The arrival of John Trevanion made a great difference to the family
group, which had become absorbed, as women are so apt to be, in the
circle of little interests about them, and to think Johnny’s visions the
most important things in the world. Uncle John would hear nothing at all
of Johnny’s visions. “Pooh!” he said. Mrs. Lennox was half disposed to
think him brutal and half to think him right. He scoffed at the
fricassee of chicken and the cups of jelly. “He looks as well as
possible,” said Uncle John. “Amy is a little shadow, but the boy is fat
and flourishing,” and he laughed with an almost violent effusion of
mirth at the idea of the suppressed gout. “Get them all off to some
place among the hills, or, if it is too late for that, come home,” he
said.
“But, John, my cure!” cried Mrs. Lennox; “you don’t know how rheumatic I
have become. If it was not a little too late I should advise you to try
it too; for, of course, we have gout in the family, whatever you may
say, and it might save you an illness another time. Rosalind, was not
Mr. Everard coming to lunch? I quite forgot him in the pleasure of
seeing your uncle. Perhaps we ought to have waited, but, then, John,
coming off his journey, wanted his luncheon; and I dare say Mr. Everard
will not mind. He is always so obliging. He would not mind going without
his luncheon altogether to serve a friend.”
“Who is Mr. Everard?” said John Trevanion. He was pleased to meet them
all, and indisposed to find fault with anything. Why should he go
without his lunch?
“Oh, he is very nice,” said Aunt Sophy somewhat evasively; “he is here
for his ‘cure,’ like all the rest. Surely I wrote to you, or some one
wrote to you, about the accident with the boat, and how the children’s
lives were saved? Well, this is the gentleman. He has been a great deal
with us ever since. He is quite young, but I think he looks younger than
he is, and he has very nice manners,” Mrs. Lennox continued, with a dim
sense, which began to grow upon her, that explanations were wanted, and
a conciliatory fulness of detail. “It is very kind of him making himself
so useful as he does. I ask him quite freely to do anything for me; and,
of course, being a young person, it is more cheerful for Rosalind.”
Here she made a little pause, in which for the first time there was a
consciousness of guilt, or, if not of guilt, of imprudence. John might
think that a young person who made things more cheerful for Rosalind
required credentials. John might look as gentlemen have a way of looking
at individuals of their own sex introduced in their absence. Talk of
women being jealous of each other, Aunt Sophy said to herself, but men
are a hundred times more! and she began to wish that Mr. Everard might
forget his engagement, and not walk in quite so soon into the family
conclave. Rosalind’s mind, too, was disturbed by the same thought; she
felt that it would be better if Mr. Everard did not come, if he would
have the good taste to stay away when he heard of the new arrival. But
Rosalind, though she had begun to like him, and though her imagination
was touched by his devotion, had not much confidence in Everard’s good
taste. He would hesitate, she thought, he would ponder, but he would not
be so wise as to keep away. As a matter of fact this last reflection had
scarcely died from her mind when Everard came in, a little flushed and
anxious, having heard of the arrival, but regarding it from an opposite
point of view. He thought that it would be well to get the meeting over
while John Trevanion was still in the excitement of the reunion and
tired with his journey. There were various changes in his own appearance
since he had been at Highcourt, and he was three years older, but on the
other side he remembered so well his own meeting with Rosalind’s uncle
that he could not suppose himself to be more easily forgotten. In fact,
John Trevanion had a slight movement of surprise at sight of the young
intruder, and a vague sense of recognition as he met the eyes which
looked at him with a mixture of anxiety and deprecation. But he got up
and held out his hand, and said a few words of thanks for the great
service which Mr. Everard had rendered to the family, with the best
grace in the world, and though the presence of a stranger could scarcely
be felt otherwise than as an intrusion at such a moment, Everard himself
was perhaps the person least conscious of it. Rosalind, on the other
hand, was very conscious of it, and uncomfortably conscious that Everard
was not, yet ought to have been, aware of the inappropriateness of his
appearance. There was thus a certain cloud over the luncheon hour, which
would have been very merry and very pleasant but for the one individual
who did not belong to the party, and who, though wistfully anxious to
recommend himself, to do everything or anything possible to make himself
agreeable, yet could not see that the one thing to be done was to take
himself away. When he did so at last, John Trevanion broke off what he
was saying hurriedly--he was talking of Reginald, at school, a subject
very interesting to them all--and, turning to Rosalind, said, “I know
that young fellow’s face; where have I seen him before?”
“I know, Uncle John,” cried Sophy; “he is the gentleman who was staying
at the Red Lion in the village, don’t you remember, before we left
Highcourt. Rosalind knew him directly, and so did I.”
“Yes,” said Rosalind, faltering a little. “You remember I met you once
when he had done me a little service; that,” she said, with a sense that
she was making herself his advocate, and a deprecating, conciliatory
smile, “seems to be his specialty, to do people services.”
