uncommon:

not exactly good-looking, but so very uncommon. There was a trenchant

attractiveness about the aristocratic pose of Jean's head, and the

straightforward earnestness of her singular eyes, combined with an

abnormal simplicity of dress and manner.

Evelyn's glance travelled over her, taking in all particulars: then she

sat down on a sofa, making Jean do the same.

"I want to know this child well," she said, with her sweet

graciousness. "Yes, I suppose she is a child still—compared with me.

But I have a fancy that we shall be friends some day. Will you come and

see me, Jean, when I am alone, now and then?"

Jean's eyes brightened into a golden glow like sunshine. "If I may,"

she said.

"The oftener the better," quoth Mr. Trevelyan, who was under the power

of Evelyn's magic wand, though not to such an extent as to lose his own

individuality.

"Thanks! Then come often, Jean—as often as you can be spared. I must

introduce you to my little boudoir. Only think, that naughty brother of

mine has not been near me since Wednesday morning."

Explanations had to be given. Jean left them to her father, and Mr.

Trevelyan said no more than was needful, but Evelyn drew certain

particulars from him by skilful questioning.

"The old story," she said. "My aunt will do her best to spoil him.

After all, the only hope lies in school."

"Cyril doesn't want to be a coddle," spoke up Jean in his defence.

"You and he are great friends, are you not?"

"I don't know. Yes; I suppose so," Jean answered slowly, as if anxious

to be exact.

Presently, with an abrupt change of subject—only, nothing that Evelyn

did ever had an abrupt effect—Mrs. Villiers asked—

"What of Dutton parties and politics?"

"I am not a man of Dutton," was the answer.

"The better able, perhaps, to take a dispassionate outside view."

"That may be," cautiously, "but I am very busy in my own work. Not much

time to watch other people."

"I wish 'other people' could say the same. It seems to me that the

normal occupation of Dutton generally is to sit and look at its

neighbours—not with approving eyes."

"A common result of too little to do."

"And looking at them means talking about them. Things have always been

so, I suppose; but after years away, one notices more. I have been in

the thick of it all this week. Everybody does not wait, like you and

Jean, for leave to call before Sunday. Perhaps I should not have given

leave in some cases—" with a slight curl of her lip. "I have had any

number of callers: and they all seem convinced that the one object

of my coming home is to hear how badly the world has gone on in my

absence. The Dutton world I mean."

"So long as they keep to generalities—" and a pause.

"They do not. It is all about individuals."

"Such remarks may be checked, if one is resolved."

Evelyn's face wore a curious look, as if she were conscious of certain

elements in the question which he had failed to grasp.

"Perhaps—" she said gently. And then—

"St. John's is unchanged, I hear. The shabby little boys still in full

force!"

Mr. Trevelyan smiled, and drew cabalistic signs on the carpet with his

walking-stick, while Jean listened and learnt. "I imagine that a good

many elderly people would be distressed at changes in St. John's," he

said.

"People who believe in the infallibility of sixty years ago: I never do

understand that view of matters. Why must all that is done at a certain

date in one's life be right, and every after deviation be wrong? Shall

I come to the same way of thinking when I am old?"

"It is a not unusual result of age with ordinary minds."

"But may not people go on and learn more, instead of standing still?

And don't the needs of different generations differ? Doesn't human

nature take fresh developments from time to time, wanting varieties of

help? I don't often talk like this—" and a restless caged look came

into her beautiful eyes. "People would not understand. But surely truth

as a whole is wider than it is made out by some such good people."

"Truth as a whole is wide as Him who is the Truth: and He is wider than

the Universe which He has made. Our views of Truth may be narrow, but

Truth itself is never narrow." Mr. Trevelyan spoke in a brief incisive

style, and she smiled.

"Yes: that is what I meant. You understand. One gets a glimpse of how

things really are sometimes—and then to come down to the little circles

of good people, saying hard things of each other—But I shall be as bad

as they, if I go on! We had better talk of something else. Tell me

about your sister. Is she well? Busy as ever, I suppose. I want to see

her the first day I can. Ah—here is my husband."

A nameless change crept over Evelyn, noted at once by the observant

Jean. She looked up with a kind expression, a species of polite wifely

welcome; but the smile vanished, and with it, her engaging sweetness.

In a moment, the violet eyes grew weary, the lips satirical, the whole

manner dignified and listless.

General Villiers came in quickly, with his military step and carriage;

handsome still, though his grey hair had become white, and he was

older in appearance by many years than the number of his summers

warranted. Chronic ill-health is apt to age a man: and he had suffered

much at times from rheumatism. He might have been easily taken for

past seventy: and it was quite true, as Mrs. Kennedy had said, that he

looked like Evelyn's grandfather. He had even begun to stoop a little.

At the moment of his entrance, a distinct frown was stamped upon his

brow, as if something had vexed him: but it cleared away at the sight

of callers, and he came forward to greet them, with his air of polished

courtesy.

The Trevelyans did not belong to that "St. John set" which formed his

own chosen environment when at home. As he would perhaps have said,

they did not "suit him." He knew, however, that Evelyn liked them: and

he was too affectionate a husband not to be pleased with what gave her

pleasure, even though he might be just a little uneasy at the prospect

of an intimacy in that quarter.

He was somewhat in bondage to the opinions of others; not of "others"

generally, but of certain leading individuals in his own clique; Miss

Devereux, for instance, and Lady Lucas, and Colonel Atherstone, none

of whom liked or approved of Mr. Trevelyan. Where his own kindliness

of heart would have carried him on, he was often pulled back by a

recollection of what others—these particular "others—" might say.

Still, he was a thorough gentleman, and small-talk went as smoothly as

a glissade for several minutes, till Mr. Trevelyan rose to go.

"Jean must be sure to come again very soon," Evelyn said, kissing the

girl; and Jean went off in a state of smothered radiance, which her

father could not even guess at.

"My dear!" the General said seriously, when he and Evelyn were

alone, speaking in a tone of reproof. He was a most devoted husband,

as husbands go, but seven years of married life do undoubtedly, in

ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, make away with the romance of

attachment. Dearly as the General loved his fair young wife, he was not

at all incapable of finding fault with her; and this premonitory "My

dear!" did not come with the shock of anything unusual. It only came as

something unwelcome: and her lips grew slightly hard.

"Yes—" she said.

"I think, my love, that now we are at home, you must make up your mind

to be a little more guarded, more careful in your manner, when friends

call friends of long standing."

"More guarded!"

"Perhaps that is hardly the word. What I mean is, that you have to be

a little more kind and pleasant, my love, even where you do not so

very particularly care for the callers themselves. It is necessary

to guard one's manner sometimes from over-coldness, as well as from

over-frankness. I am speaking early for your sake as well as for my

own. I should be sorry if a wrong impression went forth of my wife; and

you cannot, I am convinced, really wish to give offence. It is only

inadvertence."

"Offence to whom, William?"

"It is hardly needful to mention names. I think you will understand

without further explanation. You did not of course intend to act

slightingly to anybody; but a certain amount of attention is due to

people in a certain position; and when it is withheld—can you wonder

that they are hurt?"

"I cannot be otherwise than natural."

"Nay, Evelyn—surely politeness ought to be natural."

"I have not failed in bare politeness, and I will not," she said

quietly. "But more is expected, and I cannot give it. I don't like

Dutton people."

"You do not really know them. There is at least no need to pass

judgment until you do."

"I have no wish to know them any better."

"Then I am to understand that your manner yesterday to some of my

friends—a manner which gave pain—was not inadvertent, but intentional?"

Evelyn almost spoke, almost told him of the real cause. It was a pity

that she did not. Though he might have been difficult to convince, he

would not in the abstract have approved of gossip, and he would at

least have seen that she had a reason for showing coldness.

"But what is the use?" she asked herself plaintively. "He will not

understand."

She turned away with a sigh, making no answer, and the frown on the

General's brow was stamped there during many hours. He thought Evelyn

was wilfully bent on opposing him.

It was difficult, perhaps, for him to think otherwise, when she would

not attempt to make her motives clear; yet no doubt it was difficult

also for Evelyn to enter on such an attempt, when she had so often

tried and failed. The state of tension between them had grown gradually

out of an utter discrepancy of mind and character, at least not less

in degree than the discrepancy of age. In such cases, it is often most

difficult to say where the blame lies.

For he was so good, so earnest, a man: and withal so fixed in his

views. When he had made up his mind, he had made up his mind, and

nothing could move him. This was a marked idiosyncrasy, a part of his

very nature; and it was equally shown on questions of great moment and

of passing interest.

On almost every conceivable subject of importance, he had come to

definite conclusions some thirty or forty years earlier; and he had not

since deviated by a hair's breadth, at least not consciously, from the

neat solution of each difficulty, then laid down by himself for his

own instruction. He was never troubled by a shadow of doubt that his

opinions might not be absolutely and altogether right. He never thought

it possible that here or there he might be mistaken. He had his Bible;

he studied it; he reached certain conclusions. When other people,

studying their Bibles no less earnestly, reached different conclusions,

they of course were wrong.

He was too gentlemanly and kind-hearted to judge them harshly in words;

but he always felt their deviations from truth, as held by himself, to

be sad and perplexing; and he had no pleasure in their society. His

friends were always those who agreed with himself, who submitted to his

dictum. All who did so agree, he accepted and believed in thoroughly;

so thoroughly that, as we have seen, Evelyn was hopeless of her power

to disturb that belief. All who did not so agree were relegated to the

outer circle of mere acquaintances.

But he could not so relegate his wife: and Evelyn by no means agreed

with him on all points. She made no effort to conceal the fact; and

this was a lasting grief to the single-eyed simple-hearted man. For if

he were inevitably always in the right, she must of necessity, where

she differed from him, be always in the wrong.

Evelyn's mind and character were in many respects a complete enigma to

the General. He could not fathom her; could not grasp the complexities

of a nature so unlike his own. It was not his fault. A short-sighted

man cannot fairly be blamed for not seeing so far as a long-sighted man.

The General, with all his real goodness and nobleness, had a narrow

make of mind, a contracted mental vision. And at sixty-two or

sixty-three years of age, he was incapable of gauging his young wife

of twenty-five. She had not yet come to her full growth. She was

expanding, gaining fresh knowledge, assimilating new thoughts, year

by year. He had been petrified early into a permanent shape; and for

thirty or forty years past, he had almost ceased to expand. How could

the two minds suit?

Evelyn's restless thought, her searching into the foundations

of statements which he accepted en bloc, her eager listening to

fresh theories, her weariness of religious strifes and factious

oppositions—all of these he resolved with sorrowful haste into

"dangerous tendencies," and to all of these, he set himself in resolute

opposition. He was indeed most willing to discuss vexed questions with

her; and he would never, like many men, forget his gentlemanliness in

the heat of argument; but he always began and ended with the assumption

that he himself was inevitably right, and he had no power to see her

side of the matter.

So it came to pass that Evelyn fell into a habit of systematically

evading all discussion; not merely all religious discussion, which

under the circumstances was no doubt her wisest course, but all

discussion of most everyday matters. If he found fault, she offered

no defence. If he misjudged her, she attempted no explanation. It

was "no use," she told herself. Such a state of things, which in any

other relationship of life would be hardly more than endurable, when

existing between a husband and wife could not but result in distress

and isolation.

CHAPTER IV.

A STRIFE FOR THE MASTERY.

"Fie, fie! Unknit that threatening unkind brow;

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes."

SHAKESPEARE.

SYBELLA's exercise of authority over Cyril had reached the limit of her

tether. The pull had been too strong, inducing a new resistance which,

once started, was not likely to die down.

From childhood, the home training of the young baronet had been, in

effect, "Do as you like; follow your own inclinations—" with the sole

exceptions implied by the care of his health, and the choice of his

friends. He was to nurse and coddle his body; he was to like those

people whom Sybella liked; which two exceptions might involve the

occasional crossing of his inclinations; but in all other respects he

was to gratify himself.

Such a mode of training would naturally, would almost of necessity,

recoil in time upon the trainer. Arbitrary exceptions to a general rule

of self-pleasing are not likely to stand.

Boyish as Cyril looked, he was seventeen, a lad of innate character, of

rapidly-developing force and intellect. Some degree of nervous weakness

existed still, hampering the capabilities of mind and body, but the

weakness was being fast mastered, as the bracing influences of a good

school gradually counteracted the enervating influences of home.

Hitherto his natural gentleness of disposition, with a good-natured

readiness to yield on small points—a readiness more often masculine

than feminine—had prevented struggles; but the state of things could

not last thus indefinitely. Sooner or later, as Mrs. Kennedy would have

said, the tadpole is sure to part with its tail.

The change was not likely to begin on Miss Devereux's side. A mother

is usually far quicker than a father to realise that her children,

especially her boys, are growing up; and she more seldom makes the

blunder of keeping on childish restrictions too long. But Miss Devereux

was not a mother, was not even a woman of natural motherliness. She was

only a fidgety and nervous single lady, very ignorant of life, still

more ignorant of human nature; and she was quite unable to realise that

her spoilt darling was big enough to stand alone. She was just as eager

to cosset, to pet, and to control, with the lad of seventeen as she had

been with the child of ten. Since the change would not begin on her

side, it had to begin on Cyril's side; and this mode too often means an

accompanying struggle.

No doubt the change had been long brewing. Things do not come about

in this world without previous preparation. When a lightning spark

flashes from cloud to cloud, it does so with startling suddenness yet

the electrical condition of the clouds has implied a gradual working-up

to the point of discharge. When nations burst into open war, a period

of grumbling and growling has been gone through previously. What the

newspapers describe as "strained relations" between two kingdoms had

been for some time the condition of affairs between aunt and nephew;

only nobody knew it except themselves, and perhaps not even themselves.

Like many easy-tempered people, who from inborn sweetness and dislike

of a "fuss," will yield on a hundred lesser points, Cyril could

be aroused to tough resistance on the hundred-and-first point. An

occasional fight in his childhood might have warned Sybella; but such

fights had been rare, and she had almost found him amenable to petting.

On the whole, this factor in his character had not pressed itself on

Sybella's notice. He was indeed only now beginning to awake to the

dawning possibilities of manhood. Far greater awakenings might come to

him in the future; but this at the moment seemed great. It took him by

surprise as well as her.

Though he had submitted to the combined pressure of Miss Devereux and

Mr. Trevelyan, he could not easily forgive his aunt for the position

in which she had placed him before Jean. There was the rub! Had Jean

been absent, he would have cared little; he might have felt a touch of

good-humoured disgust, still he would have stepped into the carriage,

with at most only a laughing protest.

But before Jean!! To have to act the semi-invalid, and be carried

off to dry his boots, with Jean standing there, slim and straight

and scornful! He knew she was scornful, without looking at her; and

his whole frame tingled at the thought. It quashed all recollections

of Mr. Trevelyan's advice, which for the moment had carried the day

against himself. He could only think of Jean, could only burn at the

recollection of her pity.

He would not speak to his aunt all the way home; would not look at her;

would not answer when she spoke. His violet eyes grew dark under bent

brows, and the handsome lips gathered themselves into a resolute pout.

In plain terms, Sir Cyril Devereux sulked. He had never been a sulky

boy; and Miss Devereux did not know what to make of this new phase in

his nature.

She had not sense to leave him alone to recover himself. A little quiet

neglect might have restored the balance, allowing her time to regain

his temper: but whatever else Sybella might do, she never failed to

talk. She reasoned, argued, coaxed, remonstrated, without a break. When

he would not reply, she nearly cried. When he would not look at her,

she rambled on about ingratitude. When at length she had him inside the

hall-door, she told him it was all the fault of his friends that he

should behave so badly.

"If it wasn't for those Trevelyans—!" she lamented. "I'm sure nothing

could show more plainly that Jean is no good companion for you. And

now, Cyril, about your boots—"

But she had put the finishing stroke. Cyril's unwonted fit of sulks

exploded into a no less unwonted outburst of anger.

"If it hadn't been for Mr. Trevelyan, I wouldn't have come back at

all," he declared wrathfully, and he dashed headlong upstairs, three

steps at a time.

Sybella hesitated, debated with herself as to what dignity might

demand, and followed the fugitive. She found Cyril's door open, Cyril's

room empty; and from the window she caught one glimpse of a boyish

figure cutting at full speed across a distant lawn.

"He must have gone down the back staircase! And without changing his

boots! How wrong! How deceitful!" bewailed the distressed lady; though

deceitful was scarcely the correct term.

Cyril's rush upstairs had been instinctive, his rush downstairs

unpremeditated. He had merely escaped by the easiest method.

"I shall have to take stronger measures. He has never shown such a

rebellious spirit before. So strange and unlike him—it really is most

sad. Standing alone, as I do—with no one to appeal to—except of course

General Villiers, and he is entirely managed by his wife."

Sybella did not show profound knowledge here, but she would have

maintained the statement through thick and thin.

"I really am quite at a loss what to do. Of course one can see whose

influence has been at work. Yes—come in."

"Lady Lucas is downstairs, ma'am."

Sybella had to smooth her ruffled plumage, and to hasten to the

drawing-room, where Lady Lucas sat on the chief sofa—a large woman,

plump and round, and clothed in black brocaded silk, almost stiff

enough to stand on end. In youth she had been pretty, but her features

had expanded with her frame into a rotund shapelessness, and the

distinguishing characteristic of her countenance was its extent of

cheek. There was also a superfluity of chin, though not of forehead,

and her eyes were surrounded by cushions, which left only two slim

crevices when she smiled.

She was the very picture of dignified geniality greeting Sybella with

effusive affection; and the effect of her effusiveness was to call

forth the gush always latent in Sybella, albeit trampled under feet by

an irresponsive world. Sybella aught sigh, and clasp her hands, and

gaze with appreciative eyes, to any extent, in Lady Lucas' presence.

Tea came in, and Sybella poured it out in a vague and poetical manner.

She forgot the sugar, and then the cake; and she blushed and sighed

over her own mistakes, pleading absorption of mind.

Lady Lucas had no objection to absorbed minds in the abstract. Indeed

she thought it rather interesting to see Sybella go off into a mild

dream, with clasped hands, and eyes riveted on the top-point of the

banner-screen; but she was too old fashioned not to like sugar.

"No innovations for me, my dear!" she said magisterially, when Sybella

offered the sugar-basin, and she helped herself to three big lumps.

"Tea was meant to be taken with sugar. Leaving it off is all a fad of

the present day."

The saccharine question disposed of, they reverted to topics of local

interest, and divers affairs pertaining to other people were settled

by the two ladies. Sybella had not meant to say anything about the

perversity of her nephew, being well aware that what was told to Lady

Lucas was told to Dutton. But her mind was full of the subject, and the

outlets from Sybella's mind were always badly corked. A very moderate

amount of steam-pressure within would at any time get rid of the corks.

So presently the whole story came out, not to say more than the whole.

A story told by any one is pretty sure to take its colouring from the

condition of the teller's feelings, and Sybella's feelings were not

calm.

Lady Lucas listened, questioned, sympathised.

"There is nothing for it but firmness," she maintained, removing a

crumb from her brocaded silk. "You must hold your own, my dear. It is a

question of now or never. I know what young men are in the present day.

If you yield now, you will never have the upper hand again."

"So difficult!" sighed Sybella pensively.

"Not at all. Not in the least difficult if you set to work in the right

way. To begin with, I should certainly check that intimacy, if I were

you. No end of mischief comes from boy and girl intimacies, where there

is no relationship. I would check it at any cost."

"But how is one to check it? I should be glad enough if I could,"

persisted Sybella. "Of course it is most undesirable! Still, I don't

know what to do. If I were to forbid him the Rectory, I am rather

afraid—and it would give offence too—"

"If you were to forbid him the Rectory, you would settle the matter

at once, my dear. Nothing in life but the Trevelyans would be of the

slightest importance," said Lady Lucas, with considerable wisdom. "No,

things have gone much too far for that. You can't stamp it out—now! You

can only try to draw him in some other direction."

"How?" Sybella begged to know, for once with brevity.

"Don't leave him time for the Trevelyans. Keep your eye upon him, and

have all possible engagements apart from them. Mrs. Villiers would

surely help you. No? I should have thought, the General's wife—Well,

if no other means are successful, I would take the boy elsewhere for

his holidays. I would not have him at Dulveriford more than I could

possibly help, till his fancy for Jean has died out. For Mr. Trevelyan!

Oh, my dear, I know better! I know what boys are. It is Jean he is

crazy after, not Mr. Trevelyan. You really are very innocent still of

the ways of the world!"—playfully.

Sybella bridled and blushed anew at the compliment.

"Now you think over my advice. At Christmas you may have to be at

home—it may be unavoidable—but Christmas holidays are shorter, and

people can't rove about in the fields all day. Summer is the time to

have him away. Take him abroad or anywhere—only not here. He will be at

College, I suppose, in a year; and think of the length of his summer

vacation then. You must keep him out of Jean Trevelyan's way for two or

three years; and see what the effect will be. Don't fan the fancy by

fighting, but fill his mind with other interests."

Sybella did not dislike the notion. It would take a little time to work

its way into her brain, but she by no means rejected the scheme. A few

difficulties occurred to mind, all of which her companion overruled or

smoothed away.

By the time Lady Lucas said good-bye, Sybella was much more than half

convinced.

Tea grew cold, and Cyril did not come in. Sybella began to wax nervous.

What if she really had gone too far, had driven the boy to desperation?

Worse ideas than wet boots began to assail her—such as maimed limbs,

and drowned bodies. Why Cyril should be maimed or drowned, in

consequence of what had passed, she could hardly have explained; but

whoever expected sequence of thought from Sybella?

