BOULEVERSEMENT.
"She's bonny, blooming, straight and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my very saul,
The kind love that's in her e'e."
R. BURNS.
CYRIL had not remembered to lock the door, and he became speedily aware
of his mistake. It opened, and a head was inserted.
"Cyril—?"
No answer; so Miss Devereux walked in, and stood looking down on the
prone figure: some real solicitude mingling with her dissatisfaction.
"Shall I send for Dr. Ingram?"
"No, thanks. I only wish to be left in peace."
"But, Cyril—! Something must be wrong! If you are not ill, something
must have happened. I can't imagine what has come over you to-day . . .
I daresay, after all, it has to do with those Trevelyans . . . I almost
always find, if you are out of temper, that Jean is at the bottom of
it . . . Of course, it can't really be that you care so much about that
odious man—Captain Lucas, I mean. Impossible, you know . . . After all,
I really do believe, it is only that something has disagreed with you.
If you will take such violent exercise, and eat such unwholesome food,
what can one expect? Why, that stew yesterday—my digestion would not
stand it for a moment! I shall tell cook never to send it up again."
Cyril lay motionless on his face through this harangue.
"If you go on so, you are sure to end by having some attack. People
always do. And as for the Lucases, I only hope you will take warning,
and keep clear of them in the future! It ought to be a lesson to you.
An artful, designing girl, like Miss Lucas—"
Cyril spoke without stirring. "Will you stop that, if you please! I
wish to be alone."
"Well, I must say, I do think you are a very ungrateful nephew," sighed
Sybella, with a different species of pathos from the pathos of little
Emmie.
"I must say, I do think—! When you have always been so much to me! And,
I am sure, the care and thought I have given—And now, just because—Yes,
I am going. I haven't the least desire to stay where I am not wanted.
Not the very least! I only came to bring you a note. It has been left
at the door—Pearce doesn't know, or else he won't say, by whom. And I
can't imagine who the note can be from. It is a lady's hand, at least
a girl's. It might be a child's. Would you like me to open and see for
you, if you are not well?"
"A note!" Cyril's confused brain had not at once taken in the sense of
the word. It dawned upon him in a flash; and with a leap he was on his
feet, demanding, "Where? Give it to me!"
The astonished Sybella fell back two paces; curiosity strongly
awakened. She could not but be aware that something unusual was afloat.
"Where is the note?" he repeated, and Sybella's reluctant fingers
yielded it.
"That is not Jean Trevelyan's handwriting, Cyril. Who can it be from?
You don't correspond with any other young ladies, I hope!" Her manner
implying that Jean was enough and too much!
The words put Cyril on his guard. One glance revealed to him that
the childish unformed writing was indeed Emmie's. Within this little
Silurian-grey envelope, crookedly directed, lay his fate—the question
of his future life-happiness or life-misery, once for all decided! So
it seemed to Cyril at the moment, though such apparent decisions do not
always turn out to be permanently decisive. Yet, while feeling thus,
he had the self-control to turn carelessly away, to toss the note on a
side-table, and to walk to the mantelpiece.
"Who is it from, Cyril?"
No answer.
"You know, of course. I see you know. Is anything really the matter?
Anything really wrong? One would think it was a bill—from your face!"
suggested Sybella, recalling stories of extravagant young men and
distressed guardians.
She was not Cyril's guardian now, but her mind was unable to acquiesce
in the change wrought by his coming of age.
"A bad bill perhaps!" she went on—without the slightest idea what is
meant technically by a "bad bill."
She had heard the term, and it recurred conveniently.
"My dear boy, you had much better make a clean breast of it all. Much
better! Far better!" She came near, and laid a hand on his wrist, with
an air of advice and interest. "You know I would so gladly help."
"Thanks!" Cyril withdrew his arm from her touch—rather pettishly, it
must be confessed, but how could he help it?
He stood upright, holding the mantelpiece; his face colourless, while
a surging like the sound of waves filled his ears. Nevertheless, he
forced his lips into a smile.
"I have no bad bills; and I have plenty of money. My tastes are not so
very extravagant. Much obliged to you all the same. If you have nothing
more to say, perhaps you would be so kind as to leave me to myself for
half-an-hour. I have—things to do—"
"And I am to understand that you have a secret—and that I am not to be
told!"
"You may understand anything that you choose. It is a matter of
indifference. Only, be so good as to leave me alone."
Cyril walked across the room, and opened the door.
Sybella had no choice but to go. She complained and protested; but
still she went.
Cyril locked and double-locked the door in her rear. Then he returned
to his former station, close beside the fire.
He stood there, fidgeting a little box of wax matches, striking one
after another with delicate accurate fingers. Not one was bent or
broken. He watched each in turn, burning itself out, as if his whole
soul were intent on the process of combustion.
Why should he read Emmie's note at once? There was no hurry. Suspense
might be bad; but certainty would, in all likelihood, be worse. He had
a gleam of hope now; and that little childish note might slay all hope
in him for evermore. He could think of Jean now as not impossibly to be
his some day; but after reading Emmie's answer, he might be debarred
from any such dream.
In a few minutes, all would probably be over—all hope of Jean! All free
thought of Jean!
"I mean to marry Jean some day," he had said at ten years old and had
meant it ever since—till the doubts and hesitations of the last few
months. And now, by a hasty boyish impulse, he had flung that hope out
of his own reach—perhaps! There was a "perhaps" still, though a very
faint one.
Why should Emmie refuse him? He knew himself to be liked by her; and
doubtless her parents would appreciate the advantages, which she might
be too young to weigh . . . And if Emmie said "Yes," he would be bound.
He would have in honour to go on. In her position, especially, having
once sought her, how could he ever cast her off? Nay, if he could, what
use? Jean would never have him afterwards.
The rushing sound of waves came back, and Cyril's brain was in a whirl.
He bore it for a few seconds; then suddenly, he could endure no longer.
Waiting became intolerable; and a burst of impatience drove him to the
side-table, where lay the little note. He would know the worst at once.
As he came to the lamp, opened and read, the surging died away into
stillness, and every trace of dizziness passed away. Cyril glanced
round, with an odd feeling that he had never seen the chairs and tables
so motionless. Then he read the note again.
He could hardly believe his own eyes. At first, he almost thought his
brain must be playing him false.
Refused—after all!
Emmie "liked him very much, but she was afraid she could not say she
loved him." And so "it would not be right." She "was very sorry to
give him pain," but "it would be best in the end." The utterances were
childishly direct and simple; no manner of hesitation or incertitude
about them. She was grateful to Cyril, but she would not have him.
"Emmie! You're a brick!" spoke Cyril aloud.
A man does not like to be refused; and notwithstanding Cyril's relief,
notwithstanding the weight lifted from him, there came for one moment
a touch of the "wet-blanket" sensation. He had not expected himself or
his belongings to be so lightly valued; and self-satisfaction sustained
a wound.
But pride, either wounded or unwounded, could claim only a small share
of his attention. As he read and re-read the brief sentences, hardly
able to credit the fact that he was free, a great wave of joy swept
over him. Jean's face rose once more, quiet, smiling, no longer sad,
no longer reproachful . . . Cyril had something of the boy in him yet;
not so very surprising at twenty-one. He put his face down on the high
mantelpiece, with a sound not far removed from a sob—
"My own dear dear dear Jean! Never, never any one but you!"
Then an unreasoning impulse seized him to rush off there and then to
the Rectory; just to look in upon Jean with his bodily eyes, now that
he knew they were not parted for life by an ever-widening river . . .
Yet could he trust himself? Would he be betrayed into saying too much?
To propose to one lady within an hour after being refused by another
would be too supremely absurd. Cyril laughed at the idea and resolved
not to go.
He could not rest or stand still, but walked to and fro, unquiet with
very joyousness, as he pictured Jean at the Brow—Jean at his table—Jean
in this study. Emmie's little face never rose between to blot out
Jean's. He only felt intensely grateful to Emmie, as he realized his
escape from a terrible thraldom, possibly life-long.
He would have to be careful, he knew. If Jean suspected his late fancy
for Emmie—and Cyril was pretty sure she did suspect it—she would not
readily put faith in his present frame of mind.
The best plan, undoubtedly, for himself and for all parties concerned,
would be to make a thorough break—to get away from Dulveriford
entirely. If he only had had something definite to go for! Staying on
at the Brow would be awkward in many respects. To cut himself suddenly
off from the Lucases would cause remark; yet to go in and out as before
would be impossible. To begin at once openly seeking Jean might cause
misunderstandings; yet how could he be in the place and not seek her?
Cyril gave the matter full twenty minutes of serious thought. Then he
unlocked his door, and with feeling of compunction for Miss Devereux,
went to the drawing-room.
Sybella was deeply aggrieved, and in cue for a sulk; but the sight of
her nephew's cheerful face and alert air surprised her into speech:
"Why! But, Cyril—! Then it couldn't have been bad news?"
"It!"
"I mean your note?"
"My note! No; why should it?—" with perfect sang-froid. "I came to
speak about something very different. I am thinking of a week or two in
Town."
"What for?"
"Picture-galleries—"
"Nonsense, Cyril! You can't impose on people like that!"
"And everything else that's going!"
"If you don't choose to tell me the real reason, you needn't at least
pretend—"
"I shall start to-morrow morning—early express."
"Such an extraordinary thing to decide all in a moment—and not a word
to me—"
"Couldn't publish the fact before I knew it myself. Aunt, you've not
heard, I suppose, whether anything is settled about Mr. Trevelyan?"
"I thought you were there all yesterday afternoon."
Cyril's joyous indifference was more amazing to Sybella than his
previous irritability.
"At the Rectory! I've not seen Jean for days—not spoken to her, I mean.
Nothing settled yet?"
"Mr. Trevelyan is ordered to Australia. Dr. Ingram wants him to stay
away two years. I believe he starts in a fortnight."
"And Jean—?"
"Jean will be at Dutton Rectory. He can't afford to take her too. I
call it a wild scheme. As likely as not, he will die out there, all
alone—not a soul near—and Jean will never see him again. But, of
course, it is no concern of ours. I only wish one could hope that the
locum tenens would be the sort of man I could approve of, but of course
his views—"
Cyril heard no more, though he was dimly conscious that Miss Devereux
continued talking. She was apt to continue talking indefinitely so long
as anybody was present to listen. A sudden idea had come to him, of so
startling and brilliant a nature, that it nearly took away his breath.
He had desired something definite to do; and here it was. Something
for Jean too!—There was the charm of the notion. True, it would mean a
long separation. But if all the while, he were acting for Jean, living
for Jean—what then, though his waiting should grow to the Patriarch's
fourteen years? Cyril felt that they would seem short, for the love
that he bore to Jean. He stood in the centre of the room, lost in
thought, his eyes sparkling with so remarkable a scintillation that
Sybella stared.
"I can't imagine what has come over you to-day," she said. "You look—"
"Never mind my looks. Aunt, don't stay up for me. I am going out."
"Again! You have been out the whole day."
"I must see Jean."
"What for? Really, Cyril, it is too absurd. There is something
underneath all this. Something you have not told me. To go after Jean
Trevelyan to-night—Just look at the clock—! And when you have not been
well! I know you were not well, by the way you left the dining-room
after dinner! Something has disagreed with you, I am quite sure. And
if you get a chill upon that, from the night air—! It is perfectly
crazy! Perfectly mad! As if you could alter things! Dr. Ingram says Mr.
Trevelyan must go; so, of course, he must. He says it is as much as his
life is worth to stay through another winter in England. Nobody will
care for your opinion . . . But perhaps that note was from Jean, after
all—though I don't see why you should make such a mystery of it. I dare
say she got somebody else to write the address, so that I should not
know the handwriting."
"About the last thing Jean would ever stoop to do! But I have no note
from Jean."
"Well, I don't see, really, what concern we have with their plans. Why
should we interfere? I don't attempt to stand between you and your
friends; but certainly they are not people who—My dear aunt always
highly disapproved of them . . . Cyril, you have tried me very much
this evening—you really have!—And I am sure I have been most patient!