“The gentleman who was at the Red Lion!” cried John Trevanion with a
start. “The fellow who----” and then he stopped short and cast upon his
guileless sister a look which made Mrs. Lennox tremble.
“Oh, dear, dear, what have I done?” Aunt Sophy cried.
“Nothing; it is of no consequence,” said he; but he got up, thrusting
his hands deep into his pockets, and walked about from one window to
another, and stared gloomily forth, without adding any more.
“But he is very nice now,” said Sophy; “he is much more nicely dressed,
and I think he is handsome--rather. He is like Johnny a little. It was
nice of him, don’t you think, Uncle John, to save the children? They
weren’t anything to him, you know, and yet he went plunging into the
water with his clothes on--for, of course, he could not stop to take off
his clothes, and he couldn’t have done it either before Rosalind--and
had to walk all the way home in his wet trousers, all for the sake of
these little things. Everybody would not have done it,” said Sophy, with
importance, speaking as one who knew human nature. “It was very nice,
don’t you think, of Mr. Everard.”
“Everard! Was that the name?” said Uncle John, incoherently; and he did
not sit down again, but kept walking up and down the long room in a way
some men have, to the great annoyance of Mrs. Lennox, who did not like
to see people, as she said, roving about like wild beasts. A certain
uneasiness had got into the atmosphere somehow, no one could tell why,
and when the children were called out for their walk Rosalind too
disappeared, with a consciousness, that wounded her and yet seemed
somehow a fault in herself, that the elders would be more at ease
without her presence.
When they were all gone John turned upon his sister. “Sophy,” he said,
“I remember how you took me to task for bringing Rivers, a man of
character and talent, to the house, because his parentage was somewhat
obscure. Have you ever asked yourself what your own meaning was in
allowing a young adventurer, whose very character, I fear, will not bear
looking into, to make himself agreeable to Rosalind?”
“John!” cried Mrs. Lennox, with a sudden scream, sitting up very upright
in her chair, and in her fright taking off her spectacles to see him the
better.
“Yes,” cried John Trevanion, “I mean what I say. He has managed to make
himself agreeable to Rosalind. She takes his part already. She is
troubled when he puts himself in a false position.”
“But, John, what makes you think he is an adventurer? I am quite sure he
is one of the Essex Everards, who are as good a family and as well
thought of--”
“Did he tell you he was one of the Essex Everards?”
Mrs. Lennox put on a very serious air of trying to remember. She bit her
lips, she contracted her forehead, she put up her hand to her head. “I
am sure,” she said, “I cannot recollect whether he ever _said_ it, but I
have always understood. Why, what other Everards could he belong to?”
she added, in the most candid tone.
“That is just the question,” said John Trevanion; “the same sort of
Everards perhaps as my friend’s Riverses, or most likely not half so
good. Indeed, I’m not at all sure that your friend has any right even to
the name he claims. I both saw and heard of him before we left
Highcourt. By Jove!” He was not a man to swear, even in this easy way,
but he jumped up from the seat upon which he had thrown himself and grew
so red that Aunt Sophy immediately thought of the suppressed gout in the
family, and felt that it must suddenly have gone to his head.
“Oh, John, my dear! what is it?” she cried.
He paced about the room back and forward in high excitement, repeating
to himself that exclamation. “Oh, nothing, nothing! I can’t quite tell
what it is,” he said.
“A twinge in your foot,” cried Mrs. Lennox. “Oh, John, though it is
late, very late, in the season, and you could not perhaps follow out the
cure altogether, you might at least take some of the baths as they are
ordered for Johnny. It might prevent an illness hereafter. It might, if
you took it in time--”
“What is a ‘cure’?” said John. Mrs. Lennox pronounced the word, as
indeed it is intended that the reader should pronounce it in this
history, in the French way; but this in her honest mouth, used to good,
downright English pronunciation, sounded like _koor_, and the brother
did not know what it was. He laughed so long and so loudly at the idea
of preventing an illness by the cure, as he called it with English
brutality, and at the notion of Johnny’s baths, that Mrs. Lennox was
quite disconcerted and could not find a word to say.