She put on her garden hat at length, took a shawl, and meandered about

the grounds for half-an-hour; in vain. Cyril was not to be found. Then

she confided her anxiety to Pearce, and sent him forth to search.

Pearce did not agree with her as to the necessity, but he did what he

was told; and after an hour's walk, he returned, having seen nothing of

Sir Cyril.

Dinner-time drew near. Did Cyril mean to fail for dinner? That would

indeed be a startlingly new departure. Sybella melted into tears at the

prospect, then she grew pettishly angry, and then she cried again. It

was impossible to settle to anything. She wandered from room to room,

looking out of windows, wondering what could be done next.

A click at the front door sounded, and Cyril came in suddenly.

Sybella was passing through the hall, and she stopped short, with an

exclamation, half relieved, half reproachful.

Cyril stood facing her, white and resolute, yet shamefaced. He had

never treated her in this fashion before, and he did not know what to

make of himself any more than Sybella knew what to make of him; but

all promptings to softer feeling were checked again and again by the

remembrance of how she had abashed him before Jean. He was stiff as

steel on that point, worked up to rigidity by hours of brooding. Still,

a touch of shame was visible.

"Cyril!! At last!!" she said, any number of notes of admiration in her

voice. "Where have you been?"

"Walking!" curtly.

"Not all this time! And your boots! You did not change your boots!"

"No, aunt."

"Cyril, this is very wrong. This really is most, reprehensible. I could

not have thought it of you."

Unyielding silence answered the reproach, and Sybella's voice began to

shake.

"I could not have believed in such behaviour. It is too bad—too

ungrateful! But of course, I understand what makes you so unlike

yourself. I quite understand. It is all the fault of those Trevelyans!

The effect of being thrown too much with Jean! I am sure if I had

thought—But I have been too kind—too indulgent! One finds one's

mistakes—I shall have to take measures—strict measures! Lady Lucas is

right! The thing cannot go on."

Be it remarked, Sybella had studiously resolved to say nothing of

all this, to make no allusion to the Trevelyans; above all, to utter

no hint respecting Lady Lucas' advice. She did not wish to warn her

nephew, or to annoy him afresh. Sybella's resolutions were, however,

apt to fail when the moment came for carrying them out.

"It is all the fault of those Trevelyans," she went on in her usual

style of aimless repetition. "I suppose they have been setting you

against me. And Jean—Have you been there again?"

"No!"

Little though Sybella knew it, a kind and grieved word on his first

entrance—such a word as a mother might have spoken—would have softened

him at once into his ordinary self. He was dead-beat with hours of

vehement walking and indignation, just in the state to be melted by

any touch of tenderness. His pale lips might have told their tale to

Sybella, but she was far too full of her own annoyance to be observant.

The above utterances, the contemptuous expression "those Trevelyans,"

the unjust accusations levelled against his friends, hardened him

afresh. Sybella was losing an opportunity, not likely to return.

"Then where did you go?"

"Through the marshes."

Sybella lifted horror-struck hands.

"You are soaking wet—up to your knees. Almost up to your knees."

"Yes."

Sybella burst into tears, overcome by this new masterfulness of spirit

in her coddled darling. "I'm sure I can't think what has come over you,

Cyril. You are not a bit like yourself. Jean Trevelyan—"

"I shall get ready for dinner," Cyril broke in coldly, and he walked

out of the room, cutting short the renewed accusation.

Dinner was an uncomfortable meal for both. Cyril was far too chilled

and too much fatigued to have any appetite; and Sybella was too greatly

offended to speak on any subject except that of his misdemeanours,

which could hardly be discussed in Pearce's presence.

She had meant to carry on her lecture during dessert, but Cyril

declined all dainties, and Sybella resolved to make haste to the

drawing-room, where interruptions were not likely.

On the way, however, she was delayed by a note from Mrs. Kennedy,

requiring a verbal answer, and when she reached the drawing-room,

Cyril was dead-asleep on a low couch—not lying down, but dropped in a

careless heap. He looked so young, and withal so sweet, with the long

even lashes lying on his cheeks, and the half childish lips parted,

that Sybella's mood softened. She sat and watched him till coffee came

in, and then, after rousing him to take a cup, her lecture resolved

itself into—

"Cyril, you ought to go to bed."

"I don't mind if I do," Cyril said, with unlooked-for submission; and

after a good-night kiss, he vanished.

But the kiss was a cold one. Sybella's accusation of Jean could not be

easily forgotten.

Sybella was in her element next day; and all her foreboding cares were

rewarded; for Cyril had a cold. She could indulge herself to any extent

in that most ardent delight of a small mind—the reiteration of the

formula, "I told you so!"

Had she not warned Cyril? Had she not prophesied results? Had she

not begged, implored, insisted? And had he not refused to hear? Now

the consequences had arrived—just as she had known, just as she had

expected, just as she had declared would be the case!

"I told you how it would be!" she said again and again, with her

grating self-satisfaction.

There could be no mistake about the matter. Cyril came down to

breakfast, hoarse as a raven, sneezing, heavy-eyed, feverish and

listless. He did his best to talk in a natural voice, but the effort

was a failure.

And every time he coughed, Sybella said "Ah!" 'expressively.

She was so gratified with her own sagacity, as quite to have recovered

her good-humour.

All breakfast-time, she plied Cyril with questions. Had he a pain here,

a feeling of tightness there, a kind of oppression within, a sort of

chilliness everywhere? Had he—

"Ah! There!" as Cyril sneezed.

Poor dear boy! Well, he would have to stay indoors, of course, and take

care of himself. Nothing like nipping a cold in the bud, especially in

summer when of course there are draughts everywhere. A little prudence

earlier would have prevented all this; but now—yes, the best plan would

be to stay quietly in the study, with the window shut, and a nice

little story to read. And he must have broth and toast for lunch; and a

horrible camomile compound such as "my dear aunt always gave me when I

had a cold;" and then if he did not get better by the evening, "I must

just send for Dr. Ingram."

Cyril stoutly rebelled. He had begun to feel his power. He had had

the bit between his teeth yesterday evening, and he began to champ it

again now. It was impossible to forget so soon his aunt's contemptuous

utterance of the Trevelyan name. He knew also that Jean might expect

him to look in and inquire after the robin.

He did not mention Jean, but his lips took an obstinate curve, as he

answered, "I'm not going to be boxed up indoors all day."

Sybella declined to hear the protest. She talked on through breakfast;

she reiterated warnings past, causes present, results future. She

discussed Cyril into the Study; she shut and bolted the window;

she gave him a pretty story-book; she pitied his hoarseness; she

fidgeted to and fro; she went verbally through a list of remedies; she

threatened Dr. Ingram anew.

Finally she disappeared to attend to household duties; and when,

half-an-hour later, she came back, carrying for her invalid a hot

treacle posset, which after much circumlocution of ideas she had

decided upon as superior to even the camomile compound—lo and behold,

the bird was flown.

"Yea, ma'am, Sir Cyril is gone out," Pearce said, when Sybella had

poured upon him a small cascade of questions and sentiments. "He didn't

mean to be long, he said."

"He will get a fresh chill. He will be laid by with inflammation of

the lungs! Another attack of congestion!" gasped Sybella. "So wrong—so

thoughtless!"

"It's an uncommon hot day, ma'am," averred Pearce, with a glance at the

August sky.

"But damp—quite damp. The air is full of damp," declared Sybella. "See

what an amount of dew on the grass. Dew always means damp in the air,"

she went on scientifically.

Like most unlearned people, Sybella was positive in proportion to her

ignorance.

"Where else could the damp come from? And damp is the worst thing

possible for a chill. If only you had told me sooner, Pearce!"

"Sir Cyril didn't give me no time, ma'am. He just said he was going to

get a breath of air, and then he was off like a shot."

"Imprudent boy! Those Trevelyans again!" sighed Sybella, too much

agitated to be circumspect.

Cyril had to pay for his wilfulness—not in the coin of ill-health, but

in that of endurance. Sybella made known her views to him very fully on

the enormity of his conduct; and a lecture from Sybella was apt to be,

not loud perhaps, but long.

He did not get inflammation of the lungs, as she had foretold, and in

a few days the cold vanished. Yet consequences even more momentous

flowed from the doings of those two days. Thenceforward there were

changed relations between the aunt and nephew. A slowly-widening chasm

appeared, separating the two. Unquestioning submission on the part of

Cyril ceased; and a struggle for authority on the part of Sybella began.

CHAPTER V.

IN THE GORGE AGAIN.

"But 'tis done—all words are idle—

Words from me are vainer still,

But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will."

BYRON.

ONCE more Jem and Jean were in the gorge, not rushing headlong down the

steep path, but walking steadily up. Jean could have raced as lightly

the one way as the other; only she held herself in for the sake of her

companion. Jem was overworked and out of condition. He had come to

Dulveriford for rest, arriving late the evening before.

This sharp ascent was about as much as he could manage, taking it

easily. There is no great practice in hill-climbing to be had at the

East-End. Jean's quick eyes noted the occasional pauses, which were not

only for admiration of the scene. He had lost his healthy tan, gaining

instead a fixed paleness; but the face at twenty-nine was handsomer

than at twenty-two. It had grown finer and more refined. The nobility

of deep thought and the purity of self-abnegation shone through every

feature.

Seven years since he had walked through this gorge.

The former time was vividly present with Jem. He found himself

unexpectedly haunted by recollections of the fair girl, whom he had

last seen here. Seven years at his age are a considerable slice out of

a lifetime; and Jem had long ago risen out of the despair into which he

was plunged by Evelyn's engagement to General Villiers. He could look

back now, with a kind compassion, to his own misery of mind at that

time, almost as to the misery of another person; and he could feel a

friendly interest in Evelyn's welfare. He had ceased to dream of her in

connection with himself. His life was full of thought, full of work; it

was a life entirely devoted to the good of others; and so of necessity

it was a joyous life.

Yet somehow he had never managed to fall in love a second time. Evelyn

Devereux had been his first and only love. That one short episode had

tinged his whole being. Evelyn Devereux, his love, was dead; but Evelyn

Villiers would always be to him "a bright particular star."

All these seven years he had not been to Dulveriford. At first he had

purposely stayed away, in dread of associations, in dread still more of

seeing Evelyn, and so renewing the misery of loss. Later, he had not

been free to come.

During five years past he had toiled, with every power of mind and

body, in a great East-End Parish, rising to the position of Senior

Curate—a man esteemed and beloved by all who knew him. He was in touch

with his brother clergy, in touch with the working men around, in touch

with the mothers, the children, the sick, the poor. Dominated in his

uttermost being by the love of Christ, intensely loving and lovable

himself, he won the love of others, and through their love for him,

he led them to a nobler life, a life of service to the Muster whom he

served. But the doing of this meant no easy-chair existence.

Offers of livings had come to him, not once or twice only. Jem was,

however, in no haste to change. He delighted in his present sphere; and

he cared little for advancement.

Once a year, generally in spring or early summer, he went for a month

to Scotland, to recruit his much-tasked energies. At other times he

could seldom be spared; and when he had a few days, his mother wanted

him. Two or three times he had met the Trevelyans of Dulveriford in

Scotland, when his holiday had happened to coincide with that of Mr.

Trevelyan: but Dulveriford, he had not seen, declining all invitations.

This year his annual change had, from one cause or another, proved

less successful than usual; and the advent of hot weather knocked him

down. Jem struggled on till August; then doctor and friends insisted

on another rest. An invitation from Dulveriford Rectory, coming at the

right moment, was accepted.

Jem had not known, till after his arrival, that General and Mrs.

Villiers were at home again. The knowledge would have made no

difference as to his coming; for he counted himself completely cured

of that long past suffering, able even to smile over it. Yet, walking

through the glen once more, amid the surroundings of golden water,

flecked leaf-shadows, sunshine and rocks, Jem experienced something

like a transient revival of the old pain. He seemed to see Evelyn's

face at every turn; to meet again the fringed black-blue eyes turned

full upon him in wondering delight.

"Is it too far? Shall we turn back?" asked Jean, when Jem paused again

near the rustic bridge, to lean against a tree.

Jem smiled at her. "You must give me a day or two to get up my powers,"

he said.

Jean did not pester him with solicitude. She had been trained to

despise fussiness in the health-line. To be ill at the Rectory was

almost a crime; not in the sense in which Sybella Devereux made it a

crime, by always ascribing it to the sufferer's own imprudence; but

bodily weakness was something to be ashamed of, something to be hidden

and trampled under foot.

"Do you remember the last time you and I were here?" asked her

companion.

He could not get the recollection of Evelyn out of his head. It was,

however, a soft recollection, not unpleasing, though sad; and he could

quite well bear to talk of her.

"Just after General Villiers was engaged to Cyril's sister," Jean

answered promptly.

"General Villiers told me of the engagement here—in the gorge."

"Yes; I heard him begin, and I ran away. Aunt Marie had been so vexed,

because I came upon her and my father talking about it. Aunt Marie

didn't like her to marry somebody so old."

"You were a funny little girl in those days." Jem looked attentively

into the grave face. "Jean—I should like to see you laugh more."

"Would you? But there is nothing to laugh at."

"Never?"

"Oh, sometimes—when people do odd things. Not often. Why should one be

always laughing?" asked Jean, with girlish solemnity. "I don't think

life is so very funny. It is worse than funny. There are so many things

that one can't understand."

"What things?" Jem moved to a fallen log, and sat down, motioning Jean

to do the same.

"A great many. There are no end of puzzles."

"Tell me one of them."

Jean considered, and came out abruptly with—

"I never do see how Evelyn could marry General Villiers."

"Hardly needful for another person to see, if she cared for him enough."

"No—but—" There was a singular echo of Jem's "if" in Jean's expressive

face.

"And we have not to settle that point."

"No—but—" a second time, followed by another pause. "No: of course.

Only I don't see how one can help wondering. Evelyn is so unlike

everybody else; so beautiful and clever. Oh, 'clever' isn't the word.

She is much more than clever."

"Intellectual."

"Yes; that is more what I mean. She seems to have such a—I don't know

what to call it! She takes everything in, and thinks everything over;

and then it comes out quite different, and so fresh. I'm not explaining

myself properly. My father says she is original. And General Villiers

isn't the least original, or clever, or anything. He is only good."

"That is a very important 'only.'"

"Oh, but don't you understand? One ought to be good, but one ought not

to be only good. It shouldn't be just mere commonplace goodness."

"It ought to have a distinct character of its own, in each individual,"

suggested Jem, not a little interested in the play of Jean's face.

"Yes; I suppose that is what I want to say. My father always talks of

General Villiers as such a 'very good man;' and it sounds to me as if

he said it because he had nothing else to say. But I don't think one

loves people merely because they are good—does one? At least I don't.

There are numbers of good people that I can't love at all. I suppose I

like their goodness, but I don't love themselves, because there doesn't

seem to be anything in them to love."

"Or if there is something, Jean does not see it."

Jean was silent for a minute, and her next words might have seemed

disconnected with her last. They did not so seem to Jem. He had the

clue, and he could supply the connecting link.

"Evelyn was only two or three years older than I am now when she

married. Only just eighteen—and he was the same age that my father is

now."

"A considerable difference!"

"Cyril says people drift into things and can't help themselves."

"Cyril has had immense experience, no doubt."

"Then it isn't true?"

"Some people are weak enough to let themselves drift; but nobody need.

Mind that, Jean."

"If Evelyn drifted into marrying the General—"

"Yes?" as Jean came to a stop.

"She must be very sorry now. That is what I have been thinking. Because

it wouldn't be enough, I should think, to have a husband who was only

just so very good and nothing else. And he doesn't care for the same

things or the same people that she does. He never reads the books she

likes most . . . Evelyn often looks as if she were sorry. She looks as

if—I don't know exactly how to put it—only there's a look in her face,

as if she did so want something else, something more than she has. He

is very kind, of course; but still—I shouldn't think she was so very

happy."

Jem rested his forehead on his hand. Jean's words brought a curious

sharp sense of pain; literal pain darting through his temples, symbol

and fruit of an acuter pain below. The pain was for Evelyn, not for

himself. He was not thinking of himself, or of his own loss. Personally

he had nothing to do with Evelyn Villiers, whatever he had felt for

Evelyn Devereux. But, if Jean's conjecture were true—if that fair

creature's life had been marred by hasty action, before she was old

enough to judge for herself, Jem hardly knew how to face the thought.

It seemed to him so very possible, and so very terrible.

If Evelyn were happy, he could rest in the consciousness of her

happiness, going his own way peacefully enough; but if she were not—How

could he rest, knowing her to be miserable, while he was powerless

to help? "Miserable" is a strong word; but if love and sympathy were

lacking between the husband and wife, what could it mean less than

misery for either of them?

Jem's pulse throbbed with the picture which unconscious Jean had

conjured up; yet he spoke quietly: "Jean, you must take care how you

say such things."

"I wouldn't, to anybody accept you. I never do. But I can't help

seeing: and it is true."

A good ten minutes of silence followed. Jean rose and went to the edge,

gazing down upon a swirl of dark water in the rocky bed below. Jem

remained where he was. He had to quell a rush of fierce longing to ask

more, to find out more, to learn how things really were with Evelyn, to

know if possible only that she was happy. He craved nothing further,

but that he did crave, passionately, bitterly—just to know that she was

happy!

The peace of years was suddenly broken up, and a whirlpool of the old

suffering had him in its grasp. There was nobody to see, for Jean's

back was turned; and had anybody else been present, there was not much

to be seen. At the ten minutes' end, Jem had mastered himself.

He came to Jean's side, only a little paler than usual, to say, "Don't

go too close to the edge. You would have a poor chance if you fell

over."

Jean retreated two steps obediently. "But I am never giddy," she said.

"Cyril can't stand there. It makes no difference to me."

"You have strong nerves."

"I've always lived here, you know. Shall we go on now?"

"I don't think I can walk much further to-day. Stupid of me, isn't it?"

said Jem cheerfully. "I'm a little—tired, perhaps. So, on the whole, we

may as well turn back."

It seemed like a dream to Jem. He could hardly believe his own eyes,

when, as they came down the path, two people advanced towards them from

below, passing out from the tree-shadows as once before. It was almost

on the self-same spot that the encounter took place. Jem and Jean were

not rushing now, however. Jean was no longer a child, but verging on

womanhood; and Jem had lost some of his buoyancy; and twice seven years

might have passed over the General's head.

Evelyn was perhaps the least altered of the quartette; or so Jem

thought at the first moment. She appeared hardly less young or less

lovely than the picture stored in his memory. Yet the next instant, he

saw that she, too, was changed—not only developed into fuller beauty

and more womanly grace. Development had not taken place merely along

the lines that might have been expected. The faintly satirical set

of her lips was altogether new; and the eyes—those wonderful violet

eyes—no longer shone with delight in the world around her, but were

full of a sad forlornness, as if she had come to the end of her life,

had tasted all it had to offer, and had found that all unsatisfying.

Jem understood now what Jean had meant.

The four stopped, of course, and exchanged kind greetings.

General Villiers was delighted to see Jem. "I meant to call on you

this afternoon," he said, "but we met Mr. Trevelyan, and my wife has

asked him to bring you in to dinner to-night. Just a family dinner—only

one or two others. You will come, of course. Mr. Trevelyan could not

promise for Madame Collier."

"Thanks, I shall be much pleased," Jem answered.

"Why not give us three or four nights before you go back? We should be

delighted," urged the General.

"I don't think I can. I'm afraid I shall have to hurry away, even

sooner than I meant."

Jean gave him a look.

"Thanks, all the same."

"So you have secured a peep at the glen the first thing," remarked

Evelyn. "Is it not curious that we should meet again just on this spot,

after so many years? Do you remember?"—with her gracious smile. Then

she asked, "Have you been ill lately? I had not heard of it."

"Rather out of sorts. Yes—I remember! Seven years ago."

"Only seven. It seems so much longer. I could believe you if you said

'seventeen years!'"

General Villiers looked down on her with a smile. "That would make you

a good deal older than you are, my dear," he said. He was proud of her

youthful beauty, and never sought to hide the discrepancy in age—which,

indeed, would have been a hopeless task. "Now, with me the years slip

by in a marvellous way—like lightning. Almost as soon as a year begins

it is gone. Seven years! Impossible! But Mr. Trevelyan looks older."

Evelyn's glance went again to Jem with kind solicitude. "He looks—not

at all well," she said.

"East-End work takes something out of a man," Jem said, in apology for

his appearance.

"You will not keep on at that always. You will have a living some day,"

said the General.

Jem might have told of several rejected livings.

"Some day, perhaps. One would wish to give one's best years to that

work—and then—"

"But not to go on too long," suggested Evelyn. "Not to use up all your

powers."

"They could hardly be used up to a better purpose."

"No—only—" she hesitated, dropping her voice, as the General turned to

speak with Jean. "Oh, I understand! It must be a splendid life—a life

worth living."

"It is a life worth living."

"So different from most people's lives!" and the deep blue eyes,

which for a moment had kindled as of old, went forlornly to some far

distance, with a listless sadness which struck home to Jem like a keen

stab. Then they came back to him, kind and anxious again. "But you do

look too much overdone. You must remember your friends."

"My love, we have not much time to spare," the General said. "I suppose

we can hardly ask Mr. Trevelyan to come again with us to the bridge."

"He said he was tired," put in Jean.

"I am sure he is. Oh no; we shall meet by-and-by. He ought to go back

now," Evelyn said at once, and they parted.