But there are limits even to—I really do think—I really have a right—In
fact, I positively insist upon knowing what is the meaning of this
extraordinary behaviour."
Cyril looked down on Miss Devereux's agitated features and twirling
hands.
"Very well," he answered, speaking without the least unkindness; "if
you insist, you shall know. As well now as later. It means—that I
am tired of home, tired of Dulveriford, tired of doing nothing. It
means—that if Jean does not object, I shall go out in the same ship
with Mr. Trevelyan, and take care of him. It means—that when I come
back, if Jean will have me, I shall make her my wife."
For once, Sybella had no words. She could only gaze blankly, her lips
and jaws dropping apart.
Cyril walked to the door, paused, came back, and stooped to give her a
kiss.
"Good-night," he said pleasantly. "Don't be vexed, aunt. If I have
spoken out, it is by your wish. Of course, that about Jean is in
confidence. She may or may not be willing . . . Meantime you'll have
two years' swing at the Brow, to do as you like—and I'll take care that
you have enough money to carry you on. After that, we must make some
other arrangement. I should like to build you a jolly little house,
outside Dutton—near to St. John's, you know. But there's plenty of time
to think things over. Good-night."
Without waiting for an answer he was gone; and Sybella was left to her
own cogitations.
Jean rose from a low chair beside the drawing-room fire to greet Cyril.
She seemed to have been for once enjoying the luxury of idleness; and
there was a touch of mournful gravity in the look she turned upon him.
It brought to Cyril's mind the pale reproachful visionary likeness
which had come to him on the marshes, blotting out Emmie's face.
"It is late for a call; but you will give me a few minutes," he said.
"Will you not?"
"I can spare a few minutes. It is almost bedtime."
"I have just heard something which I didn't know before. About your
father going to Australia for two years. Is it true?"
"Dr. Ingram advises at least a year and a half. He would prefer two
years. Yes, it was settled days ago."
"And I never heard! But he ought not to go alone."
"He must."
"Is he well enough?"
"No—not if it could be helped. We have no choice."
"Only, if the thing could be managed—surely, he ought to have a
companion. Think, if he were taken worse out there—alone among
strangers—"
"I know! Do you think I don't know?" asked Jean, lifting sad eyes to
his. "Cyril, I didn't expect you to be cruel. Why should you say it to
me? I know all so well, and yet I cannot go. There are all the expenses
of his illness—and the locum tenens—and his voyage! And I shall cost
him almost nothing in England, living with cousin Chrissie and Jem.
Don't you see?—The thing has to be."
"I'm not speaking unkindly, but because I have a reason." Cyril moved
to a chair nearer Jean, and looked earnestly into her face. "Jean—I
have a plan, and I think it may be a comfort to you. Will you let me go
out with Mr. Trevelyan? Will you trust him with me—as my charge?"
"You?"
"I mean it. I'm not joking. To-morrow I shall run up to Town for a
few days; and I can get an outfit in no time. There isn't a grain of
difficulty. I'll secure my passage at once in the same vessel and be
ready to start . . . It's the most delightful thing I ever thought of.
I'm sick of the Brow, and I want something to do, and I've been longing
to see more of the world. The expense is nothing. I'll do my best to
bring him back to you, safe and sound. Will you trust me?"
A thought came swiftly to Jean as she listened. "He has gone too far
with Miss Lucas, and thinks it best to escape!"
Yet she doubted, because of his joyous air; and while the guess was not
so very wide of the mark, Jean was ignorant of attendant circumstances.
She did not know what to believe, and answered slowly, after some
hesitation: "Yes; if you really wish to go, for your own sake. It would
be the greatest relief—of course—to know that somebody would be with
him."
"For my own sake—and for his—and most of all for your sake!"
"No, not for mine. But if you seriously think of going to Australia for
your own sake, then I should be only too thankful if you could be in
the same ship with my father."
"Most of all for your sake, Jean!"
Cyril repeated the words emphatically, and it was impossible to mistake
his meaning. No flush came to Jean's pale cheek, as she replied, "Call
it what you like. I shall be very grateful."
"I don't want gratitude. I want something different. When I come
back—Jean, listen to me—don't turn away! I have no right to speak now—I
know I have not—but when I come back—"
He had not meant to say this; the words seemed to be wrenched from him.
"Stop, Cyril! Hush! I must go upstairs."
"Not yet. There's no hurry. I must know about the ship; and you
must listen to me. When I come back, if I have carried out my trust
faithfully—then—"
"No—I am not going to listen."
"You must! You don't know what I want to say."
Jean laid her hand resolutely across Cyril's mouth.
"No—hush—I will not!" she repeated. "You are to say no more! . . . What
of that poor little Miss Lucas? You see—I know! I dare say you have
meant no harm—and you are doing this kindness to my father, so I must
not blame you—but there cannot be any playing fast and loose. What you
do is for his sake—your sake—anything you like, only not to do with me!"
Cyril removed her hand from his mouth, and kept it prisoner. He had
merely meant to give her a gentle hint as to his hopes; but now there
seemed to be no choice about speaking out; now he could not restrain
himself. It might be the last chance for two years or more.
"You needn't be afraid, Jean. I'm not doing what is wrong. You don't
understand how things are, and I want to make you understand! . . .
I've been a fool, and I don't deny it! She has not suffered—she doesn't
care a rap for me! Yes, I know—for she won't have me . . . I suppose
it was a sort of craze. I did think I wanted her; and I was demented
enough to speak—and then I found out! I shall not forget what it
was—to feel that I had put a barrier between you and me for life! It
was—awful . . . I seem to have lived through ten years yesterday. Till
her answer came, I mean! . . . You see—I'm hiding nothing from you!
And you can think what you like—despise me, if you like—But if ever I
marry, you will be my wife! You—and nobody else."
"Are you going to keep me much longer?"
"Not if you will stay without being kept. I'm not asking you to say
anything now. It wouldn't be fair. I can't expect you to believe in
me yet. Only, by-and-by, when I come back—when you find out that I am
the same—that I shall always be the same—don't you think—? No, I'm
not asking you to speak, really! You shall give me an answer in two
years. I'm only telling you how things are . . . You are entirely
free—only, when I come back, Jean, I shall ask you to be mine! And if
you won't—But I can't let myself think of that! Life wouldn't be life
without you! Till then I shall live on hope. And your face will be with
me always—night and day. You'll think of me sometimes—won't you?"
"You want to know the name of my father's ship," said Jean.
Somehow she could not make her voice quite so prosaic as she wished,
for a strange joy was fluttering at her heart.
"Yes—I'll write it down in my pocket-book." After doing which, Cyril
said in disappointed accents, "Not one word!"
"I thought you were not asking for a word. You inconsistent boy!" said
Jean calmly. She lifted her eyes, dropped hitherto; and there was in
them the old golden shining, once reserved for Oswald.
It was too much for Cyril's complete self-control. He made a hasty
motion, an impulsive start forward, as if to clasp her in his arms; but
Jean as quickly eluded him, stepping back.
"No! No! Nothing of that sort," she said in an odd restrained voice.
"No nonsense, please. I shall not see you again till just at last—and
then not alone. We are only friends still, just as we always have been.
Both perfectly free. You understand? If I choose to marry meantime—Or
if you choose to bring home a nice little Colonial wife—"
"Jean, if you say another word—"
"Then—good-bye!" And she vanished.
BOOK IV.
THE UPSHOT OF IT ALL.
"Yet in one respect,
Just one, beloved, I am in nowise changed;
I love you, loved you . . . loved you first and last,
And love you on for ever. Now I know
I loved you always."
E. B. BROWNING.
CHAPTER I.
DUTTON GOSSIP.
"Mrs. Can.—Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know,
Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise
to the most injurious tales."
"School for Scandal."
"ANY of those circulars ready, Jean? No matter if not—but—"
Jean mutely indicated a pile.
"All done! Thanks! You are a helper worth having. Now can you undertake
the addresses? I have a list somewhere—in my study."
"My dear Jem!" remonstrated Mrs. Trevelyan. She had her feet on the
fender, and an open story-book on her knee.
"I wonder where we are now," murmured Jean.
Jem looked up, and his grey eyes broke into laughter. When absorbed in
thought, he had a harassed look, too old for his thirty-five years; but
when he smiled, all was transformed; signs of wear and tear vanished;
and hollows were mysteriously filled up.
"I forgot! Yes, of course—we adjourned here. All right—I have found the
list. Just take the names in order, as they come."
"Jem, you really have no conscience. Jean has been at work for you the
whole day," drowsily remarked Mrs. Trevelyan.
"Oh, I like it. Not another word, please, mother. Yes, give me the
list."
Jem delayed to scan Jean questioningly, and she met his gaze with a
frank smile.
Two years and a quarter in Dutton Rectory had transmuted her into
a daughter of the house. Mrs. Trevelyan was no longer "cousin" but
"mother"; and Jem was a charming mixture of pastor, master, and brother.
Jean had developed fast in this new environment. She was in fuller
correspondence with it than with any previous atmosphere. While not
a whit less decisive and practical, she had become softer, gentler,
more gracious. That half of her which had been assiduously repressed
at Dulveriford Rectory was assiduously cultivated at Dutton Rectory;
and Jean's whole being responded to the cultivation, opening out like
a flower in warm sunshine, after long exposure to east winds. She was
less shy and reserved; her smiles had learnt to come and go freely;
and the old habitual gravity was replaced by habitual sunshine. This
was the real Jean, never before permitted to expand into her natural
outlines. Dearly as she loved her father, much as she felt the long
separation from him, hardly anything could have occurred more effectual
for the finishing touches needed by her womanly shape, than such a
spell of Dutton Rectory life.
A second long and severe illness, several months past, through which
Mr. Trevelyan had been nursed by Cyril with a daughter's devotion, had
delayed the return of the travellers beyond the time originally fixed;
but now they were believed to be actually en route for home, coming,
for the sake of the voyage, "by long sea" round the Cape of Good Hope.
Cyril's last letter, written from Melbourne, had spoken of immediately
securing their passage in the "Spanish Gipsy," expected to start some
three weeks or so later.
Since the receipt of this letter, no news had arrived; and such an
unwonted gap in the correspondence caused much perplexity. The "Spanish
Gipsy" had now been for many weeks on her way. Whether Mr. Trevelyan
and Cyril were on board remained an open question, though there seemed
to be no substantial reason for doubting the fact.
When they should reach England, Dutton Rectory would have to part with
its "daughter;" no agreeable prospect for Jem or his mother. Jean had
made herself a necessary of life to them both.
But why needed matters so to end? Gentle Mrs. Trevelyan often put this
question to herself, thinking how easily and prettily a wind-up could
have been effected in one of her favourite story-books. Dear Jem only
had to say, "Will you marry me, Jean?" and Jean only had to say, "Yes,
I will, Jem," and then they could all three live together and be happy
ever after.
Dear Jem, however, showed not a ghost of an inclination to do anything
of the kind. He was fond of Jean, and he sometimes remarked what a
fine-looking useful girl she was; while Jean was delighted to be
employed, and seemed to have an unlimited veneration for Jem's opinion
on all manner of vexed questions. Yet this by no means proved that Jem
wanted to marry Jean, or that Jean would have been willing to marry Jem.
A man seldom chooses his wife for her business capabilities; and
a woman may have an enormous respect for the mental and spiritual
calibre of a man, whom she could on no account accept for a husband.
They jogged on famously together as cousins—or as Rector and female
Curate—but tokens of an impending love affair, with a distant view of
church-bells and orange-blossoms, simply were not. Jean never blushed;
Jem never looked conscious.
Two years and a half in Dutton had established Jem there as a leading
man; generally popular because of his charm of manner; though not
universally approved, because he could not always think what others
thought, or do what others would have dictated. He had, of course,
opponents and detractors. Colonel Atherstone looked at him askance; and
Colonel Atherstone's little clique cast oblique glances in imitation of
their leader. Jem was still not enough of a party-man to be swallowed
down, views and all, at one gulp, by any particular party in the
Church—High or Low, Evangelical or Broad.
