OLD FATHER THAMES.
"I'm a woman, sir,—
I use the woman's figures naturally.
. . . So I wish you well,
I'm simply sorry for the griefs you've had."
E. B. BROWNING.
OSWALD had not turned up when they reached the lodgings. A note was
there, apologising for his failure, which of course "could not be
helped," and promising to appear next day—a great relief to Jean. His
defection had troubled her sorely, and she was thankful to know—or at
least to be assured—that he was not blameable. Jean believed in Oswald
as of old, loving him with the warmest love she had at command. No
human being had ever yet been dearer to her than Oswald, and nothing
else could equal that delight of her heart, a day with Oswald. As of
old, she lavished pure gold, to receive brass in exchange.
Still, an afternoon with Jem brought pleasure. She had always looked up
to Jem, rested on Jem's judgment, given Jem cousinly affection. There
was a placid satisfaction in the certainty that Jem never misunderstood
her, which she could not feel in Oswald's companionship.
The two had not met for more than a year, and Jem studied Jean
carefully through lunch.
She had altered, even during those months, and much more during the
years since General Villiers' death.
Jean had reposeful manners, old for her age. She was tall and slender;
and her features had worked their way to regularity of outline. A
slight droop in the eyelids gave shade, the month had gained in
mobility and sweetness, the paleness was not sallow in kind. Moreover,
the eyebrows seemed to have grown darker, the lips were redder, and
the hair, for years clipped short, had expanded into a goodly mass of
gamboge-brown.
Of course she had not yet come to her full development. Who has, at
twenty? Unless it be a mushroom specimen of human nature. But strength
and gentleness were there already, in balanced combination. Jean had
not grown like a crooked apple-tree, all to one side.
Simplicity of dress remained, characteristic in kind. Boots and gloves
were irreproachable. Superfluous trimmings were non-existent. The
severe folds of her skirt gained grace from the figure they clothed,
and the neat cap, thrown aside during lunch, was almost boy-like in its
plainness; only nothing could look boy-like over that pure womanly face.
It was the face of one to be not only loved, but leant upon. You might
be sure, so leaning, that Jean would not give way beneath the strain.
Giving way is commonly far more a matter of weak will, than of weak
muscle, bodily or mental. Jean might break, but she would not bend. It
is the feeble natures that bend. The strong hold out, and rather die
than yield.
Jean studied Jem in return; not quite able to make him out. A certain
burden pressed upon him, which he failed to hide. The grey eyes were
troubled beneath their pleasant sparkle, and a weight on the forehead
drew the brows often together. Jean had seen him burdened before, and
she always had a theory ready to account for it. True, the weight
to-day was something new, since for years past his life had seemed to
be full of sunshine, yet she reverted at once to her old explanation.
Was it Evelyn again?—Evelyn Villiers, disturbing his peace? Had he
somehow heard that after nearly four years abroad, she was returning to
Dutton Park?—Nay, that she might already be in London?
"I shall leave you to amuse one another," Mr. Trevelyan said, rising.
"Don't expect me till seven. You will dine with us, of course, Jem."
Then he was gone, and they made their way river-wards; Jean with her
old sense of repose under Jem's protection, and her old trust that he
was sure always to do right. It was a confidence soon to have a rude
shake.
"I'm perfectly happy, left to myself. There's no need to talk to me."
Jem looked round, smiling. They had secured good stern-seats, near the
wheel, and apart from other people.
"Some occult meaning underlies that assertion. I don't fathom it."
"I only thought you might feel bound to amuse me; and I am not one of
the people who need to be amused."
"Profoundly true. But how if I want to hear Dulveriford news?"
"Evelyn!" flashed anew through Jean's mind.
"I don't know where to begin; and there is not much going on. Of course
you have heard that Canon Meyers is going away. He will be a great
loss, dear old man. Nobody is appointed yet in his stead . . . Mr.
Kennedy has a curate—that is something new. A very hardworking young
man, I believe—and rather given to arguments. Miss Devereux thinks him
delightful . . . She talks of spending part of Cyril's vacation at the
Brow this autumn, and at Christmas, he will have done with Oxford.