Jem made no effort to decide the matter for himself.

Few words were spoken on the way home. Jean gave a questioning glance

now and then, of which Jem seemed unconscious. He was absorbed in his

own thoughts. They did the remaining distance at a good brisk pace,

never slackening speed. But when the house was reached, Jem all at once

succumbed, seeming to be utterly wearied out. Jean had never known him

so before, and she saw with a sense of dismay. To be scolded by Madame

Collier for not taking better care of her cousin was a new experience,

in a house where nobody ever thought about health; but Jem's exhaustion

was something new also.

He had found his way to the drawing-room sofa, and there it seemed most

merciful to leave him undisturbed. None in the house could guess at

the real cause of his prostration—could know how the haunting vision

of those sad violet eyes never left him for a moment. Jem saw them

continually, whether his own aching eyes were open or shut.

"I'm sure I don't know what's to be done. He doesn't seem fit to go,"

said Madame Collier, when six o'clock came.

Jean would hardly have been more startled by the fall of a stack of

chimneys than by the implied doubt. Not go to dinner at the Park!

Memory failed to supply any precedent in the shape of a broken

engagement. If a Trevelyan undertook to do something, he did it at all

costs and hazards, short of absolute impossibility.

"I don't know what he really wishes, or what is the matter with him.

He is tired and has a headache, and he can't or won't say more. Do

bring him to a point, Jean, somehow. I wish he had not been so far this

morning: but one could not guess, and it had no business to knock him

down like this. Your father ordered a fly, for we didn't suppose Jem

could manage the walk; and it will be here soon after seven."

Jean went to the drawing-room, wondering. Flys were not a common

indulgence at the Rectory. She found Jem in the deep easy-chair near an

open window, with his hand over his eyes. Jean's step was light as of

old, and he seemed unconscious of her entrance. She stood looking at

him for some seconds.

"Aunt Marie thinks you don't want to dine at the Park," she said at

length.

Jem's sudden movement was as of one awakened from a dream. "It's no

matter," he said.

"But if you are too tired—" Jean paused, astonished at her own words.

Nobody at the Rectory ever thought of leaving a matter undone, merely

on account of fatigue.

Jem did not at once reply. He was leaning back, quiet enough outwardly:

and Jean could not see through the shield of composure. She could see

the pale and drawn look: she could not know how intense was the craving

to judge for himself as to Evelyn's happiness. The whole force of his

desires pointed in that direction. But there was another side to the

matter. Jem needed all his powers for his work: and if one glimpse of

Evelyn's face had so destroyed his calm, how would things be after a

whole evening in her presence? Might he deliberately risk it? Would it

not be wiser, better, to keep away? For he could do no good. If Evelyn

were not happy, he had no power to touch her unhappiness. Seeing her

thus could only mean distress to himself, not gain to her.

Jean stood waiting, perplexed at his indecision; and as his hand went

slowly over the rumpled hair, she began again—

"If your head is so bad—I mean, if you think you had better not go—"

"It is bad. Yes—I think I had better not go."

"Stay at home! Must you?" Jean had not expected this; and she was a

good deal disappointed in Jem.

"I am afraid I must."

"It isn't walking, you know. The fly is ordered. And Evelyn will expect

you. Wouldn't going do you good?"

Jem could truly answer, "No, I think not." He added in a gentle voice,

which Jean knew to be decisive—"Tell aunt Marie I will give it up. And,

Jean, I wish you would explain something else. I am sorry, but I find I

can only stay two more nights here."

"You are not thinking of London again so soon."

"No."

Jean moved away without a protest, and gave her double message.

"Well, it can't be helped, though I know your father will be vexed,"

was Madame Collier's comment. "There's something wrong with Jem that we

don't understand. Go home in two days! That he will not. He has heard

something from somebody by post, I suppose. It doesn't matter. We won't

let him off any of his week."

But when Jem knew himself to be in the right, his will was unbending

as iron. After two nights, he left and he did not see Evelyn again

meantime.

CHAPTER VI.

FRICTION.

"If two lives join, there is oft a scar,

They are one and one, with a shadowy third,

One near one is too far."

R. BROWNING.

MRS. VILLIERS of Dutton Park was a marked personage in Dutton; partly

from her husband's wealth and position, partly from her own personal

charms. Her actions were watched and commented on to any extent. Where

she drove, how she dressed, what she said, thought, and did, became

matters for daily chit-chat. Above all, whom she called upon, whom she

chose to welcome, and whom she treated with coldness, were questions

which stirred the neighbourhood—more especially that part of the

neighbourhood which belonged to the congregation of St. John's.

General Villiers was looked upon as the exclusive property of the St.

John's clique; and where he belonged, his wife of course belonged

also. How could she help it? He always occupied in Church one of the

few carved chancel chairs, and Evelyn occupied a second by his side—an

enviable distinction not to be accorded to everybody. When he stood up,

martial and handsome, he was a fine specimen of the "old soldier," and

he spoke out the responses in a deep bass voice, while his face was

illuminated with earnest feeling, the sincerity of which none could

doubt.

Evelyn, standing by his side, looked lovely and graceful, of course,

for she never could be anything else; but nobody could help noting

her air of habitual weariness, more especially during the sermon.

Mr. Kennedy always preached for half-an-hour, sometimes more, on no

occasion less. Whether or no his brain happened to contain matter

enough for a thirty minutes' discourse, thirty minutes at least the

congregation invariably had. Now a sermon, like a gas, is capable of

indefinite expansion; but also, like a gas, a sermon grows thinner

through stretching. That which might be a forceful little address, when

compressed into fifteen or twenty minutes, becomes too often thin and

weak when pulled out to fit thirty or forty minutes.

The congregation generally did not object. These soothing effusions,

lengthily spun out, suited them—or at least suited their taste, which

is not quite the same thing—and since they thoroughly accepted Mr.

Kennedy, they were loyally willing to accept any amount of sermon from

him, wholesale and without criticism. But to this state of mind Evelyn

had not attained; and she chafed beneath the weekly infliction, making

little effort to hide what she felt, and thus becoming a subject for

animadversion. To add to the displeasure of the clique, she only came

to St. John's when her husband came. If he were kept in by rheumatism,

she wandered to Dulveriford Church.

Evelyn cared little what might be said, since she cared little for

Dutton people. If any murmur reached her, she smiled her faintly

satirical smile, and went on, unmoved. Why should she shape her life to

suit the notions of Lady Lucas, or the Atherstones, or a dozen other

people, whose very existence was a matter of indifference to her? The

only friends she had in the place were the Trevelyans.

General Villiers had shown displeasure more than once at her persistent

coldness to those whom he most favoured. He loved his young wife

intensely—not, of course, with the romantic worship of courtship days,

which could see no fault in her; but with a deep and tried affection,

far transcending hers for him. It is not too much to say that he would

willingly have given his life for hers, any day. Nevertheless he was

keenly conscious of a certain independence of will, which would not

submit to his dictation; and, as we have seen, he did not scruple to

tell her plainly when he counted her in the wrong, though never with

harshness.

"My love, I wish you would arrange to see a little more of Colonel

Atherstone and Miss Atherstone," he said one day in the beginning

of December, speaking with his air of gentle authority. He had been

incited to this, of course, and of course quite unconsciously on his

part: for he was a most transparent man, and very much under the

dominion of others, without being in the least aware of it.

Evelyn's wifely instinct divined or guessed both facts. She did not

blame him for the first, because she understood the second. She had

complete trust in his chivalrous honour. That any person should venture

directly to blame her to him was a thing impossible in her eyes. Her

affection for him was far more akin to that of child for father, than

of wife for husband; and it was often buried under a pile of rubbish,

resulting from everyday friction; but her trust was undoubting. Nor was

that trust misplaced. Yet—and Evelyn knew it—others could turn him to

and fro, without his knowledge.

"I am afraid it is sometimes remarked," he went on, "that you hold

aloof from them. You are so often engaged when they call; and you never

receive them with any warmth. I do not ask you to give up your friends,

Evelyn, but surely I have a right to expect kindness to mine."

"Anybody except the Atherstones,"' she said.

"Nay, Evelyn; why?"

"I cannot endure them."

"You do not give yourself the opportunity to become acquainted—"

"I am too much acquainted already. Anybody rather than them! I can

get on with Lady Lucas, for she is a perfect lady. I could not make a

friend of her, but we are on civil terms."

"Civil terms!"

"I mean, we are all politeness. We discuss the weather, and we don't

yawn. But none of that set suit me."

General Villiers wore a look of displeasure. "I should not have

expected you to call my friends by such a term."

"To call them a 'set!' Is there any harm? I thought all Dutton was

divided up into sets and cliques. William, I do try to be polite to the

Atherstones when they come; but I can't do more. I cannot make myself

like them."

"I wish to ask them in to lunch one day soon. To-day is Monday. Will

Thursday suit you?"

"If you like," she said coldly.

"You will write the invitation, of course. To lunch, quietly—by

ourselves."

"I would rather have some one else to meet them."

"No—I think not this time. In fact, I have promised the Colonel that we

would be alone. There are matters that I wish to talk over with him."

"And I am to have the pleasure of Miss Atherstone's interminable

gossip."

Evelyn spoke scornfully, and the General sighed, feeling the state

of things to be deplorable. He was conscious of a widening gulf

between himself and his wife. They could scarcely talk now on any

subject without a jar. If only she would have submitted herself to his

dictum on disputed points, all would have gone with such delightful

smoothness; but this was far from being the state of the case.

He had an odd liking for the hugely-moustached Colonel, whose loud

voice and boisterous laugh were so in contrast with his own gentlemanly

quietness. Such likings are difficult to understand. The Colonel could

talk down all Dutton, and he did not know the meaning of refinement. He

was broad and stout, plain-featured and roughly resolute, and he would

trample with an iron heel on the opinions of all who differed from

himself. He loved nothing better than to decry the doings of Bishops

and Clergy, with a slap-dash and jaunty vehemence, surrounded by a

circle of listeners, and he would handle recklessly the dearest beliefs

of others, caring nothing whatever for the pain he gave.

This it was which utterly repelled Evelyn. Strange to say, the General

could listen and not disapprove. He would never himself speak thus; but

he would permit and condone harshness, even coarseness, in his friend.

Evelyn could only look upon the Colonel's power over her husband as a

species of bewildering fascination.

Thursday afternoon happened to be a free time with Jean, and as she had

not seen Evelyn for some days, she started for the Park. The sky looked

threatening; a sharp frost had set in; and Mr. Trevelyan foretold snow;

but Jean cared little for weather. She was secure of a welcome from

Evelyn, and secure of an escort home, if she should not return till

after dark.

Light of foot and light of heart, she sped briskly on her way. The

bitter cold and the half frozen slippery fields were nothing to her

young vigour. She had a great joy ahead, for Oswald would be at home

for the New Year. Oswald was in the Army now, a fine young man,

Jean's pride and delight. She firmly believed that no such promising

subaltern had ever been seen in the Service before. Oswald's choice of

a profession had been something of a trial to Mr. Trevelyan, who would

have wished his only son to follow in his own steps; but he was the

last man to use pressure for such a result.

Had it not been for the delight of Oswald's coming, Jean might have

felt slightly flat. She had just heard that Cyril would only be at home

for a week this Christmas.

"The dear boy had a cough," Miss Devereux said—anybody else would

have called it "a scrape." And she meant to give him a few weeks at

Bournemouth.

Lady Lucas had recommended change, and change was so good for a boy

of his age. Perhaps in the summer she might take him abroad. Lady

Lucas thought it would be a good plan. Even now, Sybella always wanted

somebody else's opinion to bolster up her own.

Evelyn was alone in her boudoir when Jean entered, and there were

traces of tears on her face. Jean asked no questions. It was not her

way to show a solicitude which might be unwelcome. She pulled off her

thick ulster, and sat down to talk about Oswald's coming.

Generally Evelyn liked to hear about Oswald, because it gave her

pleasure to see the glowing sunshine in the sister's eyes, when his

name was spoken; but to-day her attention wandered past control; and

Jean soon dropped her own affairs, waiting in silence for Evelyn to

take the initiative.

For a good while the silence lasted, unbroken. Evelyn was doing

nothing, not even pretending to work. She only sat gazing into the fire

with eyes which had their largest and saddest look. Jean had often seen

her so before; and usually the mood would pass off in talk upon other

matters. To-day she seemed unable to converse; and Jean, after waiting

a reasonable time, took the initiative herself.

"Has something worried you very much?" she asked, in her direct serious

style.

"The Atherstones have been here to lunch."

"Yes." Jean knew that they were not favourites with Evelyn; and she

could not wonder.

Since the Colonel in public and in private systematically opposed and

abused Mr. Trevelyan, it was not surprising that Jean disliked him. Mr.

Trevelyan could afford to smile with grim unconcern: but naturally his

daughter felt for him.

"One has to invite them sometimes. But it makes—such a day! When they

go, I feel that I must be alone for a few hours to recover myself. I

gave orders that only you might be admitted this afternoon. If anybody

is offended, it can't be helped. O Jean, I get so tired, so tired, of

these people."

"Of the Atherstones?"

"Of them most. When they have been with me for an hour, I could think

I had been under the incubus for ages. Does that sound silly?" Evelyn

pressed both hands over her face. "Jean, why am I so easily upset? Why

can't I carry it all off, and be indifferent?—Not dare what anybody

says or thinks? I am vexed with myself for being so worried—so like a

naughty child! Do you know the feeling? I don't know how to be good or

patient to anybody to-day."

"You are never naughty to me."

"Am I not? That is because you never rub me the wrong way. If you

could have heard the talk, talk, talk, at lunch, about our neighbours'

opinions, and our neighbours' errors, and the wickedness of everybody

except ourselves! It makes me wild. You mustn't think—My husband

never says such things. He never could, never would. But somehow, he

doesn't see or understand when others do it. And those people are past

endurance!"

Jean was not given to caressing movements; yet her hand found its way

to Evelyn's, and was held fast by the white feverish fingers.

"I wonder why your touch is so quieting. You always do me good. O

Jean, I am so tired!" She sank back in her chair, pale and listless.

"Sometimes I almost feel that I can't go on living at Dutton—that I

must get away. My husband likes it so much, and he hates travelling;

but I would give anything to be on the move. One is more free abroad.

It is such a narrow rut here—always the same people, and the same

ideas! And the cliques, and the gossipings, and the party fights—I am

sick of the whole!"

CHAPTER VII.

AN UNWILLING WITNESS.

"The world goes up, and the world goes down,

And the sunshine follows the rain;

And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's frown

Can never come over again,

Sweet wife:

No, never come over again."

C. KINGSLEY.

"INDOORS, my love? That is right. It seems disposed to snow," observed

General Villiers, entering the boudoir half-an-hour later. "Miss

Trevelyan here!"

"Snow!" repeated Evelyn, turning to the window. "How pretty! Look,

Jean—such great soft feathers. Yes, Jean has been here some time. I

shall keep her to tea, and let Walters see her home. You are not going

out, William?"

"I have a little business to attend to. It will not take very long."

"But your rheumatism—"

"That has been better lately. I am well wrapped up, and the snow does

not seem much. Exercise is good for me. Are you better now, my love?"

Jean turned to the fireplace, making believe to find some object

of interest on the mantelpiece. Something beyond common husbandly

solicitude underlay the simple inquiry.

Jean's perceptions were very keen. She had caught one glimpse of the

General's bent head and tender gravity of demeanour, one glimpse also

of Evelyn's lifted remorseful face. More than that she would not see;

but she could not close her ears. There was the sound of a hushed kiss,

and then a murmur. Jean longed to run away, but she felt it essential

to keep her back turned; and the most she could venture on, was a

slight rattle of the fire-irons, to cover a possible answer.

"You are sure you won't take cold?" she heard Evelyn say next, in a

stirred tremulous voice.

"No fear, dear. I have to go to the Ricketts'—yes, the cottage on the

border of the wood. Not so very far. I shall be back by six o'clock, I

hope."

The General came forward for a good-bye shake of the hand with Jean, so

she had to face about, somewhat discomposed. Evelyn seemed to cling to

her husband's side.

"Good-bye. Pray stay as long as you can with my wife," General Villiers

begged, with his stately courtesy. "I shall count it a kindness. She

has been rather over-fatigued to-day—not quite the thing."

"Jean will not hurry away. She does not mind weather," said Evelyn.

"I should love to be caught in a storm," asserted Jean.

"It is no storm yet. I do not know how things may be by-and-by.

Well—good-bye, my love, for the moment. Keep yourself warm, and try to

rest."

"I'll try, and—William—"

Evelyn clung to him, white as a sheet, with wide sorrowful eyes, and

there was the sound of a sob.

It was of no use for Jean to pretend now not to see or hear. She could

only stand in constrained silence.

"William, I am so sorry! You were so good to me! I'll try not to behave

so again! Say you forgive me."

"My dearest!" and the General folded her slight figure in protecting

arms; for the moment almost as oblivious of Jean's presence as Evelyn

was careless of it. "You are overstrained," he said, kissing her brow.

"I must not let you do so much. Miss Trevelyan will take care of

you now for an hour or two, and when I come back—My dear one, don't

fret! You did not mean anything, I know—" in a most audible masculine

whisper. "Another time, perhaps—Yes, I quite understand—My own dear

little wife! Yes, come to the door, and see me off."

Jean was greatly relieved when the two vanished. She drew a breath of

vexation at having been so uncomfortably placed, and walked to the

window, where growing darkness was lighted by a ghostly glimmer of

white feathers, trailing slowly earthwards.

As she looked, a gust of wind set the feathers swirling in complicated

circles; then it died away, and they dropped again with soft

deliberation. Jean thought of her two miles' walk as of something

delightful to come. She heartily enjoyed a battle with excited elements.

Evelyn returned soon, with moist wistful eyes, and a red spot on either

cheek.

"O Jean, he is so good—always so noble and true! If only other people

were like him!" Two large tears fell heavily. "I have been so cross to

him to-day—before you came! As if he could help the Atherstones being

what they are! And it is just his real goodness and humility which make

him not even see how different they are from himself. I am sure Colonel

Atherstone's way of laying down the law, and riding over everybody,

would make any other man angry—but not my husband."

Jean was taken by surprise. She had not expected this little outburst

of wifely enthusiasm. It was all true, no doubt. The General was most

good: a noble nature in many respects. To be sure Evelyn did not always

show so vivid an appreciation of his fine character; but nothing could

be more desirable than that she should appreciate him. If a man's own

wife is not awake to his merits, he stands a poor chance. Jean knelt on

the rug, studying this phase of affairs in the firelight.

"He is very kind," she remarked moderately.

"Yes, you like him, of course. You could not know him, and not like

him. But you do not know my husband fully, Jean. Who can—except myself?

There are a hundred things that people never hear. He is so ready to

take trouble for anybody. And so perfectly honourable—he never could

stoop to any of the little mean things which other men do stoop to—even

good men sometimes, not thinking. It is such devotion to what he feels

to be right. He would give up everything to-morrow—I am sure of it—if

there were any question of sacrificing his principles. One must admire

such a spirit. And all these years so good to me—so patient! Even when

he finds fault, he only does it because he thinks he ought—not from

temper."

Jean's glance spoke admiration, not for the General at that moment, but

for Evelyn herself. Evelyn failed to decipher it.

"He ought not to go out in such weather as this. It is very bad for

him. There is a poor man, ill and in trouble about his rent. Our

agent seems to have been hard on him; and the man is taken worse in

consequence. My husband will not let him pass another anxious night;

and he will not send any one else, because he doesn't understand the

rights of the case."

"Couldn't he have the carriage out?"

"The horses are not rough-shod. This frost has taken us by surprise,

and we did not mean to drive anywhere, so my husband thought we would

wait a day to see if the cold lasted."

Evelyn sighed. "I wish I had not let him go. Suppose he takes a bad

chill?"

"But why should one expect it?"

"I don't know. I have had such a feeling this afternoon of some trouble

ahead. Do you know what that is? It comes sometimes and lasts for

hours, and nothing happens, and then I laugh at myself; but when it

comes again I am frightened. I never felt so when I was a girl—only the

last two or three years. It was that which made me beg my husband's

pardon just now—a kind of dread. I had worried him, and he is so kind

and good. When he held me in his arms, I kept thinking, 'Suppose he

should never hold me so again?' Why does one have such fancies? I often

do, and they lead to nothing—but they might."

"If one is always expecting trouble, one is sure to be in the right

some day, because troubles do come sooner or later," said Jean, with

severe common-sense.

"That is so like you," Evelyn said, with a sad smile. "But one

can hardly reason away such feelings. I suppose they are partly

physical—when one is not very strong. I wish he were safe back. Jean,

I think we will go to the library. Walters will bring tea there

presently. You don't mind staying with me a little longer? The snow

seems getting very thick—but I feel as if could not bear to be alone.

You won't leave me yet?"

"O no: and I don't mind any amount of snow," Jean could truly answer.

Two hours passed, and Jean was still at the Park, for she could not

quit Evelyn. General Villiers remained absent, and Jean had resolved to

wait till he should appear.

Not that there was the slightest cause for anxiety, she told herself.

Though the wind howled, and the snow fell heavily, it was not a storm

of exceptional violence; and though the General was an elderly man for

his years, he could be counted well up to a four or five miles' walk.

Jean did not stay on the General's account, but for Evelyn's sake.

They had had their tea long since, and Evelyn had walked up and down

the library, as a vent to her restlessness, till strength failed. She

was leaning back now in an easy-chair, every muscle in her fair face

tense with suppressed agitation. She seemed equally unable to endure

conversation and silence.