But he was the man in Dutton of all others to whom people appealed in
perplexity, and to whom they came in sorrow. His wisdom was found to be
just and true, his sympathy unbounded, his readiness to take trouble
untirable. Above all, his life was seen to be fair and Christ-like;
therefore his influence was widespread and deep. In contact with his
free and loving spirit, it even came to pass that the narrow sometimes
grew a little less narrow, the bumptious a little less bumptious, the
condemnatory a little less condemnatory.
After this long digression—!
"Sure you have not done too much?" asked Jem.
"Not an atom! Though I know who has!"—sotto voce.
Jem ignored the last remark. "Well, but don't go on too long. I'm apt
to be hard on my helpers."
"I shouldn't have thought you were ever hard on anybody."
"You think not?"
Jean failed to decipher the look which crept over his face—a tired
self-questioning look—a look which she had always associated, and
always would associate, with Evelyn Villiers. Jean could never slay
this association of ideas. It had begun vaguely in her childhood, had
taken definite shape in her girlhood; had survived until now. She no
longer counted Jem to be in love with Evelyn. Observation and judgment
both told her that he had or must have overcome the old romantic
fancy—"if it had only been a fancy!" And the idea of Jem marrying,
seldom occurred to her mind.
Still she was conscious of a certain power possessed by Evelyn over
Jem's spirits—like the power of greater or less air-pressure on the
mercury of a thermometer. Evelyn herself did not know it; but her touch
in a moment sent his mercury up or down. When this particular look
came, a look of strain and weariness, with indented hollows in cheek
and brow, Jean never could resist an instinctive recurrence of thought
to Evelyn. Had Evelyn said or done something to worry him?
Aloud Jean said nothing, and Jem went back to his writing, but the
effort of work was manifest. Twice there was a renewed break; and she
saw his hand steal over the thick hair, already streaked with grey.
"I wish you would give in, and take an hour's rest," she murmured.
"Too much to do! I am behind-hand as it is."
"Jean, dear, I do so like the way you do your hair now," interposed
Mrs. Trevelyan, who had been sleepily speculating about "dear Jem's"
possible future, and why a particular arrangement might not come to
pass.
"Don't you, Jem?"
Jem laughed, and said, "Very neat."
"It shows the shape of her head so nicely. Jean has such a well-shaped
head. The bumps are all in good proportion."
Jean's pen went vigorously.
"She has such an amount of veneration. I can't endure a flat head. It
always means a small poor conceited nature. Jean's head at the top is
like—"
"Like a cupola," suggested Jem.
"Now, my dear Jem!"
"Or an apple-dumpling," said Jean.
"No, indeed! You have veneration—and decision—and perseverance—"
"And a whole lot of quarrelsomeness in the bumps behind my ears."
"Combativeness," corrected Jem.
"I don't see the difference. Oh!—here's an interruption! Come in!"
"Miss Atherstone, sir."
"Jean, you'll undertake the good lady."
"Miss Atherstone asked for you, sir."
"Never mind! I'll go," quoth Jean. "Some stupid meeting, I dare say—or
soup-tickets. If you are really wanted, I'll call you. Mother looks
half asleep."
Miss Atherstone disapproved of Jem's views, real or supposed, on
Church questions; therefore she never called at the Rectory except on
business. She met Jean with a solemn air, and received dubiously the
excuse of Jem's over-full time.
"Yes—he is a busy man we all know," she assented, looking at the rubbed
knuckles of her second-best kid gloves, which she had counted quite
good enough for the Rectory.
She wore a puce-coloured silk dress, relegated from long evening wear,
a good deal frayed, and not exactly suited to a very cold May day; and
her brown bonnet was trimmed with blue cornflowers interspersed among
nodding ears of corn, more appropriate for autumn than for spring.
Every time she moved her head, those ears bobbed stiffly; and Jean
found a fascination in watching for the next bob, distantly akin to the
interest with which one watches for the next wave-splash on a sea-beach.
"A very busy person!"—with an accent of pity, as if to imply, "Busy,
alas, about what?"
For the Colonel still counted Jem a dangerous young man! And his sister
dutifully followed suit.
"Perhaps you could give me a message for him," suggested Jean.
"Thank you—but really—no, it is of no consequence," hesitated Miss
Atherstone. "Merely a—merely an idea—Another time, perhaps."
"He will come in a moment, if you wish."
No, Miss Atherstone would not have him called. O no, certainly not. She
fidgeted with her twirled glove-ends, always too long for the fat short
fingers. And Mrs. Trevelyan was resting in the study—not very strong,
she believed. How very useful Miss Trevelyan must be in the house—like
an adopted daughter! So delightful to have a home among relations,
during her father's absence. And Mr. Trevelyan was quite recovered
from his second illness? Dear! How trying that must have been! And he
had been for a voyage since to the South Sea Islands, had he not? And
he was coming home round the Cape, was he not? Dear! How nice! What a
travelled man he would be! They were expected home very soon, she was
told—Mr. Trevelyan—and—and—Sir Cyril Devereux with him!
Jean could not in the least have told what it was in the utterance
which made her colour deepen. She was not given to blushing; and till
this moment she had firmly believed that no human being beyond their
two selves knew of the state of affairs between herself and Cyril. Jean
had never breathed a word on the subject; and she had no idea of what
Cyril had impulsively said to Miss Devereux.
Sybella, being—from her point of view, wisely—desirous to keep the
notion a dead secret, had only let it slip to Lady Lucas, and Lady
Lucas had only told a dozen other people, always under a strict pledge
of secrecy. The tale thus weighted had travelled slowly: still, it had
travelled.
A faint whisper of it even reached Jem, and in that direction went no
farther. Gossip was apt to fall back, innocuous, from the shield of
Mrs. Trevelyan's gentle density; and if the story as expressed in airy
undulations, ever pattered on the drums of her ears, it had failed to
reach her brain. Nobody had mentioned it to Jean; for people were a
little afraid of Jean, unless they knew her well; and the few who did
know her well, were the last who would have said anything.
So until now she had been able to speak of Cyril easily and without a
blush, because she never supposed anybody to suspect how matters lay.
Indeed, Jean herself was by no means sure how things did or would lie.
Cyril wrote her constantly and freely; but they always had corresponded
from childhood; and Cyril did not use lover-like terms. He had
attempted it at first, and Jean had made no response, being determined
to leave him free; so he had dropped the attempt. That was now over two
years ago; and two years are a long time under the age of twenty-four.
Whatever amount of questioning had gone on below the surface with Jean,
she had till this instant shown no consciousness in connection with
Cyril. And now, all in a moment, without warning, at the sound of his
name, uttered in a tone of peculiar meaning, her cheeks flamed.
Miss Atherstone's sharp little eyes ran all over Jean. "Yes?" she said,
and waited, as if most willing to act feminine confessor. "Yes? It has
been a long separation!"
"Very long," Jean replied, looking her caller straight in the face,
though unable to control her own colouring. "But if my father comes
home strong again, I shall not regret the parting."
Miss Atherstone sighed lugubriously—quite à la Sybella.
"And one may hope—" she said. "One may hope—! Travel does improve the
mind! At least, people say so. Sir Cyril was so young—painfully young,
poor boy, before he went out! One cannot but hope, at least, that his
most unfortunate attachment to that little Miss Lucas—a merely passing
fancy, no doubt—"
Another wave of colour swept into the first, and Jean was wroth with
herself. She sat resolutely upright, her eyes shining with an angry
gleam. Was that tale known too? Could nothing ever be hidden in Dutton?
But she only said, "Miss Lucas?"
"Oh, I thought you were sure to have heard! And, after all, it might be
a mistake. Some have said that he was engaged all the time—elsewhere!"
significantly. "Pray do not be annoyed, Miss Trevelyan. I sincerely
hope it may be untrue. No one could wish such a connection for Sir
Cyril! So very objectionable! I merely allude to what everybody
remarked—the way he haunted that house for weeks. But probably, poor
youth, he became aware of his danger, and wisely fled from it. If only
it has not been an exchange for something worse!"
Had Miss Atherstone an object in saying all this? Was she seeking to
discover the state of Jean's feelings towards Cyril? Had she been sent
by Miss Devereux? Was she stupid or was she wicked? Jean put these
questions silently, in girlish indignation, while saying aloud, "I
think 'everybody' would be better occupied in attending to their own
concerns. One gets out of patience with Dutton gossip."
It was Miss Atherstone's turn to be angry, and the ears of corn
oscillated as if stirred by a gale.
"I am not accustomed, I must say, to having a friendly interest in
others' welfare called by so harsh a name," she said, caressing again
her untidy finger-tips.
"But, after all, it is of no consequence! One must submit, in this
world, to be misunderstood! It is one of the trials of life! . . . As
you imply, Sir Cyril's movements do not concern us! He is quite at
liberty to get himself engaged out there, if he chooses—to a squatter's
daughter! Or a bushman's! It really concerns nobody—except his poor
excellent worthy aunt! And I am sure Miss Devereux had had little
enough of comfort in her nephew! Such devotion to him—and such a poor
return! Such ingratitude! She has had a succession of troubles. If she
were not so truly good as she is, she must have sunk beneath them . . .
And this will be only one trial more. One burden added! She will be
resigned. Dear Miss Devereux is always so sweetly resigned. As I tell
her, it is quite a lesson . . . But to have to make way for, such a
successor! A mere Colonial young lady! Oh, I believe the family is not
bad. Not bushrangers!—" with a solemn attempt at a joke.
"And the girl herself is pretty. In the style of Miss Lucas—small, and
dark eyes! Still—a Colonial family! One does not expect that, for Sir
Cyril Devereux! And his beloved aunt allowed no choice—no opinion—after
her years of devotion to him!"
Jean's colour did not deepen further; nor did it fade too fast.
"How soon are they going to be married?" she asked.
"I am not sure that the date is settled," said Miss Atherstone, her
eyes running over Jean again. "In fact, the engagement is still
something of a secret."
"A Dutton secret, I suppose!"
The satire was lost upon Miss Atherstone. "Not Dutton," she said. "A
friend of mine has a sister out in Melbourne."
"I see. So it is on the very best authority. And you came to tell us
the news as soon as you heard. How kind!"
"Sir Cyril will no doubt make the matter known when he reaches England."
"No doubt. But I don't see why he should not wait to marry her, and
bring her home."
"If he has started—"
"We do not know that he has. The last letter spoke of probably
taking their passage—and since then there has been a gap in our
correspondence. We have been rather puzzled; but this explains all,"
said Jean, with the utmost composure. "Sir Cyril has most likely
settled at the last moment to stay behind and be married. And in that
case my father would, I fancy, come home by Suez. Why, he might arrive
any day!"
"Well, I can see that you will not omit to give a welcome to the
bride of your old playfellow," said Miss Atherstone, with a touch of
something like spite, because she was conscious of failure. She found
her feet awkwardly, as she spoke.
"No, indeed! We shall have to make a big arch of welcome at the Brow
entrance."
Jean rang the bell, tranquilly shook hands, and smiled Miss Atherstone
out of the room. Then she stood still—to think.
"It may be true!" she pronounced slowly, half aloud. "Not sure! But
not impossible. How can one tell? Why should he not? We are perfectly
free—both of us! I have taken care of that. And I have always said I
would not blame him—if—"
She did not finish the sentence, but pulled herself together, and went
to the study.
"Nothing important?" asked Jem. "Why, Jean!—I could almost think you
had been in a passion. Pardon the idea."
"I think I have. She didn't come on business, really—only to talk
gossip. I can't imagine how she had the face to ask for you; but,
of course, she would have made some excuse for doing it, if you had
appeared. Mother asleep, I see."
Jean fell fiercely to work over the addresses, trying to smother
thought in action. There was a sore consciousness, deep down, that
if this tale proved to be true, life would look very blank. She had
thought herself prepared for anything—but somehow—That "somehow" meant
a good deal.
For a while only the soft scratching of rival pens could be heard. Then
Jem asked—
"Can you go to the Park to-day?"
"This afternoon? Does Evelyn want me?"
"She would like a call after tea. I met her before lunch."
"Miss Moggridge will be out then, I suppose. I would rather have got
all this done. But if I ought—"
"I should like you to go."