Rosalind had withdrawn with her mind full of disquietude. She was vexed
and annoyed by Everard’s ignorance of the usages of society and the
absence of perception in him. He should not have come up when he heard
that Uncle John had arrived; he should not have stayed. But Rosalind
reflected with a certain resentment and impatience that it was
impossible to make him aware of this deficiency, or to convey to him in
any occult way the perceptions that were wanting. This is not how a girl
thinks of her lover, and yet she was more disturbed by his failure to
perceive than any proceeding on the part of a person in whom she was not
interested could have made her. She had other cares in her mind,
however, which soon asserted a superior claim. Little Amy’s pale face,
her eyes so wistful and pathetic, which seemed to say a thousand things
and to appeal to Rosalind’s knowledge with a trust and faith which were
a bitter reproach to Rosalind, had given her a sensation which she could
not overcome. Was she too wanting in perception, unable to divine what
her little sister meant? It was well for her to blame young Everard and
to blush for his want of perception, she, who could not understand
little Amy! Her conversation with the children had thrown another light
altogether on Johnny’s vision. What if it were no trick of the
digestion, no excitement of the spirit, but something real, whether in
the body or out of the body, something with meaning in it? She resolved
that she would not allow this any longer to go on without investigation,
and, with a little thrill of excitement in her, arranged her plans for
the evening. It was not without a tremor that Rosalind took this
resolution. She had already many times taken nurse’s place without any
particular feeling on the subject, with the peaceful result that Johnny
slept soundly and nobody was disturbed; but this easy watch did not
satisfy her now. Notwithstanding the charm of Uncle John’s presence,
Rosalind hastened up-stairs after dinner when the party streamed forth
to take coffee in the garden, denying herself the pleasant stroll with
him which she had looked forward to, and which he in his heart was
wounded to see her withdraw from without a word. She flew along the
half-lighted passages with her heart beating high.
The children’s rooms were in their usual twilight, the faint little
night-lamp in its corner, the little sleepers breathing softly in the
gloom. Rosalind placed herself unconsciously out of sight from the door,
sitting down behind Johnny’s bed, though without any intention by so
doing of hiding herself. If it were possible that any visitor from the
unseen came to the child’s bed, what could it matter that the watcher
was out of sight? She sat down there with a beating heart in the
semi-darkness which made any occupation impossible, and after a while
fell into the thoughts which had come prematurely to the mother-sister,
a girl, and yet with so much upon her young shoulders. The arrival of
her uncle brought back the past to her mind. She thought of all that had
happened, with the tears gathering thick in her eyes. Where was _she_
now that should have had these children in her care? Oh, where was she?
would she never even try to see them, never break her bonds and claim
the rights of nature? How could she give them up--how could she do it?
Or could it be, Rosalind asked herself--or rather did not ask herself,
but in the depths of her heart was aware of the question which came
independent of any will of hers--that there was some reason, some new
conditions, which made the breach in her life endurable, which made the
mother forget her children? The girl’s heart grew sick as she sat thus
thinking, with the tears silently dropping from her eyes, wondering upon
the verge of that dark side of human life in which such mysteries are,
wondering whether it were possible, whether such things could be?
A faint sound roused her from this preoccupation. She turned her head.
Oh, what was it she saw? The lady of Johnny’s dream had come in while
Rosalind had forgotten her watch, and stood looking at him in his little
bed. Rosalind’s lips opened to cry out, but the cry seemed stifled in
her throat. The spectre, if it were a spectre, half raised the veil that
hung about her head and gazed at the child, stooping forward, her hands
holding the lace in such an attitude that she seemed to bless him as he
lay--a tall figure, all black save for the whiteness of the half-seen
face. Rosalind had risen noiselessly from her chair; she gazed too as if
her eyes would come out of their sockets, but she was behind the curtain
and unseen. Whether it was that her presence diffused some sense of
protection round, or that the child was in a more profound sleep than
usual, it was impossible to tell, but Johnny never moved, and his
visitor stood bending towards him without a breath or sound. Rosalind,
paralyzed in body, overwhelmed in her mind with terror, wonder,
confusion, stood and looked on with sensations beyond description, as if
her whole soul was suspended on the event. Had any one been there to
see, the dark room, with the two ghostly, silent figures in it,
noiseless, absorbed, one watching the other, would have been the
strangest sight. But Rosalind was conscious of nothing save of life
suspended, hanging upon the next movement or sound, and never knew how
long it was that she stood, all power gone from her, watching, scarcely
breathing, unable to speak or think. Then the dark figure turned, and
there seemed to breathe into the air something like a sigh. It was the
only sound; not even the softest footfall on the carpet or rustle of
garments seemed to accompany her movements, slow and reluctant, towards
the doorway. Then she seemed to pause again on the threshold between the
two rooms, within sight of the bed in which Amy lay. Rosalind followed,
feeling herself drawn along by a power not her own, herself as noiseless
as a ghost. The strain upon her was so intense that she was incapable of
feeling, and stood mechanically, her eyes fixed, her heart now
fluttering wildly, now standing still altogether. The moment came,
however, when this tension was too much. Beyond the dark figure in the
doorway she saw, or thought she saw, Amy’s eyes, wild and wide open,
appealing to her from the bed. Her little sister’s anguish of terror and
appeal for help broke the spell and made Rosalind’s suspense
intolerable. She made a wild rush forward, her frozen voice broke forth
in a hoarse cry. She put out her hands and grasped or tried to grasp the
draperies of the mysterious figure; then, as they escaped her, fell
helpless, blind, unable to sustain herself, but not unconscious, by
Amy’s bed, upon the floor.