"Sit close to me," she whispered, if the girl moved. "Jean, let me feel

you close!" came repeatedly; yet when Jean spoke, she hardly responded.

Jean was perplexed whether to look upon the mood as purely nervous,

or whether to conjecture some possible reality in it. No doubt, real

foretellings of trouble have been at times experienced; but, on the

other hand, Evelyn had frankly confessed to such experiences on her own

part as usually without result; and when genuine result does follow,

one still has to allow for coincidence. Whatever else the mood implied,

however, it meant suffering, and Jean was always tender to suffering.

"Jean, what o'clock?"

"Half past six. That is nothing. The wind would hinder anybody."

"You are so wise and logical."

"Isn't it best?"

"Perhaps—yes. But logic won't do away with this feeling, the dread of

some evil ahead. When it comes it always terrifies me, even though it

so often means nothing. I am not superstitious; but don't you think

warnings are sometimes sent?"

"I am not sure that they may not be," said Jean slowly. "Only—they

would be true; and you say that this feeling is often mistaken. But

if you are so worried, why don't you send Walters to meet General

Villiers? He might be glad of an arm, now the wind is strong."

"Oh, thanks—the very thing! You practical girl! Yes, please, ring."

She roused herself into something like animation when Walters

appeared—a middle-aged slow-mannered man, of stout and heavy build. He

listened attentively, looking from one to the other.

"Ricketts! Yes, ma'am! On the border of the wood. Which way, ma'am?"

"Are there two ways? The path across the marshes? General Villiers

would not attempt that in such weather. The road, of course; and go as

quickly as you can, please."

Then they waited again. Seven o'clock came; half past seven. Evelyn had

the dinner put off till her husband should arrive; but she consented to

take a glass of wine and a biscuit at Jean's urgent request. She had

not dressed as usual. Jean could not; and Evelyn would not go upstairs.

Though pale, Evelyn was braver now—now when Jean began to feel that

some cause for uneasiness really did exist. Suppose General Villiers

had missed his way in the blinding snow? This was not absolutely

impossible even on the high road. A false turn might have carried him

far out of his route, before he discovered his mistake, and might mean

some risk of chill for an elderly man. As for the footpath across the

marshes, Jean scouted the idea as absurd. No man in his senses would

choose such a path on such an afternoon, even though the high road

might mean nearly a mile farther round.

Till close upon seven the snow continued to fall, and then it ceased.

Jean, periodically visiting the window, to peer through curtains and

blinds, reported breaking, clouds, and presently a gleam of moonlight.

"I shall have a lovely walk," she said cheerily. "If General Villiers

has taken shelter in some cottage, he will be able to get home now."

"Jean! There he is!"

Evelyn sprang up with a rare impulsiveness, and ran into the hall. Her

cheeks and eyes were brilliant with joyous relief. Jean thought she had

never seen her look more lovely.

The front door had been left on the latch by Evelyn's order, and as it

opened, they were both at hand. A cloaked figure stepped in, shut the

door, shook off soon loose snow upon the mat, and looked at Evelyn. She

stood as if turned to stone.

"Father!" Jean said in amazement.

"I thought you might be glad of some one to see you back, if—"

There was an ominous pause. He took Evelyn's cold hand, and the stern

set of his lips relaxed.

"My husband!" she said faintly.

"Then he has not come home yet?"

"No. O tell me—"

"I think you had better sit down. You are trembling," said Mr.

Trevelyan.

He drew Evelyn's hand within his arm, and led her back to the chair she

had left. Without such help she could hardly have reached it. "Your

husband has been to the Ricketts' cottage."

"He left us at about four o'clock, and he meant to be back before six,"

explained Jean.

"Yes: I called to see the sick man, and General Villiers had been there

before me."

"How long before?" Evelyn asked.

"He started to come home at five o'clock—"

"Two hours and a half ago!"

"Mrs. Ricketts told me that he seemed spent and out of breath when he

arrived. She begged him not to stay long, as the weather was getting

worse; and she offered to send her boy with him, but the General would

not hear of it. She saw him struggling against the wind before he

disappeared. It is not unlikely that he may have turned aside and found

shelter somewhere. But the snow is over now. I have come direct along

the road. Walters arrived before I left the cottage."

"He had not met my husband?"

"No. General Villiers may have tried the short cut, and—found it

difficult," said Mr. Trevelyan cautiously. "It would not be wise;

still, if he felt over-fatigued, he might be tempted. Walters and young

Ricketts have gone that way, and I have promised to meet them with

Adams."

"In case help is needed."

"If he has lost the path—yes. He might be too exhausted to get

on. I met Adams outside, and I told him to be ready at once with

lanterns—feeling sure you would excuse the liberty. Walters does not

profess to know the geography of the marshes, and young Ricketts

unfortunately is lame just now from an accident, so they may not get

very far. Jean will stay here and take care of you."

"Thanks—I am coming too."

Evelyn stood facing him, a bright flush on either cheek.

"You! Pardon me: it would be madness! You do not know the marshes on

a night like this. Stay indoors, Mrs. Villiers, and be ready for your

husband when he arrives. You could do no good whatever—only hinder us."

Mr. Trevelyan's manner was uncompromising to sternness. He thought

nothing of a buffet with the gale for his hardy Jean—brought up from

infancy to fight through any manner of discomfort in the path of

duty; but such exposure for this fair porcelain-like creature, always

tenderly sheltered, was another matter.

"I shall not be a hindrance," she said resolutely. "You don't know how

much I can do and endure when there is need."

Mr. Trevelyan was not convinced. He thought the scheme an insane

one, and he told her so again in plain terms. Delay was much to be

deprecated, yet he did delay to urge her compliance.

When, however, in place of opposing her will to his, she laid pleading

hands on his arm, and lifted beseeching eyes to say—

"Please, please, let me go! I cannot stay at home any longer! I think

it will drive me wild!"

Then he gave in.

Perhaps Evelyn was the only woman living to whom he would have yielded

in the face of his own judgment; but what man could ever withstand her?

"Well," he said, "it is not wise, but if you are bent upon it—Yes, you

may come too, Jean. See that Mrs. Villiers is well wrapped up. The wind

cuts like a knife. Would your husband allow this?" he asked of Evelyn.

"It is for him," she answered. "If it were for anybody else, I would

ask his leave. Come, Jean—we must be quick."

Evelyn was all life and energy, as she donned a fur-lined cloak and

beaver hat. Jean fastened her dress higher, insisted on the stoutest

boots within reach, and wound a woollen cloud round throat and chest.

Jean's own substantial footgear, close-fitting ulster, and cloth cap,

were well adapted for such an expedition.

Evelyn's fears seemed almost to have departed, and she smiled at Jean's

precautions.

"My dear, there is no need. I never take cold," she said. "But you

shall do as you like. How good your father is to let me go! Nothing

is so dreadful as to sit still, doing nothing, when one is anxious.

Jean, ask Mr. Trevelyan whether we ought not to take a little flask of

brandy? My husband might need something of the sort."

Mr. Trevelyan had thought of this already. Adams, the head-gardener,

was waiting, and in three minutes, they sallied forth.

CHAPTER VIII.

ON THE MARSHES.

First Br. "List, list! I hear

Some far-off halloo break the silent air."

Sec. Br. "Methought so too: what should it be?"

MILTON.

EVELYN was strung up to a condition of mind which would admit of no

difficulties, which for the moment, could scarcely be conscious of

fatigue. The cold blast came sideways, happily not facing them direct;

and though very strong, it was not quite so biting as an hour earlier.

"We shall have a quick thaw," Mr. Trevelyan said tersely, noting the

difference.

In a general way, Evelyn would have found advance not easy, but now,

though she gratefully accepted his offered arm, she seemed scarcely to

notice the wind. Mr. Trevelyan was firm as a rock against the roughest

blasts; and Jean sprang ahead with a light step of positive enjoyment.

For awhile they followed the high road; but presently a gate led into a

large meadow; and beyond this meadow were the flat low-lying marshes,

clothed like all else in a robe of virgin white.

The clouds had now almost dispersed, and a nearly full moon shone out,

slaying the lustre of all stars in her neighbourhood, and lending a

weird beauty to the landscape. But for the cause of this expedition,

Jean would have been enraptured. Even as things were, she silently

revelled in the exquisite fairy whiteness, to which the moonlight lent

a silvery shimmer, unearthly in its purity. No feature in the scene

looked like itself, and distances were altogether delusive in that

bewildering white shine.

Though short, the snow-fall had been heavy, and the footpath was

obliterated. A smooth surface stretched in all directions, broken by

the dark lines of deep dividing dykes, which cut up the whole marshland

into small meadow-squares. In summer, the dykes often contained only

a low layer of water, but now they were full nearly to the brim with

recent rains; and interlacing ice-needles had begun to dress the

water-surface in a slender skin, even while the deep mud, underlying

the snow on the dyke-banks, was scarcely hardened.

The footpath led through these meadows, either straight across or

diagonally, and passed from one to another by a natural earth parapet,

which had been left standing when the dykes were dug, just wide enough

for a path, rough and dirty at the best of times, and now a mere

mass of snow and half frozen slush. Moreover, at each crossing was a

stile, held in position by a few upright wooden palings on either side

of itself. Some of the stiles were very high and awkward, even when

neither bars nor earth were in such a slippery condition.

These stiles, with their black supports, rearing their heads gloomily

from the white snow, served to point out the route, since the

footpath itself was undiscernible. They alone, beside the dykes and

an occasional small bush, relieved the monotony of the pure carpet

everywhere outspread. While the moon shone, it was not difficult for

the walkers to shape their course from stile to stile, keeping note of

their bearings. But when the moon had been hidden by a dense pall, and

snow was heavily falling, things must have been widely different.

Mr. Trevelyan felt this strongly, though he would not suggest it, when

Evelyn remarked—

"After all, if he did cross the marshes, he ought not to have gone

wrong. I think he must have taken shelter somewhere, nearer home."

"You will not consent to go back now?"

"Go back! O no; not yet. We must meet Walters first. Where can he be?"

"He may have left the path to explore elsewhere. We shall probably come

upon his traces soon."

They left deep footprints themselves at every step, in the soft new

snow. It was heavy walking; yet Evelyn pressed on courageously, and

Jean still sprang lightly in advance, like a young gazelle, seeming

almost to skim the white surface.

A thick cloud passed over the moon, and instantly the whole scene was

plunged into funereal darkness; only a ghostly gleam of white being

reflected from the ground to mingle with the reddish light of the

lanterns.

Evelyn shuddered, and said, "What a difference!"

While again, Mr. Trevelyan pictured to himself these marshes two hours

or more earlier, in the white darkness and bewildering flurry of the

snowstorm.

"There is Walters!" Jean's quick eyes were the first to see a far-off

glimmer. "Look! A lantern!"

"H'm! A good way from the path," muttered Mr. Trevelyan.

"Oh, they have a reason—they must have a reason for going," exclaimed

Evelyn. "Can't we get to them quickly?"

"Not that way. We can't go straight across the dykes," said Jean. "Even

if father and I could leap them, you couldn't. I don't think we ought

to leave the path yet."

"Jean is at home in these marshes," observed Mr. Trevelyan, as Evelyn

looked at him. "We could not have a better guide."

"Father—" Jean stood, deep in thought.

"Yes."

"You know where a path forks off, not far from the wood—just after

the beginning of the marshes. If General Villiers took that turn by

mistake, he would soon get entangled among the dykes—not able to find

his way out. He might be somewhere not far from where Walters is now.

Perhaps Walters has thought of that—or Ricketts, more likely—and so

they have gone to see. We must get round to them the same way, by the

other path. O come!"

Jean hastened over the snow with a speed which Evelyn could not equal,

even helped by Mr. Trevelyan; and once or twice their eager guide was

called in, again to press ahead.

"Take care, Jean! Mind what you are after!"

"O look!" came the same instant, in Jean's soft bell-like tones.

"Walters has turned off here at right angles across the marsh. Here

are his footsteps and Ricketts' too. What made him do that? I don't

know how they have crossed the dykes. Walters is too heavy to jump, and

Ricketts, now he is lame—No, no: they've had to come back. Here are

their footmarks again. They've gone round by the other path, after all,

as we are doing. It's the only way, I know, on a night like this. Look

how the lantern swings—as if they were trying to make signals."

"My husband," whispered Evelyn.

"If I was to go nearer, sir, and shout to them?" suggested Adams from

behind.

"It would be a waste of time. No, Miss Jean is right, Adams. We must

keep to our path. The turn is not distant now. If Mrs. Villiers—"

"Don't think of me. I only want not to be a hindrance. Shall we reach

Walters this way, Jean?"

"O yes, soon. It is only going round, instead of trying to leap the

dykes. She could never manage that, could she, father? I don't think it

would be pleasant for any of us in this dim light, with the banks so

slippery."

"Jean is more at home in the marshes than I am myself," said Mr.

Trevelyan, as Evelyn's eyes again appealed to him. "She and the boys

have explored every inch of them, I suppose."

Evelyn was beginning to flag, despite her best efforts, and Mr.

Trevelyan doubted whether she could go much further: but he only gave

her all possible support, while Jean, free and unencumbered, kept in

front. Another cloud obscured the moon, and Jean's slim figure vanished.

"Take care what you are after," called Mr. Trevelyan. "You have no

lantern. If you come on a dyke suddenly, you may be in."

Evelyn shivered.

Then the cloud passed, the white landscape was flooded anew with

silver, and presently—

"Father!" exclaimed Jean. "Father! This way—take the turn! Look here!"

She was kneeling on the snow, peering under a small bush; and

as they came near, she sprang to meet them, holding out a silk

pocket-handkerchief. "I can't see the initials. Is this his! It had

been blown under shelter of the bush, and so the snow couldn't bury it.

If it is his—"

Evelyn took the handkerchief with a trembling hand, and examined the

corner, close to the lantern. "My husband's," she said.

"Then he has taken the wrong turn and gone this way."

"Clever girl," Mr. Trevelyan could not help murmuring. "Lead on,

Jean. Remember, the handkerchief may have been blown from a distance.

However, our business now is to reach Walters. Take my lantern, if you

like. Adams will light us. But don't go too far."

"If he has been all these hours wandering among the marshes—" whispered

Evelyn. "And no possible shelter—"

"It would be exhausting," assented Mr. Trevelyan. "But I hope we shall

be in time to prevent ill effects."

They pressed on; Jean still the leader, showing a sagacity which would

have fitted her for a mountaineer's or a backwoodsman's life. Soon they

saw a lantern and two dim figures advancing, and when within hearing

distance, Mr. Trevelyan shouted—

"Found anything?"

"No, sir! Nothing."

Evelyn stood still, conscious of failing power. "May I rest one

moment?" she asked.

"Ah! I was afraid—" Mr. Trevelyan checked himself, for reproaches now

were useless. "Lean all your weight on me, Mrs. Villiers. So—your whole

weight. I must not let you sit down. It will pass off. Don't speak for

a minute, but keep up a brave heart."

She sighed inaudibly, and closed her eyes. Mr. Trevelyan stood like

a rock, supporting her; and the two men came up. A few words were

exchanged. They had searched in vain for traces of General Villiers,

and had themselves become what Jean called "entangled among the dykes,"

losing their bearings, and unable to find the path they had left.

Walters was not at home in the marshes, and Ricketts was by no means a

brilliant youth. Jean's approaching lantern had been their guide.

"No use going farther that way, if you have hunted thoroughly," said

Mr. Trevelyan.

They had done so, Walters averred—thoroughly. "All along the dykes, and

all round about, everywhere."

"Through the furthest corner of the meadow beyond the second dyke from

here?" promptly asked Jean, indicating the direction.

There was a pause. No, they had not ventured quite so far. They had

only taken a look at the said corner.

"It was an awful bad bit to get over," Ricketts said solemnly. "The

General could never have taken that way, sure! The stile was leaning to

one side, the path almost broken away; and the piece of marsh beyond

was enclosed with dykes—no second way out of it."

"Father, may I see?"

"Yes! You know what you are about. Only take care. After that, we must

get Mrs. Villiers home."

Jean moved off, and Ricketts, a big awkward boy, straggled uncertainly

in her rear. Like most of the poor in Mr. Trevelyan's parish, he adored

Jean, looking upon her as a creature of another sphere.

Mr. Trevelyan despatched Adams to the Ricketts' cottage, to make sure

that General Villiers had not meantime found his way thither; and he

kept Walters by him with the other lantern, till Jean should return.

They could follow her swift sure movements by her lantern, as she

climbed the nearest stile, and struck across the snow beyond.

Then Evelyn roused herself. "Thanks," she said. "I am so sorry to be a

trouble. I think I was faint for a minute. I am better now. Where is

Jean?"

"She will be back directly. She has gone to take a look beyond where

Walters was."

"Gone alone! Are you not afraid? I don't know which is the most

wonderful, you or Jean. Suppose she were to slip into the water? O do

come too."

"Perhaps you had better move; you will be getting chilled. Gently,

there is no hurry," he said. "When Jean comes back, I am going to send

you and her home."

Jean did not return quickly. The three went over the first dyke,

Walters leading; and then they followed Jean's small footprints. A

minute later, Jean's voice rang out from the distance, clear and

thrilling, with a now sound in it.

"She's found something," Walters exclaimed.

"Father! Come!" The distant appeal cut like a blade through the air,

yet Jean did not scream.

"Will you wait here with Walters? I must take the lantern. Don't stir

till I come back."

"O no—I must go too."

To pause for discussion was impossible. The second dyke had to be

reached and crossed, and the crossing, it could not be denied, was

"awful bad." Mr. Trevelyan lifted Evelyn sheer over the stile, and all

but carried her through the half knee-deep slush beyond—slush just

enough frozen to be slippery, not enough to keep them from sinking into

it. A false step might have plunged both into the dyke; but the other

side was reached, and Jean came to meet them.

Mr. Trevelyan knew in a moment—knew as his eyes fell upon Jean—what had

happened. He had never before seen her thus. Every trace of colour had

left her face, and the eyes looked out fixedly from two surrounding

hollows which had suddenly sprung into existence. Yet Jean was herself,

which means that she was not thinking of herself.

"Not Evelyn!" broke from her blanched lips, and she clutched

Evelyn's hands, as in a vice, with ice-cold fingers. "Father—you and

Walters—over there—not Evelyn! O not Evelyn!"

"Why not?" Evelyn was perfectly composed now, not nearly so pale as

Jean.

"I can't tell you! Father, don't let her! Don't let her!" cried Jean,

in smothered agony. "Keep her away! Don't let her go!"

"Jean, dear, I am not a child to be made. Your father knows me better.

Tell me, have you found him?"

"If you would but wait—till the others have been—"

"No: I am going on."

Jean's arm fell with a despairing gesture. Then she grasped the lamp

which Walters held, thrust it into her father's hand, muttered hoarsely—

"Come—after us—" and led the way with Walters, urging him vehemently to

a speed far beyond Evelyn's powers.

Mr. Trevelyan, fully understanding, did his best to hold Mrs. Villiers

back.

So Jean and Walters arrived first at the spot, where General Villiers

lay, face downwards, on the snow-covered grass, which here sloped

a little into the almost full dyke. He seemed to have fallen thus,

exhausted, overcome with cold, and his face was buried in the half

frozen mud.

Jean by herself had struggled in vain to move the prostrate figure, but

Walters could do what she had failed to accomplish. When Evelyn came

up, her husband lay asleep, as it might be, on a winding-sheet of pure

snow, "like a warrior taking his rest," calm and silent; while Jean

knelt beside him, wiping away with her handkerchief the mud which still

clung to the sealed eyes, the rigid and purple lips.

"My poor master!" groaned Walters.

Evelyn did not at once grasp how things were, or, if in her heart she

knew, she would not at once accept the truth. A mist over the moon had

thickened into cloud, blotting out most of its light, but now the cloud

rolled on, leaving a clear landscape. The quiet face could be seen

plainly—hardly paler than Jean's. Evelyn's glance went from the one to

the other.

"He is found!" she said; and putting Mr. Trevelyan aside, she went

forward alone.

"Then he lost his way, as Jean thought. And Jean has found

him!—Jean!" with an accent of wonder. "Has he fainted? We must

got him home quickly. He is so cold—only feel him! Cannot we give

him—something—do—something?" uncertainly, as if she did not know what

she said. "William, dearest! Dear—I have come to you."

Jean, shaken by the shock of her discovery, could not endure this. One

hard sob broke from the girl's lips, racking her whole frame in its

struggle to escape, and startling herself at least as much as others.

"Jean!" her father breathed, and she had herself in hand instantly; but

that slight sound had done the business.

Evelyn looked across, with a dim smile, full of anguish.

"Jean!" she said. "Why—Jean—"

Then she swayed slowly forward and fell, prone and senseless, upon her

husband's body.

CHAPTER IX.

BROUGHT HOME.

"Life and Thought have gone away

Side by side,

Leaving door and windows wide;

Careless tenants they!"

"All within is dark as night:

In the windows is no light;

And no murmur at the door,

So frequent on its hinge before."

TENNYSON.

WHETHER he had simply lost his way in the storm, and had wandered to

and fro among the marshes, finding himself again and again turned back

by intercepting dykes, till so exhausted that when he slipped and fell,

he had no strength to rise; or whether some undetected heart-weakness,

rendering him unfit to cope with the icy gale, had resulted in sudden

failure of the heart's action, who of those present could say? All was

over, long before they found him.