"Nothing wrong with Evelyn?"
A pause; and then, in hushed tones—
"She does not look well, or happy. This is for yourself only. You might
be some help."
"I don't see how. Why doesn't she go to you for advice?"
The question had no answer.
"I'll do as you wish, of course. But it will only be 'Miss Moggridge'
again. She doesn't suit Evelyn; and nothing can make them suit . . .
After all, if they were apart, would Evelyn be happier? Evelyn has
always had her pet worry ever since I can remember. First it was
Miss Devereux; and then the General; and then losing him; and now
Miss Moggridge. If it were not Miss Moggridge, I suppose it would be
something or somebody else . . . Jem, you do look tired this afternoon!
What is the reason? Has Evelyn said anything to worry you?"
Jem's "Nonsense!" had an unwontedly brusque sound.
Jean was off her balance, or she would not have made the suggestion.
"I should not be surprised! I don't mean anything unkind. Nobody loves
Evelyn more than I do—but that is the very reason! I mean, when she
looks so sweet and sad, and those great eyes are just like a wounded
collie's begging for pity—Oh, I'm every inch as absurd as anybody
can be. I forget all she has in life to make her happy; and it gives
me a heartache for hours after. I believe it gives you the same—or a
headache," added Jean prudently, wondering why she had said so much. "I
wish Evelyn had to be busy; not so much time to sit and dream."
"If you go after tea, I will call an hour later to walk home with you."
"Yes, do. That will be nice. I hear the tea going into the
drawing-room. Oh—another interruption!"
This time Captain Lucas was shown into the study. He had become a
frequent visitor there, and Jem's strengthening uplifting influence
had worked wonders with the man. Not only had he fought through more
than two years without another breakdown; but the very fight had
become easier, the craving less keen and more controllable. Jem kept
him employed in many ways, found him new interests and pleasures,
and exercised, busy as he was, a constant watchfulness, which gave
invaluable help to the wife and daughter.
Jean was often at the red house, Emmie often at the Rectory; and
something of a friendship had sprung up between the two girls,
affectionate on the part of Jean, unlimited in admiration on the part
of Emmie.
Captain Lucas looked serious and troubled. "I want a word with you,
presently," he said to Jem; but he consented to take tea first with the
ladies.
Then the two gentlemen retired to the study, and Jean sped away to the
Park.
CHAPTER II.
THE "SPANISH GIPSY."
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
• • • •
"Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more."
SHAKESPEARE.
JEAN'S estimate of Evelyn Villiers as one who "had always a pet worry,"
was not far wrong—indeed, such a statement might perhaps be made of
nine out of every ten individuals, then or now—yet it was an estimate
with two sides. Almost everything has two sides, if it possesses a side
at all; and here was no exception.
The distinctive characteristic of Evelyn's case lay, not so much in the
possession of a worry, or a succession of worries, as in the fact of
rather too much leisure for looking at those worries; perhaps too in
the absence of a spirit which should lift her above them. Life hitherto
had been too soft and shielded for the richer development of Evelyn's
character. She was like a plant, by nature hardy, which would flourish
on the border of Alpine snow, but which grows pale and sickly in the
vitiated air of a hothouse.
Still these worries were real of their kind; no mere outgrowth of the
imagination. It is fair to admit so much. Sybella Devereux would have
been a severe trial to almost any young niece, flung upon her tender
mercies. The General, with all his goodness, must have been a pull upon
the patience of any wife who could not entirely submit her opinions to
his. The sorrow of losing him must have been in any case enhanced by
the recollections of previous friction. As for Miss Moggridge—Jean was
often fain to admit that she too would have found that excellent lady
tiresome as a life-long companion. But then, why had Evelyn created the
companionship?
Miss Moggridge was undoubtedly excellent, in the true sense of the
word. She excelled alike in right principle, in right feeling, in right
action. That is not to say she was perfect; but who is perfect? She
had her faults, of course, like other people. She was, theoretically,
so liberal-minded that, practically, she could see no manner of
illiberality in another without risings of righteous anger. And,
unfortunately, with her, as with many other good people, human anger is
apt to outrun the righteous boundary.
To put it differently, she was—or, at all events, she counted
herself—so broad in her mental and spiritual make, that it made her
wrathful to find anybody narrow. But most naturally, the narrow
individual, who called his narrowness by the more euphonistic title of
"sound principle," failed to see the Christian beauty of a broadism,
which was flung like a cudgel at his devoted head. Since his narrower
line of thought was every inch as much a matter of right with him as
Miss Moggridge's broader line of thought was a matter of right with
her, it was to the last degree improbable that she should cudgel him
over to her way of thinking. Nay, the question even arises in the mind
of a quiet looker-on—was her vaunted broadism altogether broad, and did
it not partake of inevitable human narrowness, only under a fresh guise?
Evelyn herself was not narrow, rather the reverse. Since her husband's
death, however, she could not patiently endure aught which might seem
to be levelled at his memory. This made Miss Moggridge peculiarly
liable to tread upon Evelyn's corns; and with all her devotion to
Evelyn, Miss Moggridge was clumsy in her manner of walking.
The two ladies had rubbed on together for three years, and might rub
on a good deal longer; but such "rubbing on" can hardly mean present
happiness, however much it may be expected to improve one's spiritual
shape in the end. Moreover, though friction does commonly wear away
corners, it may be so applied as only to sharpen the angles.
Jean had been into Evelyn's boudoir, one may safely assert, hundreds of
times; yet she rarely entered that room without at least a transient
recollection of a certain snowy day, years since, when she had
witnessed the last parting between General Villiers and his young wife.
Such recallings were more vivid than usual on this particular
afternoon; notwithstanding the difference of a clear May day, cold but
sunshiny. Perhaps the association of ideas lay in Evelyn's listless
and sad air. She welcomed Jean lovingly; then sank back in a cushioned
chair, lifting deep violet eyes, full of the dumb-animal appeal, of
which Jean had spoken to Jem. The face, though so much older and
strictly less beautiful, was infinitely sweet and attractive. Jean,
always strongly under the influence of this attraction, could never
agree with Sybella Devereux's verdict as to "how dear Evelyn was gone
off in her looks."
"Sit down here by me, Jean. Sit down, and talk me into a better frame
of mind. I am feeling wicked. Nothing is worth doing or worth living
for; and I am sick of everything and everybody. Except—yes, of course,
there are always exceptions. Does it sound very dreadful?"
"It sounds dyspeptic. You had better see Dr. Ingram," Jean said the
words in jest; and then she wondered if she ought not to say them
seriously. Jem had remarked that Evelyn was not looking well. Not well!
The little hand, lying on her knee, was transparent; and the fair face
seemed to have shrunk, lending unnatural largeness to the eyes. Had
this come suddenly? It dawned upon Jean in a flash.
"Dr. Ingram would laugh at me. O yes, he would. He can laugh at
feminine nerves."
"Evelyn, have you grown thin lately?"
"My dresses have all grown too big. Things stretch so!"
Jean lifted the slight hand, and looked it over attentively.
"Rings don't stretch—do they?" laughed Evelyn. "I'm in danger of losing
mine. It is all right, Jean—nothing but want of interest in life. I
can't eat, and Miss Moggridge gives me no peace . . . I'm so tired of
it all—and of her! If I could only manage to see the dear creature once
a day, for an hour or two, we should get on. But every day, and all
day!—Sometimes I don't know how to breathe."
"Only—"
"You look exactly as Mr. Trevelyan did this morning. I was prowling
round the Church, and I came across him—or he came across me. Somehow,
I had a confidential fit—one does with some people, you know—and I told
him what I was feeling. Not about Miss Moggridge: there was no need to
drag her name in: Only that everything seemed 'stale and unprofitable!'"
"And he said—"
"Said I was wrong, quite plainly. The feeling might be
inevitable—perhaps physical—but I was wrong to give in to it. He told
me, almost sternly, that life ought not to be empty for me—that I ought
to find an object, if I have not one. He spoke of poverty of aim, and
living too much for self . . . It is all true, no doubt, but—Do you
find him stern? I did not expect it."
"No," Jean said wonderingly.
"I suppose he thinks mine a mere butterfly existence, all for pleasure.
And yet—"
She stopped speaking; and two large tears crept from under her lashes.
"It must seem absurd to you—to everybody—that I should talk of
troubles. I, in my easy existence! Yet things are not always exactly
what they seem . . . I think I would give half my remaining years, if
the choice were offered me, to have him back for one month. It would
be—such rest. He loved me so truly. And nobody—"
"Don't say that. It is not quite real."
"Perhaps not in one sense; but in another—Jean, how can you enter into
it all? I am so much older. There are different kinds of love; and
some kinds don't meet one's craving . . . I suppose one cannot often
have just what one would choose. Better not, some would say. I don't
see that. I suppose the denial has to be—but to be loved is such a
help! . . . Mr. Trevelyan said, in that calm cold manner of his—"
"Jem cold!!"
"Did I call him 'cold'? No, 'cold' is hardly the word. It means
repulsion, and he does not repel. He wins one's confidence somehow—in
an abstract sort of way. But his manner is so entirely self-mastered—as
if he had reached a height beyond all passion of feeling. Almost as if
nothing that merely touched himself could never ruffle him again. It is
beautiful, of course; only a little chilly. That was what he was this
morning—very kind, but just a degree chilly. He listened to me with
such intense patience, and looked most gentle—as he does, you know—yet
when he spoke, he was stern . . . He said life ought to be something
better for me than drifting down the stream, and getting myself
bruised among jagged rocks. He told me to take my oars, and row up the
stream . . . And, of course, he is right—he is perfectly right! . . .
If only I had energy to obey!"
"Jem is not stern or cold! Evelyn, what can you mean? You don't
understand Jem."
"Do I not?" Two drops again shone on Evelyn's lashes, then dropped
heavily? "How silly I am!" she said, with a laugh. "Like a baby!
After all, what can I do in life that is different? I am set down
here—tied to a place that I detest. Yes, I detest it, Jean. I never
can love Dutton, even for my husband's sake. Sometimes I think I will
abdicate—throw up everything, and install Thomas Villiers in my place.
He is a man who would not abuse such a trust. Then I should be free,
and I could go and work at the East-End. I have had for years a craving
for that kind of life—a life of real hard work for others . . . My
husband would not have chosen it for me, perhaps—to become a deaconess
or sister, I mean. But where he is now—don't you think they see with
other eyes? Things must look so different there! He will understand
now—if he sees—the want in my life—the need for fresh interests . . . I
should like to turn everything upside down, and to start afresh."
"Would that make you happier?"
"You think I should want the Park back as soon as I had given it up?
O no—never. I am so weary of the place . . . Now I have talked enough
about myself. It is a bad habit. No letters yet from our wanderers?"
"None. Jem thinks that the last before they started must have gone
astray—perhaps not been posted. And they may for once have skipped over
a mail or two before that. Once really off, we must of course expect a
long break. We shall hear in good time, I dare say."
"And you don't worry yourself in the least—brave sensible Jean!"
"I'm too busy; and what is the use? Generally one finds in the end some
common-sense explanation, which one might have known all the time. If
anything had happened to put off their starting in the 'Spanish Gipsy,'
why should they not have written to say so? If they were staying on
at Melbourne, what should have prevented their writing? Unless—One
possible explanation has come up. A piece of gossip, but I don't know
why it should not be true," said Jean hardily, without a blush. "Miss
Atherstone says Cyril is engaged."
"To—whom?"
"A young lady in Melbourne."
Evelyn did not at once repudiate the idea, as Jean had expected. "How
did Miss Atherstone hear?"
"A letter from a friend to a friend of hers. Then you think it is
true?" asked Jean, with a terrible heart-sinking.
"Cyril has mentioned several times a girl, named Lilias Mackenzie.
I have had a passing suspicion more than once. However—" Evelyn
hesitated, not looking at Jean.
Though Cyril had not confided in his sister before he left home, Evelyn
had a pretty clear inkling as to affairs; but after two years of
separation, who could foretell what might come to pass?
"It maybe all nonsense. Your father says nothing."