Isn't it odd how she has kept him away from home? He and I have not
once met for fifteen months."
"I am told that he is a good-looking young fellow."
"Mrs. Kennedy calls him a 'lovely youth!'"
"H'm!"
"And Miss Devereux says he has such a sweetly aristocratic air."
"And Jean—?"
"Oh, I like him, of course; we always have been friends. He is too
much 'one of England's curled darlings' for my taste; but when you
have a friend, you don't give him up for his looks. I wish he were not
quite so dainty. But I'm speaking of more than a year ago. He may have
changed any amount."
Jem seemed to be thinking of something else.
"So you have not yet heard who is to be the Canon's successor! What
would you say if it were I?"
Jean laughed as at a joke.
"But seriously! I have had the offer."
"You don't think of accepting it!"
"Yes." Jem was smiling.
Jean showed no pleasure. She asked abruptly, "Do you mean it?"
"Why not? The one living is nearly seven hundred a year; the other is
not two hundred. What do you think?"
"It doesn't matter what people think . . . I would rather not give
any opinion. One person can't judge for another . . . It is not my
business;" as he waited still. "Everybody will like to have you at
Dutton—of course; How soon do we get to Richmond?"
"Suppose you answer my question first?"
"I can't. There's nothing to answer. What a horrible jangle!" as two or
three discordant instruments struck up on deck. "No use to talk against
such a noise."
Jem acquiesced, and they sank into silence; Jean turning away a
troubled face. Jem had suddenly dropped from a high pedestal in her
imagination; and how high the pedestal had been, whereon he was wont to
sit, Jean had never known till now. She was vexed at the strength of
her own pain and displeasure. That Jem should so fail—! Anybody else
except Jem!
Oswald always pleased himself by following the easy path of what he
liked; and nobody ever expected Oswald to do anything else; but
Jem—why, she had always looked upon him as the living embodiment of
self-denial; and here was he, just like any commonplace man, snatching
at personal advantage the moment it offered itself, forsaking the post
of toil and difficulty, for which he had seemed especially fitted,
and for which he had professed an ardent love. Jean wrung her gloved
fingers together, and could almost have wept in girlish disappointment
at this dethroning of her hero—if she had been alone.
No more words were spoken till they reached Richmond. Jem was in
no haste to justify himself. Jean mutely followed his lead off the
steamer, across the landing-place, and through the town to the Park
gates. Then Jem paused to ask—Should they lounge under the trees, or
walk to the White Lodge?
"Walk, please!" Jean answered promptly.
Jem smiled to himself, reading her wish to evade further questions. He
did not mean to let her off; but there was no harm in delay; and for
the next hour or more they discussed literature, eschewing personal
matters.
"Jean, we have been at it a good while now! Do you ever cry 'Enough'?"
"Enough walking? No, I am not tired. But perhaps you are."
"There's a little snuggery under the trees yonder—pretty view, and
nobody at hand. You don't feel the least wish to sit down."
"I could go on any amount, but most people can't," said Jean, with
reluctant acquiescence.
Jem was content. He led the way to the "snuggery," spread Jean's light
cloak for her to sit on, and threw himself down, as if not sorry to
rest. Some measure of fatigue might be excusable on so hot a day for
two such rapid walkers. They had not only viewed the White Lodge, but
had taken a wide détour on their return, getting within twenty minutes
of the Park entrance before Jem proposed a halt. Jean looked fresh and
cool, as if she had just started.
"We must allow ourselves time to get a cup of tea on our way to the
steamer," Jem remarked, pulling out his watch. "No, of course—not
necessary. You are above bodily needs! But they exist in other people."
Then he replaced the watch, and asked, "Desperately disappointed in me,
Jean?"
"I can't see why we need go into the question. Everybody has a right to
his own opinion."
"I wish all the world could see the truth of that axiom. But perhaps
some people also have a right to ask the opinions of some others."
"Not mine!"
"My dear Jean! When I have known you from babyhood!"
"But if I can't say what you would like—"
"Then say what I shall not like."