He had died, it would seem, a painless death, even though in some

measure, a death of suffocation. He had met the great change suddenly,

quietly, in pursuit of duty, in an act of unselfish kindness. The look

in the dead face was not as of one conquered, but as of one victorious.

To such a man as General Villiers, living habitually in the presence

of his God, death, however unexpected, could not in effect be sudden,

since he was always ready for it.

Jean would never in future years forget those few minutes, when she

stood alone beside the lifeless body. She had not, it is true, any very

strong liking for the General personally. He had been kind to her in

a ceremonious fashion, and she had looked upon him as the inevitable

appendage to his wife, whom she passionately loved—not in all respects

a satisfactory appendage, viewed with Jean's fastidious eyes, because

she privately counted that he did not fully appreciate Evelyn.

Perhaps the parting between husband and wife, witnessed by her that

afternoon, had somewhat shaken this aspect of matters. In any case,

the General had been a familiar figure in Jean's life; a fine figure

always, manly and gentlemanly; and to see him thus was terrible—lying

dead on the cold white snow, bathed in the cold white moonlight,

with the cold white marshes around—while not another human being was

near. There lay the pull. We are so constituted that the mere fact of

somebody near, at such a moment, is a help—even though the somebody may

be powerless to assist.

Had a mere child stood by, the chill of that icy solitude would not

have entered, as it did, into the very depths of Jean's organisation.

Her actual grief was, indeed, for Evelyn, not for herself; but

nine-tenths of what Jean suffered in life always had been and always

would be for others: and the suffering was no whit less keen on that

account. Rather, it was more keen, because more pure and noble in kind.

Evelyn's fainting fit did not last long, and when she rallied, the

native force of her character at once asserted itself. Instead of

giving way to a display of grief, adding to others' difficulties,

she stood resolutely up, insisted on walking, and decisively set

Mr. Trevelyan free, as well as Walters and Adams—the latter having

returned—for the heavy task before them. Ricketts had been sent to the

cottage to procure a shutter, and if possible, additional help. To

convey such a weight over such ground would be no light matter; and a

man lodging there, but seldom back till late, would probably be in by

this time. The lad's own lameness rendered him of small avail.

"Jean will give me her arm. I want nothing more," Evelyn said steadily.

"Only Jean, please. I shall not faint again. You must not think of me

at all. We will go on, and—you will bring him home—quickly, please!"

with unutterable entreaty.

Even Mr. Trevelyan's stoicism was not proof against her look.

"If—if anything can be done—" But she did not finish her sentence, for

she knew as well as he that it was too late, that nothing whatever

could be done.

The Rector's eyes were full, nay, wet all round.

"I cannot thank you!" she said. "I owe you—so much! Come, Jean, dear."

That walk always stood out before Jean in after life, as one of the

worst experiences she had ever had to go through. Her most pressing

desire was to keep Evelyn well ahead, that she might not see aught of

what went on behind. There was to be no delay. Mr. Trevelyan and the

two men would start at once with—it—alas! No longer him—hoping soon to

meet coming aid, which indeed would be needed.

A whisper from Mr. Trevelyan urged Jean to haste; and Evelyn herself

probably felt that she had not strength to endure the sight. She made

no effort to hang back, and never cast a glance to rear. Weary she must

have been, and the fixed face was white as snow in the moonlight, yet

she walked swiftly, unfalteringly, making no hardship of the stiles,

scarcely pressing on Jean's arm.

No words passed between the two for the greater part of the way. Even

when they encountered young Ricketts and the lodger, bearing the

shutter between them, it was Jean, not Evelyn, who begged them to make

haste.

Evelyn only shivered silently. Jean bent her whole attention to guiding

Evelyn's steps, to giving all possible support: while Evelyn seemed to

be hardly conscious where she was or what she did.

Not till the marshes were left behind, not till the large final meadow

between marsh and high road were reached, did Jean venture to say—

"If you would only lean upon me more! You must be so tired!"

Evelyn's answer, not an answer in reality, came as if wrung from her:

"O Jean, if I had been different! If I had only been different! If I

had never given him pain!"

Jean dared not go into that question. She could trust neither herself

nor Evelyn, after all they had gone through. She knew by Evelyn's

shortened breath and failing steps that tears were streaming; and it

was only by a fierce bracing of her own powers that she could force

herself to say in everyday accents—

"I think you might make more use of my arm. We shall soon be at home

now. Are you very wet?"

"I don't know."

To keep Evelyn to her earlier pace was no longer possible. She fell

into a slower and slower walk, till Jean began to fear that the sad

procession behind must surely overtake them. The high road was left,

but the ascending avenue-path through the Park grounds taxed Evelyn to

her utmost. It was all she could do to drag one foot after the other,

and more than once she came to a complete pause, swaying feebly, as if

on the verge of another swoon.

Jean urged her on with touch and voice, and Evelyn responded in renewed

efforts; but when the front door was reached, and Evelyn stumbled up

the two steps, Jean knew that she could have done no more. Anything

more deathlike than her face, as she came into the lighted hall, could

hardly have been imagined.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Stowe, stood there, and with her Miss Devereux;

the latter, as a matter of course, talking, the former listening. News

of the General's disappearance having reached Sybella, she had driven

at once to the Park, determined there to remain till the mystery should

be cleared up. Jean had seen fresh carriage-marks on the snow outside,

leading up to the door and round to the stables.

Evelyn saw nothing. Guided by Jean, she reached the great oaken

arm-chair, and dropped into it; her lips white: her eyes closed.

"My dear Evelyn! Then you have come, and it is all right," cried

Sybella, starting forward. "And he is found! I said so! I was sure

it was nothing! I knew he must have taken shelter somewhere. Such an

imprudent thing to go out in the snow! A man of his age! If people will

be so foolish—! I shouldn't wonder if he had a bad cold afterwards—and

rheumatism, of course. How wet you are, both of you! Really, it is

quite madness! I can't think what Mr. Trevelyan was after to let you

go! Such folly! If you had just stayed at home quietly! It is too

imprudent! Look at the state of your skirts. Is she faint?"—to Jean.

"Where is General Villiers? Is he coming? I drove over, in spite of the

weather, when I heard—when Pearce brought me word—and the horses are

put up here."

The first rush of Sybella's effervescence had always to be endured;

it could no more be checked than the rush from a freshly uncorked

champagne-bottle; but neither Stowe or Jean was idle. Wine and hot

water stood ready on the hall-table, for Stowe had rightly conjectured

that they would be needed: and while Jean pulled off Evelyn's wet

gloves, and rubbed her icy fingers, Stowe brought a tumbler of steaming

liquid.

"Drink it, ma'am—it will do you good," she entreated.

Evelyn was not fainting. She opened her eyes, whispered a low "Thanks,"

and made the effort; but after a few sips she sank back with the same

look of powerlessness.

Sybella talked on, wondering, conjecturing, pitying, blaming.

Evelyn showed no consciousness of her presence.

Jean drew the housekeeper aside.

"We must get her upstairs," she whispered. "They are—coming—with him!

They will be here directly. Send for Dr. Ingram, please—and oh! Do get

her upstairs! Don't you understand? Oh, don't ask questions, only be

quick—only get her upstairs!" implored Jean. "They are coming—with him!

He was—found—there—on the marsh!"

Stowe understood now, and was stunned with the shock, unable to act.

Before them all, she sat down, shaking visibly; the first time in her

well-regulated life that she had ever taken such a liberty. She could

only stare at Jean; and Jean knew there was no time to lose.

"Evelyn dear, you must come to your bedroom," she said, quitting

Mrs. Stowe, and bending over the carved oak-chair. "Come at once!

Yes—now—come with me!"

The violet eyes opened slowly.

"Come, dear! Come, Evelyn! Please come!"

"Nonsense, Jean! What do you mean?" demanded Miss Devereux, nettled

by what she counted to be interference. If Jean had proposed to keep

Evelyn downstairs, she would have been the first to urge an opposite

course. Nothing done by a Trevelyan could possibly be right in

Sybella's eyes. "Much best for her to stay here a few minutes, till she

gets warmer. Oh, you mean—to change her dress. But she is not fit to

walk yet. When General Villiers arrives—"

"O hush!" entreated Jean.

"Really, Jean—"

"Miss Trevelyan says we are to send for Dr. Ingram," whispered the

housekeeper's tremulous voice, close to Miss Devereux. The wording of

the sentence was unfortunate.

"Send for Dr. Ingram! What for? Mrs. Villiers will be all right in a

few minutes. She is just overdone—as anybody of any sense might expect

her to be. Really, Jean, I think you a little over-rate your position

here," declared Miss Devereux, in aggrieved accents. "Evelyn has been

very kind to you, no doubt, giving you the run of the Park and all

that, but you are hardly more than a child. I really don't quite see

what you have to do with giving orders. Evelyn ought to take some more

food before she moves. I never heard of anything so mad, as taking her

to the marshes on such a night. If I had been here!—But some people

have no common-sense. When General Villiers comes in, he will say—"

Evelyn stood up, her face rigid with anguish. "My own room—" she said

distinctly. "Send for Dr. Ingram at once, Stowe—and wait here till—No,

only Jean with me!" As Sybella drew near. "Only Jean!"

Sybella fell back.

Evelyn passed away with Jean, and Stowe vanished to obey the order.

"Well! I really do think—" gasped the astonished lady. "I really do!

And I her aunt! And as for Jean Trevelyan! But she always was demented

about those Trevelyans! Such a stupid uninteresting girl! And Mr.

Trevelyan as stiff as a poker—the most disagreeable man I ever saw! I

am sure they are the last people I would ever go to in trouble. But

then I am always so sensitive to manner—my feelings are so easily

hurt—I really could not stand that sort of thing. It would make me

quite ill! And the idea of sending for Dr. Ingram! Evelyn merely

wants a good night's rest—and as for the General, I suppose he is

just overdone, and can't get along fast. What else is to be expected,

if people will be so crazy? And to send for Dr. Ingram, because Jean

orders it! Ridiculous! I can't endure Dr. Ingram for my part."

Sybella had developed this dislike gradually: and no doubt, at the

foundation of it, lay his relationship to the Trevelyans.

Then, as Mrs. Stowe returned.

"What is all the fuss about, Stowe? And why is the General so long? I

suppose he found shelter somewhere, but he ought to be here by this

time. And Mr. Trevelyan—how he could allow Mrs. Villiers to take that

walk, with only Miss Trevelyan—no proper protection?"

Sybella's flow of remarks was cut short. Mr. Trevelyan's voice was

heard outside, speaking in subdued accents; and into the lighted hall

was brought a silent presence, before which even Sybella's volubility

failed.

For Evelyn was indeed a widow!

Not till midnight, when Dr. Ingram had departed, and when Evelyn was

asleep under the influence of a semi-opiate, did Jean venture to leave

her, and to steal downstairs. She believed that her father was there;

but what might be the next step for either of them, Jean could not so

much as conjecture. All she knew was that she herself could do and bear

no more.

Mr. Trevelyan stood below, in the hall, as if at that moment expecting

her. He had had a little warning from Dr. Ingram to "look after Jean!"

And he had also gone through a small passage-of-arms with Miss

Devereux, wherein of course, since he was a gentleman, the lady had

had the last word. Sybella felt it to be her duty—her positive duty—to

circumvent the machinations of these pushing Trevelyans, and to protect

her dear niece from falling hopelessly into their clutches.

She did not exactly say as much to Mr. Trevelyan, but she looked it

every inch; and there was no mistaking what she meant, as she professed

an eager desire not to be a burden on Mr. Trevelyan's time—he was

always so busy—so much to do—and she, of course, a single lady, with so

few ties—what more natural than that she should remain at the Park, and

devote herself to her poor niece?

Yes, she would stay over the night, of course—oh, certainly—and as

many nights as her dear niece might require her. Impossible to leave

the young widow alone! Could Mr. Trevelyan think it of her? Oh, quite

impossible! Would Mr. Trevelyan and Jean like to make use of her

carriage to convey them home? It was so late, and of course they were

fatigued. Grimshaw would think nothing—oh, nothing at all—of that

little extra round on his way to the Brow. So easily managed! And

really, the sooner the house was quiet for her beloved niece—though

none of them could ever forget the trouble to which Mr. Trevelyan had

put himself—still, at such a time, complete quiet was so very essential—

Mr. Trevelyan bowed assent. He did not wear an attractive expression at

the moment. His bow was most gentlemanly, but a sardonic sneer lurked

in the corners of his mouth, and his eyes scanned Miss Devereux, as

they might have scanned some uncommon specimen of worm or beetle kind,

from an ineffably superior intellectual height.

Sybella felt the contempt without understanding it, and she was

irritated.

The passage-at-arms ended as she wished. The Trevelyans would go home

that night, and would not even use her offered carriage—which in

itself was a relief, since she stood greatly in awe of what the stable

autocrat, Grimshaw, might say. But although she had her will, although

she was to be left in undisturbed possession of the field, Sybella was

not satisfied. She could never delude herself into thinking that she

had the mastery of Mr. Trevelyan's iron will. He yielded: yet if he had

chosen not to yield, she could not have made him.

When he stood waiting in the hall for Jean, he looked precisely as

usual: upright, composed, grim. Not a hair was disorganised: not a

muscle was disturbed. A close observer might perhaps have noted a

slight softening of expression, as he studied his daughter.

"Where's your hat, child?"

"Are we to walk home?" For the first time within Jean's recollection,

the two miles to be traversed loomed before her imagination as a

gigantic impossibility.

"No," in a suppressed voice. "Ingram undertook to send a fly, and it is

here now. If Miss Devereux were not going to stay—" and a pause.

"She doesn't want us. But poor Evelyn!"

"Mrs. Villiers will send when she wants you. We can't force ourselves,

even for her sake. Where's your ulster? To be sure—it went to be dried."

A touch of the bell brought Walters, carrying the ulster. "I did hope

you'd both have stayed over the night, sir," he murmured, as he helped

Jean to put it on.

"No—I think not. Miss Trevelyan has done enough. She will look round in

the morning."

"Mrs. Villiers is asleep now," Jean said kindly to the man.

Mr. Trevelyan stopped to fasten some of Jean's buttons; then drew

her hand within his arm. "Come, we must be off," he said. "Mind,

Walters—anything we can do for Mrs. Villiers—"

"Yes, sir—I understand—thank you, sir."

The drive home was altogether silent. Jean could not trust herself to

speak. She had eaten almost nothing since one o'clock, and the long

strain was making itself felt.

"I sent word to your aunt that, if we came at all, we should be

late—that she must not stay up, but might leave a good fire in the

study," remarked Mr. Trevelyan, as they stopped at the Rectory.

"And—tea. I thought you would rather have something here than at the

Park. Walters would have got anything that I wished—but—jump out!"

Jean was past jumping. She descended somehow, and made her way to

the study, where indeed a cheery fire blazed, and tea-things were

outspread. Madame Collier's voice over the stairs kept Mr. Trevelyan

back; and Jean could hear an exchange of low-voiced communications.

There was an exclamation or two in Madame Collier's voice, and then—

"On the marshes!—In the snow!—Too late!—All over!"—at intervals from

her father.

Jean stood over the fire, feeling strangely. It had been such a

terrible day. Only ten hours since she had quitted the Rectory,

light-hearted and joyous—and all this to have come since! She felt as

if ten weeks might have passed over her head. A vision rose before Jean

of the General's tall figure and kind face, as he had come into his

wife's boudoir; and then of the same, lying stark and cold in the white

snow; and then of Evelyn's desolate misery; and a suffocating lump rose

in her throat.

"Aunt Marie will see you presently, but I can't have talk to-night.

You must go to bed as soon as you have had something to eat," said Mr.

Trevelyan, entering.

He poked the fire carefully, arranged a bed of hot coals with deft

fingers, and placed the kettle thereon.

"It will boil directly. Sandwiches—that's right. Sit down, Jean."

He pushed a chair towards her, and she obeyed, with a despairing sense

of having come to the end of everything. Thus far she had kept up with

marvellous courage for a girl of sixteen; but some measure of reaction

was almost inevitable.

"Jean, my dear," said Mr. Trevelyan, looking at her. Then—

"Poor little girl!" came in a tone which she had never heard from him

before.

He had been strongly stirred, and the underlying tenderness of the man

for once pushed its way to the surface.

To Jean's utter amazement, she found herself sobbing, with her face on

his shoulder, and one of his arms round her. Not only so, but as the

paroxysm continued, he held her more tightly, and she heard him say—

"Never mind; don't be ashamed. You have done splendidly!—Like my own

Jean!"

"O father!—If I could help it—"

"You can't just yet. Never mind. You won't be the worse for this."

Presently after a judicious pause—

"Now! Have you cried enough? I must make the tea."

Jean struggled manfully, and chained down the rising sobs; but she

clung to him still, drawing long breaths of mingled pain and comfort.

To her renewed amazement, his lips touched her brow with a light kiss.

"That's right. I am proud of my girl. Now sit up, and be brave. No,

don't stand. I'll be tea-maker for once. You want something to eat."

"Oh, I can't!"

"You must. It will do nobody any particular good for you to starve

yourself."

The essential common-sense of the remark was so like what she herself

might have said to another, that Jean almost smiled. She was placed by

Mr. Trevelyan in his deep arm-chair, made to lean back, and supplied

with necessaries—nay, finding how she trembled, he even held the

full cup to her lips. Though the first few mouthfuls threatened to

choke her, a different state of things speedily followed. The inward

shuddering grew less; and she was at length able to say with some

degree of composure—

"Father, you don't think Evelyn will miss me when she wakes?"

"I don't know, my dear," he answered, too truthful to deny the

possibility. "I only know that no choice was left to us. Miss Devereux

has the rights of kinship; and we have only the rights of friendship.

After all, the matter is in Mrs. Villiers' own hands. If she chooses,

she can dismiss Miss Devereux and send for you."

"And if she does—"

"Then she shall have you."

Jean went to bed, more satisfied. Sleep seemed impossible, but she was

young and healthy, and she had gone through severe exertion. Strange

to say, the last impression on her mind, as she passed into dreamland,

was not of the ghastly scene upon the marshes, but of her father's arm

around her.

"O, I do love him!" she half unconsciously murmured.

CHAPTER X.

THE AFTER SMART.

"How doth Death speak of our beloved,

When it hath laid them low?

• • • • •

"It sweeps their faults with heavy hand,

As sweeps the sea the trampled sand,

Till scarce the faintest print is scanned.

• • • • •

"It takes each failing on our part,

And brands it in upon the heart,

With caustic power and cruel art."

Author of "The Schönberg-Cotta Family."

"IT's a scrumptious cake—very!" said Mrs. Kennedy, putting a piece into

her own mouth.

She was in ante-lunch déshabillé, and looked, to say the least, not

tidy. The inevitable end of loose hair obtruded itself from under a

cap which had long passed its prime; and she only escaped having an

unpinned collar by the simple process of wearing no collar at all.

Conflicting emotions showed themselves in her kind and genial face,

for this was the day after General Villiers' funeral; and people have

a natural feeling at such a time that the world ought not to run its

usual course too blithely, that sunshine ought not to be too radiant,

that cake ought not to taste too nice. Still, Mrs. Kennedy was not

constitutionally given to depression, being a born optimist; a happy

circumstance for one whose husband was a born pessimist, always

disposed to hug his miseries, even when he had none.

Moreover the General and his wife had been her friends rather by

circumstance than by choice; and Dicky, her spoilt youngest—not spoilt,

of course, in maternal eyes—was irresistible.

"If father was to see you now! O Dicky, Dicky, Dicky! I'm sure the very

next thing he'll have to do, will be to preach a sermon on greediness,

all for yourself. Greediness!" repeated Mrs. Kennedy, with emphasis,

counting herself a judicially severe mother.

It was to be feared that the said sermon would float as an outside fog

over Dicky's brain, since Mr. Kennedy had not the art of reaching a

child's mind. The road thereto is very straight, and Mr. Kennedy was

wont to preach and expound in circles.

"Now you've had quite enough, Dicky—quite enough, and too much for

any respectable little boy. No, not one single crumb more. I couldn't

possibly, you know."

"I'm so awfully hungry, mother. Almost starved."

"Starved! After all that lot! And only two hours and a half since

breakfast. Why, you're talking nonsense, don't you know? You'll got

so fat, Dicky, you won't be able to walk, and we shall have to get a

pulley to carry you. I don't know what boys are made of—I really don't!

I know what they like to be made of, and that's plum-cake!"—in a sotto

voce aside.

"I declare, here comes Mabel—Miss Ingram, I mean—" for the caller was

not "Mabel" to small Dicky. "Well, well, just one more slice, and mind

you don't say a single word to the others, or I shall have them all

down upon me, plump; and there won't be a scrap left. Get along with

you, Dicky, and be a good boy. Well, Mabel, my dear, how are you? Quite

well? Sit down and tell me all about everything. Poor dear—"

"I can't really, Mrs. Kennedy—"

"Poor dear Thomas always forgets half that he hears, don't you know?

Can't!—But you must! Now do tell me, how is that poor young thing?

It's perfectly dreadful, isn't it? I couldn't get off to sleep last

night for I don't know how long, thinking about her all alone in that

huge house, and what in the world she's to do, you know. Have a piece

of cake, Mabel? No? It's very nice cake—made from a receipt of my

mother's; something quite uncommon. Well, if you won't—! But that poor

young widow, left all alone, and such a big property on her hands.