"He would not. It is not his way."
"If there were an engagement, why should not Cyril speak out?"
Evelyn put this question doubtfully, and was again silent. Jean longed
to know more, but could not bring herself to ask. Cyril had never so
much as mentioned to her the name of Lilias Mackenzie; nor had her
father. The latter had meant little; for Mr. Trevelyan was not good
at items of news. Did Lilias Mackenzie live in Melbourne? Had Cyril
and Lilias met constantly, through the months of Mr. Trevelyan's long
illness and convalescence? Was that why Mr. Trevelyan and Cyril had
returned to Melbourne for some weeks, after their trip to the South
Sea Islands before turning homeward? How natural and simple the whole
seemed! Jean kept strict watch over her face while thinking such
thoughts—successful watch, she believed, till she looked up, to meet a
wistful and compassionate gaze. Evelyn's hand came on hers with a soft
pressure. This would not do. Nobody might suspect. Nobody should blame
Cyril. Jean braced herself for action immediately.
"If there were an engagement, I don't see why he should not stay out
to marry Miss Mackenzie," she said, with cheerful composure. "So I
told Miss Atherstone. It would be absurd to come home, and then to go
out again. And that long voyage round the Cape—Oh, he would never do
it! Much more likely that he should stay behind; and if my father were
travelling alone, he would perhaps come by Suez after all. If they had
not taken their passage, that is to say . . . Miss Atherstone says the
girl is little and pretty, with dark eyes. Cyril admires dark eyes."
"Does he? I don't remember. Well—we shall see. People often do
unexpected things."
Evelyn was no whit deceived by Jean's cheerfulness, but she at once
fell in with the assumed mood.
Then Jem was announced, and a slight flush came to Evelyn's cheeks, as
she welcomed him with her usual gentle grace. Jem had a strange look,
Jean thought; and Evelyn saw the same. He was pale, with an unusual
pallor, as if some shock had driven all the blood inward; and his eyes
had an absorbed expression.
Jean wondered whether he observed Evelyn's rare flush and brightness.
A gleam of the old beauty came back, together with a new delicacy;
but she hardly thought Jem was awake to either. His mind seemed to be
elsewhere—an unusual event with one whose interest was always so keenly
present. For once, he appeared to have nothing to say.
"Jean told me that you would walk home with her," Evelyn remarked: one
or two observations having won no response. "Too late to offer you tea,
I'm afraid . . . How is Mrs. Trevelyan to-day? She will not like this
east wind . . . No letters yet from abroad! Curious, is it not?"
A nameless change, crossing Jem's face, arrested Evelyn's attention—a
wave of some strong feeling, quickly checked. She talked on other
topics for three or four minutes, then reverted to the non-arrival of
letters; and again the same look was manifest.
"Jean dear, would it trouble you very much—I wish you would go to my
room, and hunt for the second volume of Jean Ingelow's 'Poems.' Mrs.
Trevelyan has the first, and I promised to lend her the second. You
will find it upstairs—somewhere."
Jean went at once, conscious of being purposely sent away. She
suspected that Evelyn might have said something in the morning to give
Jem pain, and that a few words now would set the matter right. Also it
might be that Evelyn wished to tell him of Cyril's reported engagement.
In either case, she resolved not to find the book too quickly.
No sooner was the door shut, than Evelyn said, "You have heard bad
news."
"It may not be—"
"But so far as you know—Is Mr. Trevelyan ill again?"
"No."
"Jean may be back any moment. You will not keep me in suspense!
Something has happened to one of them."
"Or—to both!"
"Yes! I can bear to be told. Go on, please."
No answer came, and she asked, "Is it illness?"
"No."
"Or accident?"
Jem rose, with an involuntary motion, and turned away. He could not
endure to bring sorrow to her. To bring sorrow to any one was great
pain; but this was heartrending.
She only believed him to be overcome by the greatness of whatever
calamity had befallen them. The tie between him and either her brother
or Jean's father was not of so close a nature that she would have
expected intense distress on his part! Yet intense distress was written
on every line of his face.
It surprised Evelyn a little; though, of course, he would feel acutely
for Jean—so kind and sympathetic as he was known to be, even while she
individually had found him somewhat cold. All this passed in a flash
through Evelyn's mind, together with countless conjectures. She too
rose, and went to the door, which she quietly bolted. Then coming to
Jem, in the bow-window, she scanned him earnestly with eyes more widely
open than usual under the shock of sudden fear, trying to read in his
look what he would not or could not say.
"You will not keep me in suspense," she repeated. "See—I can bear it.
Nothing can be worse than what I am fancying now. No small matter would
touch you like this! Is it the very worst?"
She laid a hand on Jem's arm, not dreaming how her light touch shook
the very being of the man. "Is it—? I am waiting to know."
"The 'Spanish Gipsy'—" and a break—"has gone down—with all on board."
"None saved!"
"Not one."
He thought Evelyn would have fainted, but she did not.
"Thanks—no—I am not ill," she said in a low voice, as a slight gesture
on his part showed the expectation. She grow colourless, and there was
a deep sigh, but she stood firm. "Then, if—if they were on board—"
"We have no certainty that they were."
"They had made up their minds, I am afraid."
"A dozen things may have intervened—to prevent—"
"Yes—if—" and another sigh. "Poor boy!"
"If I could but have kept it from you—at least till we were sure!"
The look she gave him was very sweet. "Thanks—I know you would do all
you could," she said, with a momentary wonder that she should ever have
called him cold. "But indeed I am not thinking of myself. Jean must not
know."
"Impossible to hide it. Captain Lucas happened to hear by private
telegram. He had a cousin on board; and he has a friend at the
head-office. To-morrow morning it will be in the papers."
"Then you must countermand your papers for to-morrow morning. It is the
only thing to do. Jean will think they have been forgotten. And I will
take her away—at once. Not too far, but abroad—to Rouen, I think. We
could get home quickly from there—if—but Jean must not hear yet—till we
know! To lose—both—at one blow! It would be too terrible!"
Jem did not at once reply. He had seldom passed through a sharper
ordeal than this interview. The whole force of his powerful will was
needed to restrain the rush of feeling, aroused by her look of sorrow,
to hold back words and looks which must have revealed his love. He had
long ceased to ask whether or no he loved Evelyn. He knew only too
well that he never had loved, and never could love, any other woman.
Hitherto he had not shown his love; nor did he now: though to hide it
at such a moment, to keep up a merely kind and interested manner, taxed
his self-control to the utmost. If Evelyn had never seen him so pale,
she had also never seen him more composed—in feature; but the struggle
brought on trembling; and Jem was thankful when Evelyn sat down, so
that he might do the same.
"You will help me, will you not?" she went on earnestly. "Jean must
not know yet. If the loss has to be borne, she will bear it; only we
must spare her the uncertainty. You will send a telegram, of course, to
Melbourne, to know if they started."
Jem signified assent.
"I suppose the answer will hardly arrive for a day or two; and you
could forward it at once to Rouen. Jean will be out of reach there of
gossip. Will you help me to arrange things? I am not very well, and a
little trip abroad might be expected to do me good. Don't you think so?
Look—" and she held out her hand—"you see how thin I have grown. Jean
noticed that; and you can say that I need a change. Say anything you
like, only make her come with me to-morrow. She will understand the
need not to put off, if we go at all."
Jem took in his own the offered hand, and viewed critically the frail
fingers, as Jean had done.
Evelyn became aware of his trembling; and it seemed to her not quite
consistent with her theory of Jem's inviolable composure. A momentary
feeling of surprise was created.
But the next instant, he dropped her hand, saying—
"Yes, you are much too thin."
"And you will help me?"
"If I can do anything. I should be glad to spare Jean."
"That is it! Just to spare her needless suspense."
Then Evelyn told him briefly the tale of Cyril's supposed engagement;
and Jem had time to master himself while listening.
"I do not believe it," he said at the end.
"I used to think it would be Jean."
"I think so too—" A pause, and an involuntary "If—"
Some one had tried the door once, in vain; and some one now tried it
softly a second time. Evelyn hastily sketched her plan of action,
obtained Jem's sanction, and summoned Jean.
It was not Jean's fashion to raise needless difficulties. She guessed
that some particular cause underlay the sudden scheme; and she
conjectured that the cause might be Cyril's rumoured engagement. Rather
absurd if it were so—to treat her like a feeble inane creature, not
able to endure a brief uncertainty without the distraction of a week or
two abroad. But Jean was wisely silent as to her own conjectures, and
accepted the plan as it was meant.
If the trip would do Evelyn good, and if Evelyn wanted her, she would
go. Next day!—Rather soon, but she could be ready. Better soon, because
then she could get back in time to welcome her father, if he should
return by Suez. Jean assented with the utmost cheerfulness; and on
their way home, noting how ill Jem looked, she would not bother him
with a single question.
CHAPTER III.
IF IT WERE TRUE?
"All pain must be to work some good in the end."
R. BROWNING.
"JEAN, are you getting tired of Rouen?"
"After four days in the place? No—why should I?"
"People don't always wait for a particular reason. It is rather stupid
for you here. If I could go about more—"
"Well, yes—if you had a little more strength than a wren! When we get
home, I shall put you into Dr. Ingram's hands."
"No use. There are—some things—which a doctor can't touch. What if I
don't go home at all at present?"
"Rouen has not done you such an amount of good that you need wish to
stay. I don't believe there is anything very wrong—only you are weak,
and you want building up. I think you fret about people too much."
"My dear, you always were the personification of wisdom! Now pull the
shawl over my feet, and run down to the coffee-room for a change. That
nice old Mrs. Newnham is sure to be there. If not, you must come back.
You might even arrange for a walk with her daughter. No, I cannot have
you wandering about alone. You are not so elderly as you think: and
this is not Dulveriford."
Jean arranged the shawl, and vanished. They had a little private
sitting-room: though, for Jean's sake, Evelyn had chosen to dine at
the table d'hôte, where they had formed a slight acquaintance with one
old lady. Jean found her, as Evelyn had expected, but the daughter
was already gone out, and Mrs. Newnham was no walker. So she resigned
herself to the inevitable, and after a short chat, sat down at a table
near one of the windows.
She could there amuse herself with a pile of papers and serials, or
study French manners in the quaint street. Intrinsically, a Frenchman
is diverse from an Englishman: and he always looks different—even in
his mode of getting along a pavement. The gait and air of the one
can hardly be mistaken for those of the other. Jean sometimes tried
to analyse the difference, and found it difficult. Not even a waxed
moustache, a sallow skin, and a pair of mobile shoulders, will turn an
Englishman into a Frenchman. The distinction is more subtle in kind.
"And so much the better!" cogitated Jean, who, like most of her
countrywomen, are apt to find everything abroad a little inferior to
its counterpart at home.
She turned over a pile of newspapers, her mind running on the continued
cessation of letters from the absentees, and reverting with a
troublesome persistence to the report about Cyril. Jean could not put
that story aside. It remained as an ever-present consciousness; not
mastering her moods, for she was equably cheerful; but never out of
sight.
Lilias Mackenzie! A pretty name: and a pretty girl. Dark-eyed and
small, like Emmie Lucas! Well: why not? He might do worse. It was true
that she had heard Cyril express a particular admiration for dark
eyes—to Jean herself, whose eyes were not dark, but pale brown with
spokes of green. He had made the remark at the Academy, when looking at
some black-orbed dame on canvas.
Then she recalled her last parting with Cyril: the prolonged pressure
of her hand: the expression of his face! More than that, the evening
interview not long before, when he had resolutely declared that he
never could or would marry anyone but Jean. Would he not? How much were
such assertions worth? Time alone could show . . . Jean remembered how
he had since devoted himself to the care of her father; how he had
nursed the sick man like a daughter; how he had taken Mr. Trevelyan at
his own cost for a trip to the South Sea Islands; how he had written to
her, constantly and fully, week by week; how he had done or appeared
to do all in his power to prove himself worthy of her confidence. And
now, at the first break in their correspondence, at the first breath of
gossip, Jean's trust threatened to fail.
"But it shall not," she said firmly to herself. "He deserves something
better. I will not doubt him, till I have real reason."