Another break.
"After all, there's no need. I can understand your view of the matter.
For years I have counted myself definitely called to East-End work,
and dedicated to it, so far as I might choose, for the best years of
my life. And you have felt with me. Yes, I have been sure of your
sympathy . . . But one is not always allowed to do what one likes
best! . . . What if I am now definitely called away to other work?"
"It must be difficult to feel sure."
"Indications are pretty clear sometimes . . . The oddest part of
the matter is that I shall be looked upon as choosing the easy and
luxurious path—as giving up hardship for the sake of comfort."
"It will be easier."
"Will it? I am not so sure. But in your place, no doubt I should think
the same. Perhaps—" with a curious smile, "I had expected Jean to see
a little deeper than other people. Hardly reasonable, was it? When I
have not given you the clue. My mother has lost all her money—literally
the whole! Apart from me, she will not have a shilling that she can
call her own. I have to make a home for her—and I could not do so
comfortably on my present income. Nor could I take her to the East-End.
She is elderly and delicate, and used to pretty surroundings."
He turned a stirred face towards Jean.
"Now do you see?"
"O Jem, I am so sorry."
She was sorry for his trouble, and still more for her own hasty
judgment. Why had she not at least waited to hear his reasons?
Compunction for some seconds was sharp; and then a recollection of
Evelyn came. Did Jem know her plans? If not, he ought to be told.
"I am so sorry," she repeated. "Yes of course—you could not possibly
do anything else. Her comfort must be your first care. Unless—Mr.
Cuthbert—"
"Giles never has enough for his own needs; and I cannot shift my
responsibility on another."
"And a living somewhere else—"
"Would not be the same to my mother. Next to Wufflestone, she would
rather live at Dutton than in any place. Besides, no other living half
so good is likely to be offered to me; and for her sake, I must think
of the money. Why should I hesitate?"
Jean spoke with downcast eyes. "Have you thought of one thing? If
Evelyn were at home—"
"Ah, you are remembering my old fancy," said Jem cheerfully. "At
present, most unlikely that she should."
"But she is coming!"
"For a month?"
"No: to settle down. She is tired of travelling; and she has found a
friend to live with her. It is not to be talked of till just before she
arrives; because she dislikes Dutton gossip."
"No surer way to be talked about than to have a secret afloat."
"It is safe with you. I thought I ought to mention this before you
decide about the living."
"That is decided. No other course lies open to me. I do not see how
Mrs. Villiers' plans can effect mine."
Jean wondered how much or how little this meant. He went into
particulars as to the loss of Mrs. Trevelyan's income, through the
failure in quick succession of two companies, wherein her all was
invested.
"I blame myself for not having looked into matters more thoroughly," he
said. "I have trusted too much to others; and she has been ill-advised.
The least I can do now is, at any cost, to provide for her."
"You could not possibly do anything else," repeated Jean.
"Time for us to be going," Jem remarked presently, and he found his way
to his feet; then stood for some seconds deep in thought. "One word!
About what you were saying just now. Remember, that is a thing of the
past."
Jean assented with a monosyllable.
"You were right to mention Mrs. Villiers' plans; but they can make no
difference . . . Mrs. Villiers is nothing to me, nor I to her, beyond
a pleasant acquaintanceship. Nothing further is possible—if I wished
it! Her husband's will is an insuperable barrier for any poor man . . .
You once found out what you were not meant to know: and now you have
to forget. You must not allow yourself even to think it! That fancy is
dead! Do you see? . . . Jean, may I depend upon you absolutely—never to
make allusion, by word or look—?"
Jean lifted her steadfast eyes, and answered, "Yes."
Jem smiled; for such an assurance from Jean was worth many vehement
declarations from ordinary people.
"That will do," he said.
"I must do what I have promised, of course—and not let myself even
think of him and Evelyn together," Jean observed to herself on the
steamer. "But it is one thing to say that love is dead, and another
thing to make it dead. Jem seems very sure of himself. How will it be
when he sees Evelyn again? . . . He calls it 'a fancy.' Was it ever
only that?"