Of course one always expected her to be a widow pretty early, in the

nature of things. It couldn't help being so. If people will go and

marry an old man, fit to be their grandfather—But then one doesn't

expect it to be so awfully sudden: and not an atom of warning. Such a

way to lose him too! Sit down, Mabel!"

"I can't really. I've come with a message to Mr. Kennedy: and I'm to

wait for a verbal answer."

"Oh, well, Thomas is out now, but he'll be in this minute. You may as

well sit down. Now do tell me how that poor thing is this morning. I

suppose your father is attending her still. Oh, of course I know he

never tells you anything particular, and if he did you wouldn't tell

it again. I know how particular your father is, and quite right of him

too. I hate gossip, my dear. But still he might just have happened to

say if she was better."

"My father has not been to the Park yet."

"Oh, then, of course—! However, I heard she went to the funeral, and

looked so lovely in her weeds, and was as composed as anything. Thomas

was there, of course; but he hasn't had a word with Mrs. Villiers yet.

You see, it's a little awkward—the Park being just within Dulveriford

Parish—and then we all know she only came to St. John's to please her

husband. I suppose Mr. Trevelyan has been to the Park a lot this week.

Quite natural too. Oh, it will be all the Trevelyans now, and nothing

to do with St. John's. It was only the General kept her to that, don't

you know—poor dear man! And of course, he wasn't musical. He knew the

'Old Hundredth' when he heard it, and he liked it played at a sort of

'Dead March in Saul' time, with all the little turns and twists of

seventy years ago. Thomas sometimes begged the organist to put on a few

of those twiddles, just by way of pleasing the poor dear General, and

he did try, but he couldn't get them stately enough. The General always

shook his head afterward, and said, 'Ah, it wasn't what it used to be.'

Well, and I suppose Jean has been with Mrs. Villiers all the week too."

Mabel hesitated. "I don't think so—quite—from what I hear," she said.

"My father says nothing, or Jean either. Jean is always so shut-up, you

know—so unlike most girls. But I believe Mrs. Villiers only wants to be

alone, and seems to turn from all sympathy—even Jean's. It seems odd;

when Jean and Mr. Trevelyan have done so much for her."

"She is stupefied, poor thing, and doesn't know what to do or say next.

I'm told she was quite decided about not asking either Mr. Trevelyan or

my husband to take the funeral, but she would have that old gentleman

down from London. He was rather slow, don't you think? I hope Mrs.

Villiers is grateful, after the way the Trevelyans have behaved; but

of course she must be stunned for a little while. Jean's an odd girl,

very odd, so shut-up, as you say," pursued Mrs. Kennedy, in reflective

accents. "I never can half make her out, she's so odd. But plucky,

don't you know?"

"It must have been dreadful for poor Jean, to find the General like

that, when she was alone."

"Like that—yes, dreadful," echoed Mrs. Kennedy. "I'm sure one feels

any amount for the poor widow. That's what it is, Mabel, you see. It

isn't so much for us—" as if striving to disentangle the strands of her

own sensations. "They are a sort of friends—were, I mean—at least, I

mean, he was and she is—at least, if she doesn't change—and my husband

always thought there never was such a man as the dear General. But

Mrs. Villiers doesn't care a rap for me, don't you know?—And to be

sure, why should she? Everybody isn't made to suit everybody else; and

it would be uncommonly stupid if they were. Like rows of buttons and

buttonholes, you know. Well, and then there's the will. Of course you

know all about the will. I call it a shame, only one can't say a word

of blame about the good old man, now he's gone; and of course he meant

it for the best, in some way or other—only one can't imagine what way,

and I do call it a shame. I can't think what in the world possessed him

to go and do it. As if a lovely young thing like her was never to marry

again? But she'll have to wait for a rich husband, that's all. She

isn't fit to rough it, you know."

"Is not this very soon to be talking about another husband?" asked

Mabel, rather jarred.

"Well, yes; and I wouldn't to anybody except you. But how is one

to help thinking? So Mr. James Trevelyan couldn't run down for

the funeral. What a pity! He's a busy man, of course, and lots of

engagements always, but I should think he might have managed it, if

he had chosen. Now, he's a nice man—" meditatively—"and so handsome;

and just a nice age—and I should have thought—But of course he has no

money, so it's no good fancying anything about him. There's Thomas at

last! Catch him, Mabel, before he gets into the study."

Mabel was met by Mr. Kennedy entering the room in which they had held

their tête-à-tête.

"Thomas, Mabel has a message from her father," quoth his wife.

"Or rather from Mrs. Villiers through my father. Mrs. Villiers would

be glad to see you, if you would call on her, either this afternoon or

to-morrow."

"Now, Mabel! And you never to tell me that, all the time you have been

here!"

Mabel laughed. She might have pleaded lack of opportunity. Mr. Kennedy

stood gazing at her with blank eyes, while her words worked their way

through the cotton-wool which enveloped his brain.

"Mrs. Villiers—" he echoed. "Yes—Mrs. Villiers, you say. Yes,

certainly. I will go to-morrow."

"Very well. I will tell my father," Mabel said, and took herself off

with all speed.

"Now that was an odd way to ask you! Why couldn't she send a

post-card?" demanded Mrs. Kennedy. "People are so queer, and I do think

people in trouble are the queerest of all. One never knows how they'll

take it, or what they will be after next. What do you suppose Mrs.

Villiers wants you for, Thomas?"

Mr. Kennedy had no suggestions to offer. He was not, like his wife,

original.

Evelyn Villiers, far from being stupefied by her loss, as Mrs. Kennedy

conjectured, was rather awakened by it to an abnormal acuteness of

sensation. She was of stronger fibre, of more tough and elastic make,

than would commonly have been supposed by those who only saw, with

unpenetrating eyes, her fair and fragile exterior.

On the night of her husband's death, she had been worn out with bodily

exertion and mental agony; but life was strong within her still, and

she knew it before another day had passed. She might and did look

ineffably mournful and sweet; she might and did think that the best

of her days were over; she might and did feel that things could never

again be to her as they had been; nevertheless, life stirred actively

as an under-current, bearing her on with resistless power to "new tasks

and sorrow's new," not to speak of possible new joys also.

In health, she suffered loss than might have been expected. The strain

and the shock had actually told less upon her than upon Jean; doubtless

because she had given in more at the time, and had leant upon others,

at least in a measure, while Jean had borne up, and had endured a full

pressure of responsibility. But nobody thought of pitying Jean, except

in a perfunctory fashion; and nobody noticed anything unusual in her,

unless it were Mr. Trevelyan; while all the world was convinced that

Evelyn must be utterly broken-down. She was obliged to consent to one

or two more visits from Dr. Ingram, if only as an escape from Miss

Devereux' importunity: but frail as she looked, she was not ill.

"I wish I were! Anything to stop thinking," she said mournfully to him.

"But I am well—I don't need medicines."

And Dr. Ingram frankly endorsed her words.

To get rid of Sybella before the funeral proved impossible, without

stronger measures than Evelyn in her grieved and softened state cared

to take. She submitted, therefore; and as the only means of avoiding

Miss Devereux's interminable chit-chat, she spent her days in solitude,

refusing admittance to all—even to Jean. For if she saw more of Jean,

she would have inevitably to see more of Sybella.

Jean understood, at least in a measure, and trusted Evelyn entirely:

yet there was a sense of pain.

The workings of Evelyn's mind, during those hushed hours of solitude,

between the day of her husband's death and that of the funeral, were

multiform. She was ever reviewing her past life, living again through

the years in imagination. Her girlish haste to escape from the bondage

of a home with Miss Devereux, had flung her into another bondage,

hardly less irksome to her restless nature: and for over seven years

she had endured the consequences. But this was not the light in which

Evelyn, newly widowed, looked upon her past.

She knew indeed how things had been; yet in the rebound, so often seen

with respect to those who have passed away, especially where the love

has been defective, she could now allow no fault in her husband. All

blame for past difficulties was to be attached to herself; none to

him. A remorseful passionate back-wave of love held her in its grasp.

She had not so loved him while he was with her: but the loneliness of

her young widowhood, the sense of having no one to appeal to, caused

a magnified sense of his protection and sympathy, of his unvarying

kindness, of his unfailing interest in all that had concerned her.

Evelyn forgot now, or thought of as utterly unimportant, the daily

frictions, the differences of opinion, which had so worried her. The

absolutism of his judgment, the narrowness of his views, became as

nothing, seen beside her thousand recollections of his true nobility

and goodness, of his pure and upright life. And his love for her!

She knew at last what that had been. What though they had differed

theologically on many points? What though he had seemed at times

theoretically, though not practically, hard towards those who differed

from him? He had been true, constant, honourable, blameless: and how

he had loved her! The world grew into a desert, without that unfailing

love. Evelyn had not measured its worth until she had lost it.

She grieved for him sorely; not with the peaceful sorrow of a wife

who has been perfectly at one with her husband; but with the bitter

distress of one who has failed to appreciate till too late. All her

little coldnesses, all her little takings of offence, all her little

stiffnesses of demeanour, rose up in overwhelming array, enlarged

by the microscope of imagination into gigantic proportions. In him

she could see nothing now but goodness and beauty. All failings

were struck away by the hand of death. She went over and over the

different manifestations of his rectitude, his kindness, his chivalrous

gentleness, his loving guardianship of her, his manly readiness to

forgive, till he grew into an idol set up on a shrine in her heart, as

a being to be reverenced and almost worshipped.

Womanly—all this!

The very will, which others were quick to blame, leaving the whole

estate to her, but only so long as she should remain unmarried,

supplied fresh fuel to the flame of her ardent devotion. Friends might

wonder; Evelyn would allow no word of blame.

"He was right—perfectly right," she said. "The property must of

course remain in the Villiers family. He only had to provide for my

widowhood—and that means for my lifetime. I shall never marry again. He

understood me, and he knew that I should understand him."

One thought of happiness dawned upon her as the hours of those long

days dragged by—a thought of happiness, because it meant action

completely in the face of her own desires, action which she could

therefore feel to be a kind of sacrifice of herself to her husband's

memory. She would in all things now be guided solely by his wishes and

opinions. She would think what he had thought, she would do what he

had done, she would cultivate the friends that he had preferred, she

would follow out the lines that he would have chosen for her; and so,

at least in a measure, she would make up to him for her non-submission

in the past. St. John's should be exclusively her Church; the good

people of St. John's congregation should be her especial clique. No

matter if they did not suit her taste. Enough of that. They had suited

her husband's taste. Since she had not been one with him while he was

present, she would be one with him now he was gone.

So wrapped up was Evelyn in these thoughts, that she failed to see the

opposite side of the question, failed to remember what was due in other

quarters to tried friends of her own. Her whole heart flowed out in

imaginative adulation of the man she had lost; and for a time all else

went down before this phase of affairs.

There was at once, almost unconsciously on Evelyn's part, a slight

drawing back from the Trevelyans; too slight to be noted by outsiders,

too decided not to be noted by themselves. She was the same in manner

when they met, but she did not press for frequent visits from Mr.

Trevelyan or Jean. They did not speak of it, one to another, but both

alike ceased to go often to the Park, waiting for renewed invitations

to do so; which invitations did not come. Evelyn had sent for Mr.

Kennedy after the funeral; and thenceforward, she was perceived no more

within the walls of Dulveriford Church. Had not her husband always

wished her to attend only St. John's?

The St. John's people were greatly touched to see the fair young widow,

with her sad face and voluminous crape, seated in the chancel, having

the General's empty chair beside her. Mr. Kennedy took care to supply

no end of mournful hymns and sorrowful sermons, as particularly suited

to a widow's frame of mind, forgetting, good man, in his sympathy with

her, that the entire congregation did not consist of widows. When she

came gliding out of Church at the end of the Service, half the elderly

ladies present, widows or no, would have liked to press forward and

sympathetically squeeze the hand of Mrs. Villiers of Dutton Park. But

Evelyn had the art of keeping people at a distance; and few actually

ventured. Those who tried it once were so distinctly bowed aside that

they did not try it a second time; yet poor Evelyn took herself to task

afterwards; for were they not his friends?

It might have been expected that Cyril would come home earlier than

usual, on account of his sister's trouble; and indeed he was actually

sent for to the funeral. Only two days before, however, mild scarlatina

broke out in the school, and Cyril was among the first victims to the

attack. Sybella, in dire alarm, announced that she could neither have

him at the Brow, nor meet him anywhere else these holidays—self being

as usual her first thought. It was quite impossible that she should

be exposed to infection! Somebody else might undertake Cyril—or Cyril

could remain at school!

"Then as soon as it is counted right for him to travel, I shall have

him to stay with me at the seaside," Evelyn said, hardly caring to veil

her contempt for the other's puny self-regard.

"Jean, what do you think of this?" asked her father, three or four days

after Christmas.

He was alone with her in the morning-room.

"This" meant a letter from Oswald, which he handed to Jean, and she

read it slowly, concealing what she felt. The one delight in prospect

had been Oswald's New Year visit, and now he wished not to come. He had

an invitation from a friend in Town, and the house was one where there

would be "lots of fun." It would be "awfully nice;" and he knew they

would not mind his going "just this time." The very next leave he could

get, he would be sure to come home.

"Well, Jean?"

"He wants it very much. May he, father?"

"You will not be too direfully disappointed?"

"O no!" And Jean smiled, for she could be a very Spartan for Oswald's

sake. The reality of her love for him made it impossible that she

should put the thought of her own pleasure before the thought of his.

"He will get leave again soon."

"I don't see any especial reason for saying 'no.' Young fellows

naturally like variety." After a break, and in a different voice, he

said, "You saw Mrs. Villiers yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes." Jean lifted pained eyes to her father. "I don't quite understand

Evelyn," she said slowly. "Please don't say anything to anybody."

"No. You find her changed."

"Not exactly. She is, and yet she isn't. Not changed really in herself.

She was as dear and kind to me as ever."

Jean paused, and appeared to swallow something down with difficulty.

"But she seems to have set herself to be like her husband—like him in

everything. She told me so, and she asked me to tell you. It is because

she thinks she ought. She will always go to St. John's now—evening as

well as morning—and she will try hard to like Mr. Kennedy's sermons,

and to care for General Villiers' friends—even that dreadful Colonel

Atherstone. She had a pile of little tracts on her table, that General

Villiers used to be fond of, and I suppose she had been reading them.

I don't know why she shouldn't. Only, it is all because she is sure it

would please him, you know. I don't like to say it, but I couldn't help

fancying it was just a little as if she were acting a part in a drama.

Only she doesn't feel that."

"No; she is genuine always, to the best of her self-knowledge."

"Yes—I am sure she is. And, father, if she should see less of us now

than she used, we are to know—to understand—that it is because of

him—because she thinks—" Jean hesitated again, "because she thinks she

has been wrong. She cried so, and I told her I could not see it—but—of

course if she feels it right—"

"Of course! I have foreseen this."

"I don't quite understand—" Jean came to another break, and Mr.

Trevelyan knew that she was sorely tried. "I can't see—Being dead

doesn't make a man right in every single thing he ever did and said!"

"Not precisely!" with a grim smile at the mode of expression. "It only

lends more charity to our judgments."

"But if I were Evelyn, I don't think I could make myself feel and

believe what I didn't really feel and believe, only because I wanted to

agree with him."

"You could not!"

"If she didn't agree with him before, I don't see how she can now."

"She can make a Pope of his memory, and submit her own judgment to

his. I doubt if she goes so far in reality. It is more emotional than

logical."

Jean stood, pale and troubled, gazing into the fire, unaware how

closely she was herself being studied.

"If Mrs. Villiers were over fifty, she might keep on in the same line

for the rest of her life; get into her husband's groove, and remain

there persistently, out of respect to him. A good many women are

capable of such devotion. But only twenty-five!—No, she is too young.

Have patience, Jean. She will rally to her true self by-and-by, and you

will not lose your friend."

Jean's eyes were suffused suddenly.

"There is something a little morbid in all this. She will come out of

it—modified, perhaps, but not a mere copy of her husband. No need to

worry yourself. She will fight through it, and you too."

He opened another letter, read, re-read, and looked at Jean.

"The very thing! I have been wishing I could get you away. Here's an

invitation in the nick of time."

"For me!" Jean did not know what it was to leave home alone.

"To Wufflestone. Jem's mother."

"Cousin Chrissie Trevelyan! But that is such a long way off, father.

And I don't see how I can be spared."

"We'll manage the sparing. I think a change is desirable. You have not

been quite the thing lately."

Jean looked up gratefully. That anybody should have detected the

languor which she had resolutely concealed was astonishing.

"Oh, I'm all right," she said—an involuntary utterance.

"You will not be the worse for a break. She speaks of the middle of

February—sorry her spare room is engaged till then. I shall like you

to know Chrissie Trevelyan. She's a kind creature. You will be in good

hands."

"I only just remember her."

"So much the better. New acquaintances are refreshing sometimes. I'm

afraid you will not think Wufflestone beautiful; too flat, after this.

Mind, if they wish it, you can stay a month or more."

"If she wishes it?" with a slight stress on the pronoun.

"Yes. She expects her nephew, Giles Cuthbert, for part of the winter;

and Jem may be there too. You will like to see Jem again. Cuthbert?—I

believe he is a nice fellow on the whole—idle and well-meaning, and

good to his aunt."

"I can't bear idle people."

Mr. Trevelyan laughed. "Every hive has its drones. You will never be

one of them. By-the-by, you had better have a new dress, Jean—and a

hat."

"O thank you!"

New dresses and hats were rare things in Jean's existence.

CHAPTER XI.

NEW GROUND.

"And is it true

Fire rankles at the heart of every globe?

Perhaps. But these are matters one may prove

Too deeply for poetic purposes:

Rather select a theory that . . . yes,

Laugh! What does that prove?—Stations you midway

And saves some little o'er refining."

"Sordello": R. BROWNING.

"IT is five o'clock, I do believe," said Mrs. Trevelyan.

She slowly lifted her eyes from the book which had held her enchained

during an hour past; eyes exactly like those of her son Jem in shape

and colouring, but at this moment ineffably dreamy. It was not Mrs.

Trevelyan's wont to indulge in absent attitudes for the purpose of

impressing other people, after the fashion of Sybella Devereux: but

she was of a genuinely dreamy nature, given to losing herself in vague

trains of ideas, to the complete exclusion of her surroundings. This

tendency does not always imply profound thought; in fact, it very often

does not mean "thought" at all, in the strict sense of the word. It

only means a certain readiness—possibly a weak readiness—to be swept

away by any little streamlet of notions or emotions, no matter how

trivial. The veriest child-story in pink or blue cover had power to

withdraw all Mrs. Trevelyan's faculties from the outer world; and if

she began to consider the make of her next bonnet she was plunged into

an abyss of cogitation.

But on the other hand, she was not a vapid women; she read a good deal

besides stories; and she was capable to some extent of following out a

chain of mental observations.

"Five o'clock, I do believe," she repeated, as the hall clock boomed

out the hour.

Her eyes travelled to the hearth-rug, and were there arrested by a fine

black Cocker spaniel of solid make, lying, nose on paws, in a position

of comfort.

"Prince! Only think! The little girl will be here directly."

Prince was a gentleman, born and bred. He replied at once to the

remark, left his cosy corner, and came to his mistress' side.

Though past fifty, she was still slight in figure, and active when

not dreaming. She wore perpetual black, and it suited well the pale

brown hair, arranged in smooth bands on either side of her forehead.

A modified widow's cap had been her headgear for many years, and

nobody would have liked anything else. Her movements were very gentle,

ladylike, and quiet.

The room was small, too full of furniture, and overcrowded with

knick-knacks. A continuous sheet of portraits in every variety of frame

clothed the walls, and all gaps were filled up with brackets or hanging

plates of old china. One window overlooked the village street, with a

neat front garden and a goodly bank of evergreens between; the other

window, a bow, opened upon a sloping lawn. Both house and garden were

upon a small scale, but both also were prettily designed.

"Only a few minutes more, Prince. We shall like to have her, shall we

not? And you will be a dear good dog, and not bark or frighten the

little girl. Children don't like to be frightened, you know. So you

must be very gentle to Jean."

If brown eyes could speak, the intelligent orbs of Prince uttered

volumes, as they gazed into the lady's face.

"Good Prince! You understand it all, don't you?—Every word! I used to

like little Jean very much. She was a dear little girl—rather funny,

but nice. She must be grown now. Why, it is actually a quarter past

five. And no tea up! Giles!—You there!"

"My dear aunt, don't excite yourself, pray! The clock is fast, and the

train will be slow. Usual combination of circumstances."

"But the tea! Maria seems to have forgotten. What can she be about? O

no, don't ring—please don't ring! You see—" in a hushed voice—"Maria

has rather a temper, and I don't think she or the cook quite like

it. And if the cook is cross to-morrow morning, it is uncomfortable.

O the tea is sure to come directly—only I can't think what Maria is

about. Don't ring, please, Giles. Yes, I always keep that clock rather

fast—just to hurry on Maria."

"Doesn't Maria know that it is fast?"

"Well, yes; and somehow she always remembers it, and I never do. How

long have you been in the room? I didn't hear you come."

"No, indeed. You were utterly lost to all sublunary

considerations—mentally and spiritually gone. It was a mere casket

sitting on that chair—the outside shell—interior vanished elsewhere!

What have you of such engrossing interest? History—philosophy—science?

Whew—it's a story—a good little innocent story of sweet little boys and

girls."

"Ah, that is the worst of me. I do get so interested in a story. Would

you believe it? I had forgotten that you were in the house. And when I

looked up and saw you, I was as startled—!"

"No, I don't think I can believe that!"—solemnly shaking his head. "Too

good an opinion of myself!"