The old lady, watching from a distance, wondered what had brought so
fair a glow to the girl's singular eyes. She was greatly interested in
Jean. Jean, unconscious of being observed, and forgetful of another's
presence, drew from her pocket a letter always carried here—the first
received from her father, after his long illness in Melbourne. In it,
he told briefly what Cyril had been to him through that trying time.
"I have not really known the boy till now," he wrote; "yet I thought
I did—after all these months together. Jean herself could hardly have
done more. I have never been allowed to want a thing. It was no use to
suggest his leaving me more to the nurse, and taking his pleasure. She
was no great shakes, certainly, and Cyril did not trust her. He was
with me most of the day, and often at night; and if I remonstrated,
his answer was, 'For Jean's sake!' Strange to say, he, never seemed
overdone. Womanly gentleness is beautiful, but when conjoined with
manly strength, it is past praise. He is growing into a fine fellow—a
thorough man, body and mind."
This was not quite the Cyril of Jean's knowledge—the coddled pet of
Sybella, ready always to take care of himself.
"But Jem has often said there was more in Cyril than appeared. It is
not fair to doubt him, without full proof—and I will not!" she repeated
resolutely.
The glow of renewed confidence lent at once a different aspect to life.
Turning over another sheet, she came on a copy of the English "Times."
"Days old! Quite ancient! The very morning we left. I remember—the
papers were late that day, and I did not see them before we started."
Jean skimmed column after column, to pass the time: her brain still
busy in its back regions with Cyril.
"They will soon reach home now, if they really are off in the 'Spanish
Gipsy.' A few weeks, I suppose—six or seven. Not likely that they
should change, after once making up their minds; unless that story
were true. But I will not believe it, until I know. If we should hear
that they have actually started, then I shall be sure it is false.
Cyril would never think of such a voyage—without need—if he were just
engaged. My father could as well come home alone . . . The only thing
is that fancy for Emmie Lucas! Otherwise I could laugh at the tale.
Well—Emmie is heart-whole! That is one comfort. No harm done there."
Jean had an abrupt singular consciousness of receiving a blow. It
might almost have been an actual physical blow, judged by sensation.
Thought was scattered; and a grey haze descended on all around, coming
like the fall of dusk. She sat motionless, gazing at the paper; hardly
feeling; certainly not reasoning. The heavy blow came first, numbing
her faculties, before the actual sense of those terrible words seemed
to reach her understanding.
"LOSS OF THE 'SPANISH GIPSY!'"
The haze grew blacker, then partly cleared: and Jean read on:
"LOSS OF THE 'SPANISH GIPSY,' WITH ALL ON BOARD."
Not one saved! So much was clear. Jean's mind refused to grasp any
further particulars. She was dazed with the shock, and could only
watch fixedly, like a fascinated creature, the convolutions of the
neat black letter-press, which took strange forms before her eyes, one
shape dissolving into another, after the mode of kaleidoscope figures.
Then she was far away from Rouen, out in the open sea; and great waves
arose, dashing wildly; and there were men, struggling, sinking—and
Cyril's face, a blanched dead face, below the cruel breakers.
"I hope nothing is wrong, Miss Trevelyan! No ill news?"
Mrs. Newnham's question broke into Jean's vision, and with a strong
effort she recalled herself, looked up, and answered quietly—
"The loss of the 'Spanish Gipsy.'"
"Ah, yes, to be sure—on the way home from Australia. Very shocking,
was it not? Poor things! I hope no friends of yours happened to be on
board."
Jean was silent.
"Such a sad event! And I dare say many of them had been out for years.
After a bad storm, was it not?"
"I—don't know."
"Yes; that was it. I remember. There have been so many casualties
lately; but I remember. Another ship, the 'Shannon,' had been
signalled, and was coming to their help, because the 'Spanish Gipsy'
had been so much disabled. And all at once, it was seen to capsize and
go down. Not a moment's warning, and not a person saved. The 'Shannon'
was too far-off to get to the spot in time—though it does seem strange
that none of the sailors should have been able to keep afloat. Those
things do happen sometimes: but it is really very dreadful—quite
terrible."
Jean could not talk of the horror which had fallen upon her. And
the pitter-patter of conventional pity, looking blandly on from a
comfortable distance, was only a degree less insupportable than the
pitter-patter of conventional condolence would be.
She went back to the brief awful paragraph, which might mean so much to
her. If they had started in the "Spanish Gipsy!" It all hinged there.
One hand was put up to shield her face: and Mrs. Newnham, taking the
hint, sank into silence.
Did the others know of this? Was it for this that Evelyn had hurried
her away?
"So kindly meant! But what use?" she asked despairingly. "Nothing can
undo it! And how can I bear to be here—out of reach? How can Evelyn
bear it? If news were to come—But she will not wish to stay now—now I
know it."
Jean passed quickly out of the room, sending no glance towards the old
lady, whose very existence she had forgotten, and hastened upstairs.
Entering the room, she found herself face to face with—Jem!
Jean showed no surprise, and forgot to shake hands. It seemed perfectly
natural that Jem should be there. She came near, without a word, not
knowing how altered was her own look. A quick interchange of glances
passed between the other two. It was evident to both of them that Jean
had some idea of the truth. Evelyn, much distressed, laid her hands on
Jean's, which were rigid as iron.
"Mr. Trevelyan has so kindly come, dear," she faltered, "to—to see—if
we—"
"No, no! To tell us—" urged Jean hoarsely. "To tell us—"
"Yes: to tell us just a little more. You are right. Dear Jean, we have
tried to keep it from you, till we could be sure—and we are not really
sure yet. But I am afraid—Have you guessed anything?"
"Not guessed! A paper—downstairs—" Jean had difficulty in saying the
words. Her throat seemed to close with the effort; and she waited
impatiently for them to speak.
"What did the paper say?" Jem was uncertain still how much she
understood. "Something about the 'Spanish Gipsy?'"
"I know! I know! Gone down! And they—they—they—" She turned on him a
face of agony.
"Tell her!" begged Evelyn, bursting into tears. "O tell her quickly."
"We cannot be absolutely certain of anything yet," Jem said, in his
quietest manner. "I want you to understand this—not to be sure, until
we really know. Still, I am afraid things do look bad. I sent a
telegram to Melbourne the day you came away, asking whether or no they
had started, and the answer has been unaccountably delayed. It ought to
have arrived in a few hours, and I did not get it till this morning.
But—"
"Yes! Yes! But—!" repeated Jean hoarsely. "Go on!"
"It is very short—only two words, and no particulars given. 'Both
off!'—that is all it says. Whether by long sea or by Suez we cannot
tell. There is no mention of the 'Spanish Gipsy.' I am disappointed
to hear so little, and I have sent a second telegram asking for more
information. It ought to come quickly—but meantime I hardly felt that
it would be right to delay telling you—or at least Mrs. Villiers—what
I had heard. So I came away at once. If only I could have brought
something better!"
"Both! Both at once! Oh, it can't be! Not both!"
Evelyn's sobs were distressing: but Jean shed no tears. She looked
bewildered.
"Impossible! Not both! Evelyn, don't cry so! What is the good? They
will come home. It couldn't be—both of them!" Then to Jem—"We must
go back at once. I can't stay here. You will take us—will you not?
We could reach Dieppe in time—for the night-boat, I mean. I'll help
Anderson. Evelyn needn't touch a thing. Only please not to stay here.
Evelyn dear, don't let us."
She wrung her hands together, with a strange forlorn gesture, unlike
Jean.
"Don't talk to me—about that, I mean! Don't pity me! We must not stop
to think of anything—only just get off—and then—I don't want water,
Jem! What is that for? You don't suppose I'm hysterical, do you? But
I'll drink some, if you like. It doesn't matter. I only want to get
away as fast—as fast as possible. And then—Evelyn, do, do stop crying!
I don't know how to bear it. And what is the use? They must come home!
It couldn't be—both of them! Don't hold me, please. I want to go."
"One word first! Jean, listen to me. The Mrs. Parkinson who wrote
last week about Cyril being engaged, has written again; and now she
contradicts that—says it is untrue!"
Jean's face relaxed its rigidity.
"She did mean Lilias Mackenzie—and Lilias Mackenzie is engaged to
somebody else. Mrs. Parkinson saw Cyril, and she says he was all
impatience to get home—so eager to be off."
"Poor Cyril!" whispered Jean, every feature quivering.
"He was true to you—I am sure he was."
"He—is true!"
Jean disengaged herself, stooped to kiss Evelyn, and was gone.
Half-an-hour later she reappeared, almost her usual self; only with
reddened eyes and strained look; still urgently entreating to start
immediately. For almost the first time in her life, she forgot to
think of others, under the pull of this intense desire. Evelyn made no
difficulties; and Jem believed that to be on the move might be best for
both of them. As Jean had said, they could reach Dieppe in time for the
night-packet, which did not start till after one o'clock in the morning.
CHAPTER IV.
ROUGH WINDS.
"Loud the angry wind was wailing."
LONGFELLOW.
JEM had crossed the Channel many a time, but he had never known a
rougher passage. Until they were well out of Dieppe harbour, nobody—not
even the experienced Captain—had imagined what the force of wind
and wave would be: or certainly Jem would have insisted on delay,
notwithstanding Jean's impatience to be off. Such weather is rare in
May, when one expects to have done with the worst gales of winter and
spring.
Repeatedly in the slow hours of that boisterous night and early
morning, Jem wished that they had not come. The trip bid fair to
outlast considerably its orthodox length of four hours. Dawn was
beginning to break, and they were still in mid-Channel, only about
half-way over. The sea was so heavy, that it had been early found
needful, for safety's sake, to slow down the engines; and advance
was tardy. A large proportion of the passengers were too entirely
prostrated by sea-sickness to pay close heed to the flight of time: but
Jem and Jean were first-rate sailors.
Jem retired only for an hour or two; then he came once more on deck,
preferring to keep watch. It was no easy matter to maintain footing
on a floor which each instant assumed some new slope, trying almost
every conceivable position except the horizontal. He soon ensconced
himself in the most sheltered spot he could find, not far from the
companion-hatch, there to study at leisure the conflict of forces.
Faint gleams of light stole over the waste of watery hills—a grey
landscape of long broken ranges, sliding swiftly one after another in a
never-ending progression from the west-north-west. Snow-tipped summits
reared themselves, mountain-like, the dark crests being rent into white
foam, and torn away by the gale. It was a scene never for two instants
the same, yet ever repeating itself, as vast bluffs of water rolled
past and under—sometimes partly over—the straining vessel. Each time a
sea was shipped, there was, with the shock of concussion, a rush of the
broken wave.
Jem escaped, in his corner, most of the flow, but he came in for
drenching showers of spray; and rug and macintosh failed to keep him
dry. Still he sat on: and but for certain saddening circumstances, he
would have enjoyed the hurly-burly of excited elements.
He was grieved both for Evelyn and Jean: yet no doubt it was Evelyn
mainly who filled his thoughts. Matters in that direction had of late
severely tried Jem's fortitude. To see Evelyn in trouble, and not do
his utmost to comfort her, was hard of endurance. It was the old pain
of years gone by, revived and intensified. If Evelyn were happy, he
could bear bravely for himself the long suffering of life apart from
her; but if she were sad, he was wretched. Perhaps not many men love so
unselfishly.
All the hours of this stormy night, she was never out of his mind. He
had gone through a spell of fierce battling, during many months past,
unknown to those with whom he lived; and things were nearing a climax.
Jem had felt lately that the fight was too sore for him. Health and
spirit threatened to break down beneath it. A question as to his future
had arisen in the shape of an offered living—a large London Parish,
among the very poor, yet not so far East that he might not, perhaps,
venture to have his mother with him, for at least part of the year. The
income, though less than that of Dutton, would still enable him to keep
her in comfort.
For three days he had carried the letter about, unable to arrive
at any decision. Now, he determinately faced the matter, alone in
semi-darkness, on the heaving deck, with a world of troubled waters
around.
In the light of threatened separation, he found out how he had grown
to depend on occasional meetings with Evelyn—a glimpse here; a word or
smile there—to carry him on. He discovered how desolate life would be
without her, beyond reach of her sweet face and voice. A life not worth
living, he could almost have said—if any good and right feeling man
might dare to say such words, in the blaze of his responsibilities, and
of the work given him to do.
"The more need for me to leave Dutton! It is making me useless,"
was what Jem did say. Few would have endorsed the assertion, yet it
expressed a positive danger.
He never had sought to win her: so much Jem could aver. He had
resolutely restrained himself; had treated her with mere grave kindness
and courtesy; nay, he had even forced a certain sternness, a certain
coldness, to cover his burning devotion. The love of a strong man of
thirty-five, which has slowly grown for years, in the face of hopeless
obstacles, is no light thing. Jem was not like Cyril. He could never
hesitate as to whom he loved. Once and again, with all the force of his
vigorous Trevelyan nature, he had stamped his passion under foot, and
had for a while counted it slain; but always, like a phoenix from the
ashes, it had sprung up anew: and at last, he had ceased to think of
destroying a thing of such vitality. So far he had been able to hold it
in leash. Now, nothing remained but to flee.
Which would mean a manner of slow dying—the death of all joy in life,
except such joys as are unearthly. Jem had them in possession!
Only money stood between, to hinder his seeking and perhaps winning
her—but it was a potent "only." If she married him, she would lose
her all, beyond a mere pittance—so Jem believed—and what had he to
offer her instead? Not even Dutton living for life! Whether or no, he
accepted this present offer—and there seemed no reason for not doing
so—he counted himself in a manner devoted to East-End work, for sooner
or later . . . Evelyn the wife of a clergyman, with narrow income,
toiling in back-slums! Jem could not picture it. Yet there might be
capabilities in that fair creature, not yet developed; and Jem had seen
in her some faint dawnings of a high spirit of self-devotion.
Had he had any reason to believe that she loved him, unsought—then of
course he would have spoken: then of course he would have given her at
least the choice. But he had no reason to believe anything of the kind;
and he could not in conscience set himself to win her.
Another watery mountain, towering above its compeers, swept up, and
struck the steamer with a force which made every plank in her to
vibrate. When the rush of water and the hail of spray had cleared, Jem
became presently aware of a difference in the sum-total of sounds. The
steady throb of the engines was ceasing. He waited a few minutes, not
flurried though anxious; but it did not recommence, and he went aft, to
make enquiries.
"Jean! You here!" Coming back to his seat, he found her.
"Don't scold me, please. I could not stay down any longer."
"It is not fit for you on deck."
"I can't go back directly—the hatches are closed again. And I would
rather not. We are so boxed up below. Some gentlemen were coming up, to
ask what had happened; and one of them was kind and helped me. I wanted
to find you: and when I saw your rug, I knew you would soon be back."
Jem wrapped her round with the said rug.
"I don't want it," protested Jean uselessly. "I have my waterproof. Why
have the engines stopped?"
"Something wrong with the starboard paddle-wheel."
"I don't understand."
"That green wave did a lot of damage—carried away the driving-arm,
and broke the radial rods. It is what they call a 'feathering
paddle-wheel.' There is nothing now to control the floats. The fear is,
if the engines are started again, that the loose floats may break in
the side of the steamer."
"And—sink us?"
"Things might come to that."
"What are we to do?"
"Let ourselves drift for a time. There seems to be no other choice. The
risk of using the paddle-wheel is too great to be ventured on—unless
as a last resource; and we have not come to last resources yet. So
long as we have plenty of sea-room, we are hardly in actual danger.
The difficulty is as to steering. The sea breaks through the wheel
incessantly. But they are contriving some sort of apparatus, to prevent
our drifting too fast, and to keep the boat's head to the wind."
"When shall we reach Newhaven?"
"Not much hope of Newhaven at present. With this head-wind, I suppose
we shall drift over towards the French coast—and up Channel. By-and-bye
we may fall in with some other steamer, and be taken in tow . . . It is
patience-trying."
"If I had not been so bent in coming by this boat—!"
"Something else might have happened, equally unpleasant. Nobody knew,
till we were off, how rough it would be. There's a grand wave! . . .
You won't often see a finer sight! . . . Sit close! We shall be
drenched! . . . Whew!"
"I should enjoy it—any other time!"
"Remember, there is no absolute certainty—about them, I mean! At the
last moment they may have changed their plans, and come by Suez."
"Not if the passage were taken. Why should they? . . . Is it any use to
let myself hope?"
Jem had no difficulty in hearing Jean's clear intonation, even through
the babel of wind and water. Conversation was perforce fitful,
containing many breaks: but the two were as quiet as if seated in
Dutton Rectory study.
Jean's next words came after an interval—
"Drowning is not a painful death, is it?"
"No, not painful. This is generally agreed upon, I think . . . Would
you not be wiser to leave details, till we know more? One goes through
needless misery sometimes, picturing what has never happened. They and
we are in our Father's Hands. Try to remember that—and to trust . . .
What do you think of my going back to London work?"
"And leaving Dutton?"
"I have had an offer of a living."
Jean was buried in thought, and Jem had ceased to expect an answer,
when she said—
"I shall have to come and work there too—if—You would let me, would you
not? Unless Evelyn and I came and lived together! It has been her dream
for years."
"Mrs. Villiers!"
"She said so the other day! . . . Oh, what a wave!"
"Hold fast! . . . Yes—you were saying—"
"She has often talked so—especially of late. Evelyn gets so tired
of her present life. She would like to give it all up, and take to
East-End work as a vocation . . . I don't think the wish is only
restlessness. Sometimes she talks as it were—but that is because she
is so honest—so afraid of laying claim to higher motives than she has.
Evelyn does think and feel very deeply—and her religion is always so
true—though she talks very little. I am sure the wish is a real wish;
not mere disgust with Dutton and the Park . . . Isn't it strange that
Cyril should have written so often lately of London work of that kind?
He says he can't settle down at his age to a do nothing existence at
the Brow. He would like to spend part of the year in Town, and look
into all sorts of questions, and help a little to improve things at the
East-End. But no use talking," murmured Jean. "When perhaps—"
Jem hardly heard the last few words. That which she said about Evelyn
stirred him strongly, seeming to clothe the condition of things with a
new vesture of possibilities.
Four o'clock in the afternoon, and still the hapless passengers were at
sea, exposed to the fury of wind and wave. Hour after hour had crept
by; and the "Bristol," with her damaged wheel and silent engines,
drifted slowly, log-like, across the Channel, and towards the French
coast.
One friendly steamer, the "Achilles," had been signalled in the course
of the morning, and had come to their aid. With great delay and
difficulty, and no small peril of a collision, she had been manœuvred
into a position near enough alongside to take on board the tow-rope of
the "Bristol." For a while hopes rose high; but in so heavy a sea, the
strain proved to be too great.
After two hours, the powerful hawser snapped as if made of tinder; and
to pick it up again was not possible. The wind had by this time fallen
to some extent; but the seas still chased one another in mountainous
grey ridges with wearisome monotony.
Though the "Achilles" could do no more, she showed her sympathy by
lingering long in the neighbourhood of the hapless vessel; till indeed
the fast-nearing outline of the French coast, and an ominous line of
breakers on a rocky shore, seen in glimpses between the rising and
falling of watery heights, spoke of peril to both steamers. Then the
"Achilles" was compelled for her own safety to stand out to sea: and
the "Bristol" drifted alone.
Passengers and crew had behaved well thus far. There were several
ladies among the former, and some had been much overcome: yet weeping
was quiet, screaming and hysterics were unknown. Many were still
suffering too severely from mal de mer to pay attention to surrounding
circumstances: while others knew of the now pressing danger, and bore
it calmly.
Boats were in readiness for launching; life-belts were either donned or
kept at hand by a large proportion of those on board: and one gentleman
had already pulled off his heavy boots, in preparation for a swim.
Among those able to be on deck were not only Jean and Jem, but also
Evelyn. She had rallied from her weakness, the near peril acting as
a tonic, and had insisted on leaving the cabin. It might be that a
summons would soon reach all below to follow her example. Jem had
helped her to his favourite corner, the most sheltered attainable: and
he sat beside her, keeping careful watch over her comfort. He looked
worn with his long night-watch and inward battling, but a vivid light
shone in his eyes, as they drew closer to the coast. To die with Evelyn
seemed to him no terrible matter; not half so terrible as to cut
himself asunder from her, living.
Evelyn had her gentlest and most fragile aspect; and her large eyes
watched with fascinated eagerness the rolling up and past of each great
wave which tossed and heaved their boat, like a huge log, on its bosom.
Yet fear was not in her face; rather a restful quiet might be found
there. Jean, standing at a short distance, keeping her feet in a manner
which no other woman on that sloping deck could emulate, saw this with
silent wonder. She had expected more of physical fear and shrinking on
Evelyn's part. Could it be, not only that to Evelyn's gentle spirit the
great transition now threatening was not a matter for dread, but also
that under Jem's watchful care a new content had arisen. The thought
came, which strangely had never before occurred to Jean—did Evelyn love
Jem?
"Another half hour, and we shall be on the rocks!" a passenger said
aloud.
Evelyn heard, and her glance went in appeal to Jem.
"Hardly so soon," he answered.
"Can nothing be done?"
"The engines will be set going. I do not suppose the Captain will wait
much longer."
"And if the wheel breaks in the side of the steamer—That is feared, is
it not?"
"Yes. Then we should have, probably, to take to the boats."
"Would the boats live in this sea?" asked Evelyn.
"That is the question."
A faint smile came to her lips, drawn there by something in Jem's look.
"Jean must be your first care," she said.
"None can be my care before you! Jean too of course. If we take to the
boats, we will keep together—all three of us."
"But if you could not save us both—Jean must be first. She is so young.
And for Cyril's sake!" urged Evelyn. "It does not matter so much for
me. I have had my life, you know . . . And sometimes I think—One would
not wish to choose; but going Home early would solve many difficulties.
If it were God's will for me, I mean. I don't think I have been so very
happy."
"Ought you not to have been?"
"Why—'ought'? I am so alone—for years past, always alone. People seem
to think money is all one needs; but I care little for wealth. If you
knew how little! It is only a burden . . . I should like to thank you
now for what you said to me, one day lately—the day we met and had a
talk. It opened my eyes to a good deal. If we get through this, I am
resolved to live a different life—not for myself any more. So many need
helping; and I should like to help them. I will find some work to do."
Jem's answer was more of a reply than might appear on the surface: "I
have thoughts of going back to London."
"To leave Dutton?"
"It will be best."
"For Dutton? Or for yourself?"
"For both, perhaps; certainly for myself. There are difficult elements
in my life at Dutton; and I have always felt that my true work lay
among the London poor."
"Ah—I have always felt that that was a life worth living!"
"Any life may be, and ought to be, worth living, if there is a right
motive-power."
Jem said this almost mechanically. Recollections of a long past scene
flashed through his mind; of a meeting in the gorge; of the General's
fair young wife looking with sad eyes, as she said, "It must be a
splendid life—a life worth living—so different from most people's
lives!"
The remembrance stirred Jem strongly. He almost forgot his present
position; and a new impulse came over him, to speak out, not to leave
her in ignorance of his love. What Jean had said of Evelyn, and what
Evelyn now said of herself, seemed to place matters on a new level.
Jem could hardly have told what he thought or expected; only the fresh
impulse was overmastering; and he seemed to be suddenly freed from
binding shackles. Perhaps in the near prospect of possible death,
questions of more or less money grew small, as if seen through a
reversed binocular; perhaps the long night and day had unstrung him;
perhaps Evelyn's unconscious confiding wistfulness of look and manner
had most to do with the breaking down of his resolution. One way or
another, he heard his own voice saying, almost without premeditation—
"If I were not poor—and if you were not rich—I should have asked if you
could share that work with me. But as things are—"
A moment's silence; and then—"Why not?"