"Ah, now you are quizzing me. But really that little girl ought to

arrive. I hope the train hasn't broken-down."

"It's such a common thing for trains to break down! Just as likely as

not!"

"Now, Giles! I do wish though, that I had gone to the station to meet

her. If it had not been for the rain—"

"Why didn't you ask me to go?"

"You!!"

Giles Cuthbert laughed. He was a rather largely-built man, with long

loose limbs, and a sunburnt face, not good-looking as to feature, yet

attractive from its humorous geniality. His movements were deliberate

and gentlemanly; and he had a curious voice, soft, low, somewhat

drawling, but without affectation. The man altogether was entirely

natural. In age he might have been almost anywhere between thirty and

forty-five.

"How old is this little girl?"

"Jean! I don't exactly know. I have been trying to remember; but the

years do go so fast—and one doesn't exactly like to inquire, because

it seems as if one had not cared. I could ask Jem, to be sure, but I

always forget. She must be—thirteen—fourteen—nearly fourteen! It is

years since I have seen any of those Trevelyans. Jean's mother was a

sweet woman but her father—No, I never did care for Stewart."

"Hasn't she been here before?"

"I'm afraid I have never asked her. Things have come about so, you

know. One can't always be seeing all one's relations, and Dulveriford

is out of the way—so far north. I shouldn't have thought of asking the

child now, only Jem put the idea into my head; he said she wanted a

change, he thought. She had had a fright or something, and somebody

wrote word to Jem that she was not looking well. O I remember—there was

a poor old gentleman found frozen to death at night on the marshes; and

Jean happened to be there."

"Odd place for a child to happen to be in."

"Yes: I don't know how it was. Jem didn't say much, and I have

forgotten what he did say. He will tell us more when he comes. It will

not do to tease her with questions."

"And Jem is coming home himself when she is here?"

"Yes; so nice, isn't it? I don't know when he can manage it; but as

soon as possible. Jean has always been rather a favourite of his. Dear

Jem is so fond of children."

"Here comes the infant, aunt!"

"Now, my dear Giles, she isn't an infant I assure you. Why, girls of

thirteen and fourteen are nearly grown-up in these days. They know so

much more than I do, that I am half afraid of them. All about atoms and

cheese-mites, and laws of nature, and gases, and how things grow—it

quite frightens one. Yes, there's the cab. I ordered the cab to be at

the station, and I sent word to the station-master to see after Jean. I

did want to send Maria, but cook doesn't like Maria to go out when it

rains. You see cook is rather rheumatic. No tea yet! What can Maria be

after? I almost think I shall have to ring? O no, wait, please—she will

come to answer the front bell, and then I can speak."

"I don't see the precise connection between cook's rheumatism and

Maria's staying indoors. You seem to have a pair of dragonesses in the

kitchen."

"No, indeed—pray don't say such things, Giles! Somebody might hear! It

is only that I do like to keep people good-tempered. Cook is such a

nice worthy creature—I am sure, if I were dying, she would do anything

for me! But she does get rather old, and if anything puts her out, the

dinner is spoilt."

"I should be disposed to prefer a cook who would do anything for me

while I was alive and well. What's that for?"

Mrs. Trevelyan had produced a neat square of white knitting.

"Why—nothing, dear; only a very nice clergyman said last year in a

sermon that women ought to make a point of doing needlework—at least,

I think he meant that! So I have always kept this at hand since, for

emergencies. I am afraid I don't do much—" regretfully—"but it is nicer

to be found busy. Jean might think she had such an idle cousin."

"Ah! A hint for me!" Giles lugged out a big volume of natural history,

seated himself, and opened at random. "Wouldn't it be more effective to

be found reading aloud?—Surprised in the act of improving our minds?"

In a monotonous sing-song, Giles started off—"'The Chlamyphores, which

have ten teeth on each side of both jaws, five toes on each foot, the

anterior claws very large, crooked, compressed, and furnishing, as in

the Cabassous, a very powerful cutting instrument adapted for digging.

The back is covered—' Hallo!"

Mrs. Trevelyan never could resist Giles' manner, and she was in a

paroxysm of laughter when the door opened to admit, not the expected

"little girl," but a tall damsel, with pale oval face, and combination

of shyness and reserve crystallised into a resolute stillness.

Giles did not start up quickly, yet he was standing, before Jean

could actually enter; and his twinkling eyes took her in at a glance,

twinkling more than usual at his aunt's mistake. The subdued "Hallo!"

meant some measure of surprise on his own part. "So—ho!" thought he.

"That is what Jem is after! Little girl, indeed!"

Mrs. Trevelyan's greeting was no less warm than if the supposititious

"infant" had really appeared. She took Jean into her arms with repeated

kisses, while Jean, unused to be hugged by one virtual stranger before

another and absolute stranger, was conscious of an inward glow of

response, but outwardly shrank rather more into herself.

Giles Cuthbert came forward, as a member of the household, to offer his

meed of welcome, and thereby recalled Mrs. Trevelyan to her duty.

"How stupid of me! I'm forgetting to introduce—my nephew, Mr. Cuthbert,

Jean—Miss Trevelyan, Giles. Of course you have heard of Giles, dear,

hundreds of times. He belongs to us, you know, in a way. Now do sit

down by the fire, and warm yourself. You must be cold after travelling

all day. Dulveriford always seems so far north—almost out of the world."

Jean was amused, for Dulveriford seemed to her the world's centre.

"Come and sit down! The tea—O, that girl is gone."

"Too late, aunt!" Giles' hand was on the bell, unbidden, and a sharp

tinkle sounded.

"Now, Giles!" reproachfully. "And there really was not the least need.

I can hear her coming now along the passage. After all, she was only

waiting till Jean arrived—keeping the tea nice and hot. My dear!—" to

Jean. "I am astonished to see such a grown-up young lady. Jem never

gave me that impression. Is it possible that you are only thirteen?"

"Sixteen last birthday!"

"Ah, that makes all the difference. I shall tell Jem, he really must

leave off speaking of you as a 'little girl,' because it gives such a

wrong impression. Why, I have actually been telling Prince not to bark,

or frighten you. Yes: this is Prince—such a dear clever dog. I assure

you, he understands every single thing that is said to him."

"One has to avoid talking secrets before Prince. He is apt to repeat

them, on the sly."

"Now, Giles! What will Jean think of you? But really, the dear dog is

wonderfully clever. He reasons like any human being. It is all nonsense

to say that dogs can't reason, because I know Prince does. Now I am

wondering whom Jean is supposed to be like. You are such a curious

mixture, my dear. A little of your father, certainly, and a little of

your mother! She was such a sweet woman! Ah, you have your grandmother

Trevelyan's chin! And your grandmother Ingram's mouth! Only the way you

shut your lips is like a Trevelyan. Your eyes are nobody's—"

"Unless Miss Trevelyan's own," murmured Giles.

"I mean, nobody that I have seen. Of course, one could trace them back,

if one had lived long enough. Everything comes from somewhere," said

Mrs. Trevelyan, with gentle positiveness and profundity. "But the way

you use your eyes, dear, is quite like an Ingram—like one branch of the

Ingram family, I mean. And you have the long Trevelyan hand—"

"Don't be astonished," Giles put in softly. "My aunt always appraises

her guests in this fashion. Eyes, nose, mouth, worth so much apiece;

total, so much: samples of doctrine of heredity."

"Now, Giles! But Jean understands, don't you, dear? Of course I like

to know how much of you belongs to your own family. As for heredity—"

the speaker folded dreamy hands, preparing for a gentle canter on her

pet hobby-horse—"I do not see how anybody who knows anything of life

can doubt it. Why, look at handwriting alone! Jean makes the tails of

her g's and z's exactly like her old great-uncle Thomas—I mean, like

his writing—and yet she never even saw him, and learnt from quite a

different person. So you know that must have come down by inheritance."

"To be sure, there is Mrs. Wiggins—she is our great lady here, Jean,

the wife of our squire—Mrs. Wiggins thinks a mother can do anything

in the world with her children, can turn them out whatever shape she

chooses. But that is a great deal more easily said than done: and

Mrs. Wiggins only has one little girl. I always notice that it is the

mothers with only one child who think that they can do exactly whatever

they like with their children. If she had a dozen, she would have found

by this time, that all the training in the world wouldn't make them all

grow up alike. I have only had one as it happens, but I never could

model Jem. He took his own shape, all I could do, dear fellow! And I am

sure I don't want him to be different, for he is all one could wish.

But still, you see what I mean. And I was one of thirteen, so I do know

something about it. Not two of us turned out the same; and yet I'm sure

there was not a grain of difference made in the way we were treated."

Giles rose, and laid hands on the teapot.

"My dear Giles! What am I thinking about? Now that is the worst of me.

If I begin to talk, I forget everything. And poor Jean half starved!

No? But I am sure you must be. Have you had a proper lunch? Only

sandwiches! Could you not eat an egg? Well, at all events you must take

plenty of bread-and-butter."

Giles relinquished the teapot, handed eatables, and found his way to

a seat nearer Jean, where he could study her at leisure—for Jem's

sake. He was at pains to draw her out, endeavouring to bring about a

relaxation of her too serious face. Weather and journey were discussed

for a while with no particular result, and Prince was called up to be

caressed by Jean.

"Fond of reading," Giles asked presently, noting a glance towards the

bookcase. "You won't find dissertations here on cheese-mites or atoms.

That is the correct thing for a young lady, I am told."

Jean's grave lips unbent.

"Wufflestone lags behind the age. But if you want to begin studies in

Phrenology, and all that sort of thing, you have come to the right

place. My aunt has a perfect library of such literature."

"I should like to know more about Phrenology."

"The science of bumps! I am not sure that I shall not recommend

Lavater. Rather big volumes, but you can soon skim them. Plenty about

features—noses, chins, and so on. You've no conception what an amount

of character exists in your neighbours' noses."

"Not really?" said Jean.

"Not a doubt of it. There's the sensible nose, and the stupid nose; the

cogitative nose and the unintellectual nose; the ill-tempered nose and

the sweet-tempered nose; the strong nose and the weak nose."

"Is the weak nose always short?"

"By no means. You may have a strong short nose, or a weak long one."

"Suppose I had a weak nose and a firm chin?" questioned Jean.

"Inherited from opposite sides? No doubt you would be weak in one

direction, strong in another. It would mean a perpetual contest between

nose and chin—sometimes the one victorious, sometimes the other."

Jean could not make out from his face whether he did or did not mean

what he said. He was politely serious, only his eyes never ceased to

twinkle.

"But that is too funny," she said, laughing.

"Immense amount of truth in it. Of come you must take old Lavater cum

grano salis. I shall have to conduct you through something more modern

while you are here. He and the older phrenologists could only assign

a particular characteristic to a particular bump, and leave it there

to tyrannise over the individual. Modern wisdom begins to suspect that

the mind secretes the body, so to speak, like a mollusc secreting its

shell. According to which notion, a man's character is not weak because

his chin retreats, but his chin retreats because his character is weak."

"Do you really believe that?"

Giles made a comical movement of his shoulder. "Why not? How can one

tell? Seems odd, when you come to think of it—but everything is odd

when you come to think of it. One can't tell why a weak nature should

secrete a retreating chin, for instance; but one cannot get out of the

puzzle, because there is not the least doubt that retreating chins and

feeble characters do very often go together."

Jean drew a long breath of interest, and her eyes lighted up with the

fascination of a new idea. "How nice!" thought Mrs. Trevelyan. "Dear

Giles is quite lively—taking real trouble with Jean. He must like her.

She is not at all a bad-looking girl—such regular features, and such

a nice figure; and she holds herself well, and is so very ladylike.

I can't bear fidgety people, and Jean doesn't fidget in the least.

It will save a great deal of trouble if Giles should take a fancy to

her. I can send them out to walk together, and get him to show her the

country round. Yes, she certainly is good-looking, almost handsome,

when her eyes grow so bright; and she has a soft pleasant laugh. I am

glad she has come. I think I shall grow fond of Jean."

CHAPTER XII.

THE WIGGINSES AND MAIDENHAIR.

"The happy find

Equality of beauty everywhere

To feed on."

JEAN INGELOW.

MRS. TREVELYAN carried out her intention, and made abundant use of

Giles Cuthbert for the amusing of Jean. Usually he was not amenable to

such efforts, having a great objection to needless trouble, but for

once, he offered no objection. If he had taken a fancy to the girl,

that made all the difference. The laziest people living will take

trouble to please themselves.

Giles liked ease; and his life had been such as to foster this

inclination. He had been born, not to wealth, but to sufficient means;

and he had been brought up from childhood with the notion, that while

it was correct and gentlemanly to have some stated occupation, there

was no necessity for him to work hard. So he never had worked hard.

He had passed schooldays with tolerable credit; he had gone through

college with no particular reproach; and he had consented to the law

as a profession. There advance was stayed. Some amount of preparatory

reading was accomplished; and Giles, finding law by no means to his

taste, threw it up. Months of dallying followed, and he began to

talk of a career in politics; but an opening had to be waited for,

and somebody suggested a lengthy tour on the Continent, by way of

preparation. Giles seized on this notion, his indulgent father always

consenting; and the tour proved to be a very lengthy one indeed.

At twenty-five, his future mode of life was still uncertain, when the

sudden death of that father left him in easy circumstances, unfettered,

depending on nobody, while nobody depended on him.

Thenceforward, he drifted away from any definite line of life, simply

pleasing his own fancies. He had no lands or tenants to occupy him;

nothing beyond a clear fifteen hundred a year, to spend as he would.

Since Giles had expensive tastes, he found no difficulty in getting

rid of that amount yearly; indeed, at times, he outran it, though not

seriously, for debt was a matter which disturbed his peace of mind, and

Giles preferred to be comfortable, mentally as well as bodily.

He lived a good deal in Town, travelled a good deal on the Continent,

saw a good deal of society, skimmed a good deal of literature, and in a

lazy fashion, found a good deal to do. When money ran short, he would

betake himself to Mrs. Trevelyan's Cottage for a few weeks, and would

"vegetate" there in contented idleness. Mrs. Trevelyan had always been

his favourite aunt, and her home was always open to him.

There were capabilities in Giles, which, rightly trained and used,

might have resulted in a fine character; but it is through resistance,

not compliance, through hardship, not ease, that harmony and beauty

of character are evolved. For the bare idea of grandeur, opposition

overcome is a necessity.

A boat swept downward by the current may be pretty: but there is

nothing "fine" about it. Our higher admiration is reserved for the same

boat manfully fighting its way up-stream, overcoming difficulty inch by

inch through resolute effort. A tree, reared in a hothouse, with soil,

warmth, food, amply provided, may be a most successful specimen of its

kind; but it suggests no thought of victory; it is only the pampered

darling of scientific care. ᴵ The gnarled and twisted oak, which has

fought its way through countless storms, has mastered unnumbered

hardships, stands out as a type of the truly great, of the morally

grand.

ᴵ I must acknowledge here a debt to Mr. Ruskin.

Giles Cuthbert had fought through few difficulties, had mastered few

oppositions. His had been a smooth and leisurely existence; hard duties

had not come to him as a necessity; and he had not turned aside to seek

them for the sake of others. The consequent growth of character was

easy, self-satisfying, pleasant in many respects, but by no means great.

Jean had been surrounded from babyhood by a far more embracing

environment, had been compelled habitually to march in the face of her

own inclinations, had had to wrestle through countless oppositions.

Instead of finding all difficulties cleared away from her path, she had

been trained to meet and grapple with them. The resisting vigour of

her growth was gradually shaping a woman's character of fine outlines,

pure, straightforward, self-denying—such a growth as could never have

resulted from a spoilt and cosseted existence.

Perhaps the very contrast between the two drew them together. Jean

liked Cuthbert despite his laziness, which was, after all, more

mental than bodily. He was ready enough for physical exertion, if an

adequate object lay ahead. It was steady work from which he turned with

loathing; work which had to be done, whatever his passing mood might

be. He was quaint, amusing, and full of fun. Jean had never before

laughed to such an extent; indeed, when once it becomes an admitted

fact that somebody is funny, very little wit is needed to set people's

risible muscles in motion.

She liked Mr. Cuthbert, certainly. Not as she liked Jem; not as she

liked Cyril; not with liking to be named beside her love for Oswald;

still, she found him a pleasant companion. Of course he was ages older

than herself; why, he actually had a grey hair or two visible. Jean

set him down loosely in her girlish mind as "somewhere about forty or

fifty," which to a girl not yet seventeen, sounds venerable. On the

whole, she was inclined to regard him as a species of adopted uncle,

much nearer to her father than to herself in standing.

Mrs. Trevelyan, knowing Giles to lack about fifteen years of the fifty,

did not view matters in precisely the same light.

"To be sure he is almost twenty years older than Jean," she thought;

"and that is a great deal even on the right side. Jean is such a child

too. It would be absurd to think of anything at present. But some day,

three or four years hence—if Giles is not married then, I don't see

why it should be impossible. Such a wife as Jean, might be the making

of Giles. If anybody could ever get him to work, it would be some one

like Jean—always busy. If not, there is no reason why they should not

live comfortably on fifteen hundred a year. It sounds like wealth to

me! Only of course, Giles could not get quite so many waist-coats, or

have such very expensive cigars. He seems taken with the child; and

Jean is friendly with him." Mrs. Trevelyan smiled contentedly over her

little castle in the air. "I shall write and tell Stewart how well she

is looking. He really must let me keep her six weeks or two months now

she is here."

Five weeks at the Cottage! Jean could better have believed in five

months. The novel ideas and events of each day in Wufflestone

lengthened it out to her mental sensations, while each hour flew with

speed.

Everything here was different from home. The little dainty house and

garden; the dilettante manner of living; the slow meals; the placid

tempers; the abundant leisure; the dearth of needlework; the absence of

fault-finding; the supply of new books—all these were unwonted and for

the time charming.

Dearly as Jean loved Dulveriford Rectory, and the associations of her

childhood, she was of too vivid and malleable a nature not to rejoice

in the new knowledge springing from now surroundings. Jean learnt more

of ease, of freedom, of frank girlish simplicity in those weeks, than

in all her previous life. She learnt to hold her own in good-humoured

argument; to stand being laughed at, and sometimes even to make others

laugh; to be mistress of herself, not alone in action but also in

manner. Rigid reserve was fast thawing, and she allowed herself to be

affectionate to Mrs. Trevelyan.

This easy mode of existence did not spoil Jean. The reign of duty

in her life was too strong to be so soon disturbed; and while her

nature, like all sensitive natures—by "sensitive" I do not mean

ill-tempered—was peculiarly open to new impressions, her principles

were firm. She had no wish to live always such a life; but there was a

wondrous charm in its freshness.

Perhaps the most curious part of these weeks to Jean, was the finding

herself so completely cut off from home interests. Neither Mr.

Trevelyan nor Madame Collier were good correspondents, and Jean seldom

had a line from either; nor did Evelyn write. Mrs. Trevelyan inquired

duly at intervals after Jean's home-people; but she knew nothing of

Dulveriford, nothing of the Brow, the Gorge, or Dutton, nothing of Miss

Devereux, Cyril, Evelyn, or the General.

Jean had been at first glad to escape questioning about late events,

yet it seemed singular that Mrs. Trevelyan should not have heard more.

Jean knew that Jem liked and admired Evelyn—as who did not?—and she

wondered that he had not more fully related to his mother the tragical

end of Evelyn's married life.

Mrs. Trevelyan did indeed once allude to—"that poor old gentleman,

Jean, who was frozen to death—General What-was-his-name? And you were

actually there yourself and saw it all, poor child!"

But Jean's constrained answer drew no further show of interest, and the

matter was not again spoken of.

Jem's proposed appearance had been repeatedly deferred, through

pressure of work.

"Don't let Jean go home, until I have seen her," he wrote more than

once to his mother, and at length a day was fixed early in April.

"The very day of the party at the Hall," said Mrs. Trevelyan, after

reading the letter. "Well, that cannot be helped. If Jem arrives in

time, he must go with us; but the evening train is more likely, he

says."

"What party?" asked Giles.

"Mrs. Wiggins—to afternoon tea. I suppose it is partly in honour of

Jean; so of course we must go. She made a great point of my taking

Jean; and she wants you too, Giles. I told her I would try: but I was

not hopeful. If you could make up your mind once—"

"Thanks, ma'am!"

Giles' tone was sufficient, and Mrs. Trevelyan sank into acquiescence.

Jean would gladly have escaped the ordeal, had freedom of choice been

permitted; but Mrs. Trevelyan was so placidly sure of her delight in

the treat, that nobody could have the heart to undeceive her. Jean

disliked strangers, and was not captivated by Mrs. Wiggins. Still, the

thing had to be endured; and she was prepared to endure heroically.

The Wigginses were so excruciatingly correct that they introduced

nobody to anybody. This was the rule of the house. Indiscriminate

introductions are not "the thing;" but neither is it to be accounted

"the thing" to plant an absolute stranger amid a group of people, all

mutually acquainted, who will leave her socially out in the cold.

Those who meet under the roof of a common friend ought, no doubt, to

be able to exchange ideas without being formally named one to another;

and the absence of introductions presupposes this possibility. English

people are not yet cured of shyness, however; and even while tabooing

introduction, they too often wait rigidly for it.

Jean found this to her cost. She was welcomed cordially, separated from

Mrs. Trevelyan, placed among a group of strangers, and there left to

her own devices. She had seen a good many Wufflestone people in the

last few weeks, but not a single acquaintance happened to be "within

hailing distance." Around were grouped ladies, old and young, all

ladylike in appearance, and all seemingly well acquainted. They chatted

freely together, and most of them used their eyes upon Jean, but none

spoke to her.