Jem glanced up, hardly able to believe his own ears. Below the surface,
he was tempest-tossed; long pent-up forces surging in billows like
those grey heights around. A dazzle of light filled the murky air, and
everything was pulsating with a new vividness of life and hope. He grew
excessively pale; yet he spoke with restrained utterance:
"Because it would be asking you to give up everything—in exchange for
nothing!"
"But if I do not value the 'everything'? And if that 'nothing' is
perhaps 'something' to me?"
"You must understand! I have only my stipend—and my mother to support.
Don't you see?" asked Jem, with less composure.
The throb of the silent engines seemed to have passed into his brain;
and he scarcely knew what he said under this strange clang of sound
and brightness of light, through which he heard Evelyn's low tones,
inaudible to everybody else, and saw her sweet face, fair still to him
as in all the freshness of her lovely girlhood; while the rush of wind
and water faded into nothingness.
"I did not mean to say this! I hardly know why—except—The thing cannot
be—ought not to be! . . . Still—if we should not get through—or if you
are saved, and not I—then I should like you to know that I have loved
you for years—have loved you always. I have never loved any other—since
the day that I first saw you, coming over the stepping-stones!"
"So long ago! All those years!" said Evelyn.
A bright rose-colour flushed her cheeks, and the deep blue eyes, looked
up at Jem, had lost their unsatisfied craving.
"And I thought you almost despised me—looked down on what seemed to you
my butterfly life."
"When I would have given all I had—any day—for a look or a word! But
you mean—you think—" Jem could hardly speak—"you mean, you could give
up—you think you could learn to love me?"
"I think I have learnt that already," she answered softly. "And the
giving up would be no giving up—because of what I should have in
exchange."
The engines had been started again, as they talked, and now so terrific
a clamour of sound burst from the damaged wheel, as it began slowly to
revolve, that Jem's reply was lost. What matter? Enough had been said!
CHAPTER V.
SUCCEEDING CALM.
"She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd:
She's a woman, and therefore to be won."
SHAKESPEARE.
THE dreaded peril did not develop into fact. Those massive loose
floats, made of steel and weighing between two and three tons, though
they struck heavily, with a frightful crash, against the framework, did
little injury to the side of the vessel. The steamer drew gradually
away from the threatening line of breakers; and thenceforward the worst
was over. So often the thing which we most fear does not come upon us.
Jem had telegraphed home before starting; and he well knew what his
mother's anxiety would be, at this long delay in their arrival; but
nothing could be done. Until they should reach port, no word could be
sent. They were cut off from communication with the civilised world.
Progress homeward had to be of the most tardy description, since the
Captain dared only to use the engines at their slowest rate. It was a
matter of snail-like creeping, inch by inch, little more than a mile an
hour; and another dreary night had to be lived through by the suffering
passengers. Only Evelyn and Jem seemed none the worse—nay, rather, much
the better—for their uncomfortable experience.
Jean gazed wonderingly at them both many times in the course of the
evening; but she asked no questions, and they would not thrust their
new-found joy into her burden of fear and sorrow.
Evelyn could sleep that second night peacefully as a child; but not
Jean. She came on deck before breakfast, looking haggard. The wind had
changed and gone down; and the sea had grown more still, heaving in
sleepy billows, like the tired sighs of a child after a fit of passion.
"How soon do we get in? The engines are stopping again," Jean said, a
despairing under-tone audible.
Jem showed a small steamer near at hand. "A tug at last! We shall be
all right now. Our little friend will tow us to Newhaven."
"I thought we were to land somewhere else."
"So it was said yesterday; but we go to Newhaven, after all. I am glad
for your sake. If a telegram has arrived, it will be sent there to meet
us."
"I have had a lesson, at all events, not to be wilful again," said
Jean. "If I had not been so bent on getting off—"
"It is nearly over now, I hope. Have you had anything to eat?"
"No. Why won't you let me blame myself?"
"So you shall, if it is a relief. But there is another side to the
question. I shall be thankful all my life that we did come."
"By this boat?"
"By this particular boat! If we had not, Evelyn and I might never—"
Jem paused, and Jean repeated—"Evelyn!"
"I may call her so now."
"Then it is that! I almost fancied—and yet—O Jem, I am glad!—Glad
somebody is happy! And Cyril would have been so pleased."
"Will be—perhaps. We won't give up hope yet."
"I have not much left. But this—is it real? You mean it!"
"Nothing was ever more real. I don't wonder you ask the question. I
keep putting it to myself. All is changed—like a bewildering dream.
I didn't know what capacities for happiness I had! . . . Yes, it is
real—that she loves me—better than Dutton Park."
"And you will stay in Dutton?"
"I think not. There is no need. We both long for London work; and
Evelyn has more of her own than I knew. A legacy of £600 a year was
left her lately by the General's brother-in-law. Marriage will not
touch that. So we can afford to provide for my mother, if she likes a
country home best; and somebody else will be as well fitted as I am to
look after the old ladies of Dutton."
Jem could not resist the little flash of fun; but he grew instantly
apologetic.
"Forgive me! It must sound so heartless. But if you knew what this is
to me—after years of utter hopelessness!"
"I think I do know; and you could never be heartless," Jean answered.
To Evelyn, a little later, she murmured—"So this is what has been the
matter with you lately—not poor Miss Moggridge, after all!" and Evelyn
offered no protest.
A small tug, with a large steamer in tow, could not be expected to
advance rapidly; and the "Bristol" had drifted far out of her course;
but the sea being now comparatively smooth, the Captain preferred to
make his own port. Passengers, eager to be on land, were disposed to
grumble; yet the delay involved was not very great. There was no longer
any question of danger; only of patience. People might eat and drink
and enjoy themselves, so far as certain physical sensations permitted.
It was growing dusky, when late in the afternoon, they reached the
Newhaven harbour. An eager crowd of battered and weather-beaten
voyagers pressed across the gangway, anxious to reach firm ground.
Evelyn, clinging to Jem's arm, seemed to care little whether she were
on deck or on land; and Jem could scarcely turn his mind to aught else
beside Evelyn. Still they did not forget Jean, and if she stood apart,
she was at once beckoned near.
After crossing the gangway, however, while in the midst of a dense
crowd, Jean was forcibly separated from her companions, and hustled
backward. She had little spirit to struggle; and though not much liking
to find herself alone, she could hardly be called nervous. When able to
move forward again, she looked about in vain for Evelyn and Jem. Had
they gone on, forgetfully? Jean smiled at the idea; yet a forlorn wave
swept over her, not for the first time that day. The contrast between
their happiness and what might be in store for herself was almost too
painful.
In the growing darkness, and in the throng, she still failed to catch a
glimpse of her companions. Jean began to feel uncomfortable.
Then she found somebody by her side—somebody well covered with a large
foreign-looking cloak, and wearing a rough-weather cap, pulled low over
his eyes. She had a glimpse of a brown-moustached face. And an ungloved
hand, well sunburnt, touched her courteously, to draw attention; while
an odd gruff voice, not unfamiliar in its intonation, said—
"Pardon me! Miss Trevelyan—? Mr. Trevelyan has gone on, and he desires
me to bring you to the hotel."
"Rather curious!" Jean thought; but the manner was unmistakably that of
a gentleman, and Jean submitted. "A friend of Jem's!" she conjectured.
"You have had an unpleasant voyage."
"Very," Jean said, with sufficient brevity, as she walked by his side.
"Mr. Trevelyan asked me to inform you that news has come from
abroad—good news."
"A telegram!"
"That—and more!"
"My father—and—"
"They did not go in the unfortunate 'Spanish Gipsy.' There was a change
of plans just at last. Both are safe and well . . . I think you had
better take my arm."
For a moment, Jean was rather near loss of consciousness. Long suspense
and want of sleep had told upon her; but with a determined effort she
rallied, after her father's fashion.
"Thanks—no need. You are sure—quite sure?"
"Perfectly. There can be no mistake. They did take their passage in the
'Spanish Gipsy;' but soon afterwards, they managed to get off—at some
little sacrifice of money. The fact is, Sir Cyril had not patience.
He was anxious to get home; and the long voyage meant too much delay.
They would not write word of this change, thinking that it would make a
pleasant surprise; and they have come straight by Suez."
"Have come! Then they are now—"
"In Newhaven! Waiting for your arrival. Mr. Trevelyan is at the
hotel—and Sir Cyril—is—"
The stranger hesitated: paused near a lamp; pushed higher his penthouse
of a cap; and said in a different voice—
"Jean, am I so changed?"
"Cyril!!!"
"And so, Mabel, everything is settled, and they are all going to be
married as fast as possible, don't you know?" stated Mrs. Kennedy, a
few days later, to her usual confidante.
Mabel, having been absent from home, required instruction on the recent
course of events.
"I don't know, I'm sure, why they should wait. Sir Cyril has plenty
of money; and now that funny Mme. Collier is coming to live again at
Dulveriford Rectory, why, nobody can say Jean can't be spared."
"She'll make a splendid Lady Devereux—as nice as any one could wish.
As for poor Miss Devereux, why, she must just make up her mind to it.
But they say she was as nice as anything when Sir Cyril came home, and
cried in his arms, like I don't know what—having been so frightened
about him, and all, don't you see? That does soften people sometimes.
And, after all, she isn't hard—she's only just Miss Devereux. And she's
to have a sweet little house built, and everything done to make her
comfortable. So she can't complain."
"Not that we shall have so very much of Sir Cyril and Jean in Dutton.
I can see that! They're all agog for London, and East-End work, and no
end of philanthropicalness."
"It's wonderful how Sir Cyril is altered. I wouldn't have believed
it—after less than two years and a half. Why, he looks positively ten
years older, I do declare, Mabel; and he's bigger, and stouter, and
regularly burnt brown, and he's grown a moustache, and his voice is
deeper too. He's nothing like as pretty as he was. I always did say he
was the prettiest boy, with the loveliest manner—but then, of course,
he can't be a boy always, don't you know, and he's got nice manners
still. You can fancy how he's changed, for Jean herself didn't know him
when she first saw him in the dark. But if Jean likes him better so,
it's all right; and she says she does."
"As for Mr. Trevelyan, he looks quite young and strong again, and he
goes striding about like a great long-legged emu!"
"And we're to lose Mr. James Trevelyan! That seems a shame, and I'm
desperately sorry—though to be sure the Colonel does say he's not at
all a safe young man, and poor dear Thomas shakes his head. But some
people always shake their heads over everybody, don't you know; and
there's nobody I'd rather hear preach; only, of course, you mustn't
tell Thomas! But it does give one a sort of lift—up out of the mud, you
know."
"Mrs. Trevelyan? Oh, she's to spend half the year in London with
them—and half the year at the Brow. That's the plan, I'm told. She
says she's so glad for 'dear Jem' she always calls him 'Dear Jem,' you
know—that she can't think of herself. And Mr. James Trevelyan is all
beaming, and Mrs. Villiers looks as young and lovely as she did at
sixteen.
"Poor dear creatures! They all think everything is to keep straight
after marriage. A sort of comfortable wind-up, don't you see, and
nothing ever to go wrong again! Of course, it won't—I mean, of course
it will—at least you know what I mean. Things will get crooked just as
much as ever, and perhaps a lot more. Why, if nothing else happens,
there's a husband to look after, and everybody knows what that means!
If they don't, they soon will."
"Of course, they'll be awfully happy, dear, and it all fits in
beautifully, and it's just exactly what one wishes. I always did say
Mr. James Trevelyan was the right person for Mrs. Villiers; and Sir
Cyril has been crazy after Jean ever since he wore knickerbockers. But,
all the same, I suppose they'll have their needles and pins, like other
folks. Married life isn't just nothing but plum-cake, you know."
Mrs. Kennedy's metaphors were apt to get mixed, but she smiled on in
placid unconsciousness of the incongruity.
"Miss Moggridge says it's so wonderful how one event grows out of
another; and I suppose it is; only it would be more wonderful still if
they didn't. She's a queer sort of woman, Mabel—intellectual and all
that!—but she's quite too much for me, don't you know? And she's going
to live at Rome."
"So it's all settled; and now there's nothing to be done but to publish
the banns, and to get the frocks and veils!"
THE END.
The Gresham Press
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED
WOKING AND LONDON