For nearly an hour she sat thus, wondering how long the condition

of things was to last. Tea brought round formed her one diversion.

She could not see Mrs. Trevelyan. Mrs. Wiggins once flitted up for a

remark, and flitted away again, taking no further trouble.

Internally, Jean grow indignant. It seemed unfair and uncourteous that

she should be pressed to come to the house, and that not an effort

should be made for her entertainment. She thought with longing of the

cosy cottage drawing-room, and of Giles' amusing conversation. Then she

wandered to recollections of home and of Evelyn—the gentle and gracious

Evelyn, who would never so neglect her guests.

"Not even if she disliked them," thought Jean.

A few yards distant was a closed conservatory door. Jean growing tired

of her position, rose at length and made her way thither. The movement

drew general attention, for which Jean cared little. She glanced

across the room, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Trevelyan on a distant sofa,

exchanged a smile with her, then wandered off alone into the deserted

conservatory. To close the glass door was her first care, with a sense

of satisfaction in shutting off those unsociable people. Then she stole

happily from plant to plant, studying the fair make of one, inhaling

the sweetness of another, entirely content.

From the long conservatory, a door led into a fernery, where green

things clustered in a bower, with ceaseless trickle of water. Jean was

charmed. She sat down on a jutting corner of rock-work, opposite a

great mass of large-leaved Maidenhair, the delicate new fronds of which

were salmon-tinted, shading into green; and there she gave herself up

to enjoyment.

Somebody coming in did not at once arouse her. Not till a shadow fell

across the salmon gleam of the Maidenhair, did she look up.

"Jem!"

"I managed to get off pretty early. How do you do, Jean? Giles sent me

after you both."

"Cousin Chrissie is in the drawing-room."

"I have seen her, and paid my respects to Mrs. Wiggins."

"Was I wrong to come out? I did get so tired of doing nothing; and

nobody spoke to me."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Because I am a stranger, I suppose. But should you not

have thought that a reason the other way? People ought to be kind. And

I am only a girl, so it was hardly my place to begin upon them. I don't

mind now. It is delicious among the ferns. Did cousin Chrissie send you

to me?"

"She said I might find you here. Shall we go into the garden?"

"May we? Would it be polite?"

"Somebody is going to drive my mother home, and she has undertaken to

make your apologies to Mrs. Wiggins. I told her I should carry you off.

It is all right. We know Mrs. Wiggins well."

He opened the outer door, and Jean questioned no further. One of their

old free talks together would be delightful. She never felt so much

at her ease with anybody as with Jem, because never so sure of being

understood.

Conversation did not at once flow. Jem led away from the house, through

the garden, into a lane beyond, which Jean knew to mean a considerable

round, before they could get home. She was ready for any amount of

exercise—only, would not his mother want him? And what made Jem so

grave? Had he something on his mind?

The lane curved hither and thither, in aimless fashion: having on

either side a hedge, with trees at intervals. Slanting rays from the

sun lighted up the right hand hedge with a dim glory, and fell upon the

patches of dull lichen which decorated an aged elm trunk, smitten into

ruggedness by prolonged hardships of wind and weather.

"Things are beautiful everywhere," said Jean. "Even in a flat country

like this."

"It is not Dulveriford," responded Jem. And as if this supplied the

opening for which he had waited, he went on—

"How is your father? And—" in a lower voice, "Mrs. Villiers?"

Jean had much to tell, for she found that he knew little. Home

interests never far distant came on her in a rush, as he listened,

drawing out further details by a murmured syllable now and then. After

long silence on Dulveriford subjects, it was natural to pour out;

and she gave abundant particulars of the evening which had left Mrs.

Villiers a widow. Only, about the little boudoir scene between husband

and wife, a scene of which she had been an unwilling witness, and which

had been rendered by after-events doubly sacred, Jean said not a word.

"It was an ordeal for you," Jem remarked.

"One could not think of oneself at such a time. For Evelyn it was

terrible. To be there on the spot, and to see him! But even my father

could not keep her back."

"And since then she has been—"

"Very, very sad. I don't think I should have expected—But nobody ever

knows beforehand. She seems to feel that everything is gone, and that

her life is at an end."

"You would not have expected what?"

"Ought I to say it? One feels some things that one does not like to

speak out. Only—to you—may I not? He was so good and kind—but still so

very much older, and different in every way. Yet now one might fancy

that her life had been perfect; even though one knows how things really

were."

"The manner of her loss must have intensified it. The shock and

suddenness—"

"I dare say that had something to do with her feeling. It was all very

dreadful. It couldn't help being so. And besides—" Jean hesitated,

falling into a slower walk. "I suppose it is sometimes worse to lose

anybody, if—Worse in one way, I mean—"

"If there has not been perfect oneness? If there has been friction?"

"Yes, I see you understand. I didn't half like to say it—unless you

knew . . . Evelyn seems to feel that she must do every single thing,

exactly as he would have wished. She reads all the little books and

sermons that he liked. I suppose they helped him; but I don't believe

they help her. And she has locked up some of her own books, which do

help her, because he didn't like them. And she always goes to St.

John's—twice every Sunday—never to our Church. And she tries so hard to

like his friends better than her own."

Jem understood. "You see less of her now?"

"Yes—"

"How did it come about?"

"I hardly know. There was a difference from the first. Not in herself!

Evelyn could not be fickle. But I suppose people may draw back on

principle. She told me plainly that it had to be so. She said it was

for his sake—to honour his memory. She will not hear a word said about

General Villiers that sounds like blame. Not even about the will."

Jem made a sound of inquiry.

"Have you not heard?"

"I have heard nothing. Your father sent six lines, and nobody else

wrote."

"I didn't know how much I ought to say. Everything is left to Evelyn

for her lifetime; but only so long as she does not marry again. If

she marries, she loses the whole. There would be a little annuity of

something under two hundred pounds, and that is all. Doesn't it seem

odd? As if General Villiers had wanted to keep her from marrying!—And

she so young and so sweet! If he really loved her, would he not want

her to be happy?"

"The best of men are not perfect, Jean!"—in muffled under-tone.

"No, not perfect—but—Everybody is talking and wondering. And Evelyn

will only say that he was right. She says he has provided for her

lifetime, because she could never dream of marrying again. My father

smiles about that; but I am sure she means it."

"She may—" and a pause.

"If her husband had not been so old! But I can't understand General

Villiers making such a will. No really nice man could ask her to marry

him, unless he were rich himself. She would have to give up everything."

Jean had been gazing on the ground as she talked. Now she looked up,

and something in Jem's face brought a sense of troubled wonder. Had

Jean been a few years older, she would not have seemed to see; but

girls of sixteen do not always know exactly when to be silent; and

Jean, though in general reserved, was outspoken with Jem. After one

moment's blank pause, she said involuntarily—

"I am sorry! I ought not to have told you!"

"Why ought you not?"

"If you mind so much—"

"As well hear through you as anybody else!" Jem spoke shortly, with a

forced smile. Then, noting her grieved look: "My dear Jean, you are too

observant. You must learn to shut your eyes more."

"But—"

"There is no need to discuss the question. As for General Villiers,

neither you nor I have to sit in judgment on him. He probably had

reasons which seemed weighty to himself—"

"But, Jem—"

"Whether or no they are weighty to other people. Well?" With a touch of

impatience. "You wish to say something."

"Only about what I said just now. I mean, about nobody being able to

propose to Evelyn, unless he were rich. I did not think—"

"You said what was perfectly true. No need to qualify it . . . I don't

deny that I once had a passing dream—and possibly it has revived

lately. But in any case, it could never have come to anything. Don't

you see? Our spheres are altogether different. My life-work is among

the poor and needy; and she is trained to luxury."

"You think so ill of Evelyn!"—reproachfully.

"Ill of her!" Jem's face changed and whitened. "She has been to me as a

vision of an angel!" he said huskily. "You little know—! . . . Come, we

must go on, Jean. And mind—all this is strictly for yourself—not to be

alluded to again."

Jean only said, "No."

Jem strode fast by her side, regaining his usual look.

"I must tell you that I have had an offer of an East-End living. Not

much pay, but plenty of work. Yes, I shall accept it, certainly."

A week later, Jean had her first letter from Evelyn. The opening page

or two told nothing. Then came a glimpse of the real writer.

"I want to hear all about yourself, Jean—all you are doing and

thinking. I want something fresh—something outside my own life.

"The Dutton world drags on wearisomely, just the same. I am getting

slowly petrified. If I were more like him—but I cannot alter my nature,

and the things that did him good, do me harm. The same medicines don't

cure all men's bodies, you know; and I never can see why it should

not be so with our inner selves as well. One man's spiritual meat may

be another man's spiritual poison. I can say this to you, because you

will understand—you will not misjudge my words. Mr. Kennedy's soothing

sermons are only narcotics to me; and too much of narcotics is not

good. I want to be roused and braced, not to be put to sleep . . . I

have made up my mind to endure patiently for a few months more, and

then I shall go abroad. But this is for yourself alone."

BOOK III.

ACTION AND REACTION.

"But it is much that high things are, to know,

That deep things are, to feel."

JEAN INGELOW.

CHAPTER I.

A ROUGH DIAMOND.

"O let me be myself! But where, O where,

Under this heap of precedent, this mound

Of customs, modes and maxims, cumbrance rare,

Shall the Myself be found?"

JEAN INGELOW.

"JEAN, make haste! I shall be late! Do call your father—find him,

wherever he is. If I miss this train, I shall be late for the boat;

and cross at night I will not! Nothing shall induce me! I would rather

sleep in a bathing-machine! If one has to be drowned, one may as well

see how it comes about. Find your father, and tell him I must and will

get into the train. It will be off directly!"

"He is coming, aunt Marie. He only went to look at the book-stall."

"Absurd! As if he would not have plenty of time, after I am gone. Well,

you can help me to take all these packages nearer. One—two—three. Let

me see—there were eleven, besides my two trunks."

"He told us to stay here till he came back."

"That is always the way. He likes to put off till the last moment; and

I hate not having plenty of time. There! I knew it! The bell! I shall

be left behind. Jean, bring what you can."

To see the true British female, untrammelled by etiquette, one only

needs to view her in full career along a platform, charging the wrong

train. Restraint at such a moment vanishes, and aristocratic repose

is nowhere. Sometimes the true British male condescends to show his

undisguised self in a like manner; at least, so far as flurry and

flying coat-tails are concerned; but more commonly his rôle is the

dignified punctuality, which has not five seconds to spare, yet which

never expects anything so preposterous as that he should be left behind.

Jean overtook Madame Collier, close to the train.

"Don't get in, aunt. This is not yours."

"Not for Folkestone! You are sure?" Madame Collier released the

door-handle with a gasp of relief. Her short skirts were tucked up,

as if for the wading of a Dulveriford marsh; and her poke bonnet was

crooked with mental agitation. Jean gently pulled the bonnet straight,

and led Madame Collier again to the forsaken heap of packages.

"I almost wish we had arranged to go with you as far as Folkestone."

"What for? Nonsense, Jean? Mere waste of money. I hate travelling, but

I know how to manage. I'm not a minikin finikin creature, like Sybella

Devereux, afraid to put my nose inside a train without somebody to

back me up. That's not my sort!" She certainly did not look minikin or

finikin, seated on a small hamper, with her strongly-outlined face and

vigorous personality.

"But you don't like going alone."

"Who said I did? Doing a thing doesn't mean liking it, nine times

in ten, with people who are worth anything. It only means not being

beaten. I don't like going to France at all, if you come to that.

People, are not born into the world just to do what they like,"

declared Madame Collier, mopping her countenance with a handkerchief

of large and substantial make. She disdained what she called "those

flibbertigibbet squares," patronised by modern ladies. "It's pretty

much the other way commonly, if one's got any stuff in one. I hate

Paris—great frivolous place—and that's exactly why I have to live

there. If I wanted to go, I shouldn't be allowed."

"Is one never allowed to do what one wishes?" asked Jean.

The doctrine was not new to her, but it sounded dismal.

"Well—some people sometimes—perhaps. Soft folks need a lot of

bolstering up, and hard ones take a lot of knocking down. I've had most

of the knocking down work. Not much of feather-beds or dainty pillows.

And I've needed it, of course, or I shouldn't have had it. People

aren't bothered without reason. My corners had to be scraped off, I

suppose; and they're not all off yet," added the good lady, showing

unusual self-knowledge. "That's why this has come, just when I thought

I was settled for life. Nobody ought ever to think that, I do believe;

for there's never any knowing what will come next. The Trevelyans

haven't much softness about them; and you are a Trevelyan. You won't be

tucked up on a feather-bed all your life. There's more to be got out of

you than that."

"I hope so!"

"Anyhow, I'd sooner be the one to do things for other people, than

be one of the logs that make things for others to do," said Madame

Collier. "Till I'm old and ill, I mean. There's the whistle."

"Only for this train."

"And I believe it is mine, after all. Look at the clock. Well—too late

now," resignedly. Then, reverting to a former remark, "No, I don't want

you all the way down to Folkestone. What's the good? I've no notion of

dragging out good-byes. When a leg has to be cut off, the sooner it's

done, the better! There's one thing I want to say to you, Jean. About

your father—"

"Yes."

"He isn't so young as he was. Only sixty, and that's not old. At

least, it needn't be. A man with your father's constitution, who has

lived as he has lived, needn't be old at seventy. But he ought to have

common-sense, and not expect to do everything the same as he did at

thirty. You needn't fancy things are wrong—only keep watch, and be

reasonable for him, if he won't be reasonable for himself."

One of the inevitable changes, which come sooner or later to us all

as life rolls on, had come to Jean Trevelyan, after years of a steady

jog-trot in one groove.

Madame Collier had received an unexpected call to a new sphere of work.

Her husband's only brother, M. Arnaud Collier, died suddenly, leaving

a semi-invalid wife and nine children, with small means. The widow was

weak and incapable, and the older children were boys, none over sixteen

in age. An appeal for help, made to Madame Collier, met with a prompt

response.

Why not? She was no longer a necessity at Dulveriford Rectory; her work

there might be looked upon as accomplished. Not a doubt could exist as

to where lay the greater need. Jean at twenty was fully competent to

manage her father's small household: the widow was not competent; and

Madame Collier, at fifty-five, was a strong woman still.

Feelings and wishes existed, of course. Madame Collier would be grieved

to bid farewell to her home of many years. She hated travelling, as she

said to Jean; detested children; and loathed change.

Moreover, Mr. Trevelyan and Jean would suffer at parting; for with all

her ruggedness, Madame Collier had been a tried friend to them both.

Sincere affection existed on either side, beneath a shell of reserve.

What of all this? Nay, what of the fact that the loss of her personal

income would entail some measure of straitness upon the Rectory

household? The question, as it came before their minds, was not at all

what any of them might like or wish, but simply, what was the right

thing to do? If Madame Collier and her money were needed in France,

then she had no business at Dulveriford. The stern Trevelyan sense of

duty rose in its might, and settled the question without delay.

In one week, Madame Collier had wound up her English affairs, had

packed her personal effects, and was on the road.

Mr. Trevelyan and Jean accompanied her to London. Mr. Trevelyan had

business in Town, and he counted it a good opportunity to give Jean a

little change.

"There it is! There's the bell! Jean, I can't wait any longer. My train

will be off, I know. We are on the wrong platform. Tell your father—"

"Here he comes!"

"Stewart, I am losing my train."

Mr. Trevelyan seemed to be chewing the cud of meditation. He surveyed

his sister and her regiment of parcels, with a gaze which found

utterance in the query—

"Why did you not bring another trunk?"

"They charge so for luggage abroad. You saw what I had before, so

there's no need to bother. If my train is off, I declare I will not

cross at night. I'm quite determined. If I have to be drowned, I'll be

drowned in daylight."

Mr. Trevelyan signed to a porter to come near.

"Folkestone train?" he said.

"Just coming in, sir."

"Bring these packages."

"Well, you are right for once, but I hate putting off till the last

moment; it's such a risk. Make the man bring everything. Eleven

altogether—a roll of shawls, two bandboxes, two hampers, two bags, two

brown-paper parcels—"

"Come along!" quoth Mr. Trevelyan.

"I mean to have all these with me. Not in the van."

"Come, Marie."

Madame Collier obeyed, then broke loose, and rushed ahead, peering into

one carriage window after another, as the train backed into position.

"Not a smoking carriage. I can't stand smoking! It ought to be put down

by Act of Parliament. I declare there's nothing but smoking carriages.

Bah!" with ineffable disgust in the twist of her nose and mouth. "No,

not there, Stewart! I won't be close behind a smoking carriage. And

not too much in front. If there's a collision, people in front are

sure to be killed. Not too far behind. If the train should be run into

by an express—No, I must have a corner seat, close to a window, going

forward."

It was not easy to meet all these requirements, but at length Madame

Collier was placed, and the porter disposed of her belongings.

Madame Collier counted and recounted, lost and found each packet in

succession, fee'd her porter, and woke up to the consciousness of few

minutes remaining. A frizzly-haired young woman on the opposite seat

was bidding farewell to a frizzly-haired young woman on the platform,

their heads filling the open window, while their shrill voices ran

fast. Madame Collier, finding herself thus debarred from her own

relatives, proceeded to clear a way with scant ceremony:

"Now, young woman! It's my turn, if you please."

"What an old fogey!" murmured audibly the aggrieved individual outside.

Madame Collier disdained to notice the utterance.

"Things are all right now, I do believe," she said, breathing hard with

her exertions. "Mind, Jean—I shall want to hear all about everybody.

Don't forget to tell me if any more comes out about that man Barclay.

And mind you don't go alone to his cottage. Give my love to Evelyn

Villiers, when you see her. I wish she had come home before I left.

She always was a favourite of mine, though you mayn't think it. Why,

there's Jem!"

Jean and her father turned: and Jem Trevelyan came swiftly up.

"Just in time!" he said. "What a crowd! I was afraid I might miss you

all. Well—" and his hand grasped Madame Collier's, "so you really are

off?"

"Yes; I'm off!" Madame Collier's rugged features worked, and a tiny

pool of water stood outside each eye, like a minute tarn upon a

mountain height. "I'm off!" she repeated huskily. "It isn't what I

should have chosen—of course. People are not allowed to choose for

themselves—commonly! So much the better, perhaps."

"When they are, they often make a mess of it."

"You're right there! But this isn't choosing. It just—has to be!" She

was obliged to haul out the big pocket-handkerchief, since those two

little tarns were growing bigger, and threatened to give birth to

rivulets. "Leaving Jean, you know—and all! But there! What has to be,

has to be. Rose Collier is no more good than an infant. Can't think

what business such people have to marry! I've got to go, though—of

course."

"Paris is no distance off in these days. You'll soon be running over to

see us all again. And we will take care of Jean."

"Yes, do!"

Jean was quiet and rather white. Laying a gloved hand on her aunt's,

she was amazed to have it carried to Madame Collier's lips.

"Aunt Marie! Don't!"

"You'll be a good girl, I know, to your father!" jerked out Madame

Collier, thrusting away the hand, as if ashamed of her own emotion,

while her chest heaved. "I'm sure to have left—something—behind me!

Eleven packages—and—But I'm glad to have seen you again, Jem. Oswald

was to have been here. Didn't come, of course, just at last. And they

said you were—out of Town."

"Till late last night," said Jem, touched by Madame Collier's manful

struggles. He had not known before the strength of feeling which

underlay her rugged shell. He bent forward, with a glance of apology

towards Jean, and murmured something into Madame Collier's ear.

"I can't hear. Say it again. No—really? I am glad! Things do come

about queerly. Mind you don't change your mind. Oh, keep off—there's

the whistle. Don't get knocked down and killed, whatever you do. I

wouldn't have that on my conscience! Good-bye, Stewart. Good-bye, Jean.

Keep off—trains are so dangerous. I am glad, Jem! Bah, what a whiff of

tobacco! Good-bye."

The poke bonnet continued to waggle till out of sight.

Jem turned to look at Jean.

"Excuse my whisper," he said. "I'll tell you by-and-by what I said."

"It's all right. I am glad you could say anything to please her."

Jean looked rather forlorn, not disposed to tears, but as if something

had gone out of her existence, leaving a gap, and as if she did not

know what to do next.

Mr. Trevelyan's "Come along!" was a relief. Nobody ever saw Mr.

Trevelyan in doubt as to his next step.

"Where are you staying?" Jem asked, as they moved out of the station.

"Two streets off," Jean told him.

In some rooms, recommended by a friend. Jean herself would have liked

the novelty of an hotel; but expense had to be considered: and daily

table d'hôte was not in Madame Collier's line. She believed they would

stay three more nights. Oswald was to have spent this day with them,

and to have taken Jean after lunch to the Academy; but thus far he had

failed to appear.

"I don't know how to manage, if he does not turn up," said Mr.

Trevelyan. "I shall be engaged all the afternoon."

Jem offered himself promptly. If Oswald came not, he would be entirely

at Jean's disposal.

"Thanks! Pity she should waste a whole afternoon indoors," said Mr.

Trevelyan, after a moment's weighing of proprieties. "Yes—you are one

of us—and a cousin too. I don't see why not."

"It is only carrying out my promise to Madame Collier. What shall we

do, Jean? The Academy? No, you would rather keep that for Oswald. What

do you say to a trip on the river—up to Richmond by steamboat?"