Mrs. Lennox was struck dumb with amazement when she heard what her
brother’s morning’s occupation had been. “Taken a house!” she cried,
with a scream which summoned the whole party round her. But presently
she consoled herself, and found it the best step which possibly could
have been taken. It was a pretty place; and she could there complete her
“koor” without let or hinderance. The other members of the party adapted
themselves to it with the ease of youth; but there were many protests on
the part of the people in the hotel; and to young Everard the news at
first seemed fatal. He could not understand how it was that he met none
of the party during the afternoon. In ordinary circumstances he crossed
their path two or three times at least, and by a little strategy could
make sure of being in Rosalind’s company for a considerable part of
every day, having, indeed, come to consider himself, and being generally
considered, as one of Mrs. Lennox’s habitual train. He thought at first
that they had gone away altogether, and his despair was boundless. But
very soon the shock was softened, and better things began to appear
possible. Next day he met Mrs. Lennox going to her bath, and not only
did she stop to explain everything to him, and tell him all about the
new house, which was so much nicer than the hotel, but, led away by her
own flood of utterance, and without thinking what John would say, she
invited him at once to dinner.
“Dinner is rather a weak point,” she said, “but there is something to
eat always, if you don’t mind taking your chance.”
“I would not mind, however little there might be,” he said, beaming. “I
thought you had gone away, and I was in despair.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Lennox said. But then she began to think what John would
say.
John did not say very much when, in the early dusk, Everard, in all the
glories of evening dress, made his appearance in the drawing-room at
Bonport, which was furnished with very little except the view. But then
the view was enough to cover many deficiencies. The room was rounded,
almost the half of the wall being window, which was filled at all times,
when there was light enough to see it, with one of those prospects of
land and water which never lose their interest, and which take as many
variations, as the sun rises and sets upon them, and the clouds and
shadows flit over them, and the light pours out of the skies, as does an
expressive human face. The formation of the room aided the effect by
making this wonderful scene the necessary background of everything that
occurred within; in that soft twilight the figures were as shadows
against the brightness which still lingered upon the lake. John
Trevanion stood against it, black in his height and massive outline,
taking the privilege of his manhood and darkening for the others the
remnant of daylight that remained. Mrs. Lennox’s chair had been placed
in a corner, as she liked it to be, out of what she called the draught,
and all that appeared of her was one side of a soft heap, a small
mountain, of drapery; while on the other hand, Rosalind, slim and
straight, a soft whiteness, appeared against the trellis of the veranda.
The picture was all in shadows, uncertain, visionary, save for the
outline of John Trevanion, which was very solid and uncompromising, and
produced a great effect amid the gentle vagueness of all around. The
young man faltered on the threshold at sight of him, feeling none of the
happy, sympathetic security which he had felt in the company of the
ladies and the children. Young Everard was in reality too ignorant of
society and its ways to have thought of the inevitable interviews with
guardians and investigations into antecedents which would necessarily
attend any possible engagement with a girl in Rosalind’s position. But
there came a cold shiver over him when he saw the man’s figure opposite
to him as he entered, and a prevision of an examination very different
from anything he had calculated upon came into his mind. For a moment
the impulse of flight seized him; but that was impossible, and however
terrible the ordeal might be it was evident that he must face it. It was
well for him, however, that it was so dark that the changes of his color
and hesitation of his manner were not so visible as they would otherwise
have been. Mrs. Lennox was of opinion that he was shy--perhaps even more
shy than usual from the fact that John was not so friendly as, in view
of what Mr. Everard had done for the children, he ought to have been.
And she did her best accordingly to encourage the visitor. The little
interval before dinner, in the twilight, when they could not see each
other, was naturally awkward, and, except by herself, little was said;
but she had a generally well-justified faith in the effect of dinner as
a softening and mollifying influence. When, however, the party were
seated in the dining-room round the shaded lamp, which threw a
brilliant light on the table, and left the faces round it in a sort of
pink shadow, matters were little better than before. The undesired
guest, who had not self-confidence enough to appear at his ease,
attempted, after a while, to entertain Mrs. Lennox with scraps of gossip
from the hotel, though always in a deprecating tone and with an
apologetic humility; but this conversation went on strangely in the
midst of an atmosphere hushed by many agitations, where the others were
kept silent by thoughts and anxieties too great for words. John
Trevanion, who could scarcely contain himself or restrain his
inclination to take this young intruder by the throat and compel him to
explain who he was, and what he did here, and Rosalind, who had looked
with incredulous apathy at the telegram her uncle had received from Mrs.
Trevanion’s lawyers, informing him that nothing had happened to her, so
far as they were aware, sat mute, both of them, listening to the mild
chatter without taking any part in it. Mrs. Lennox wagged, if not her
head, at least the laces of her cap, as she discussed the company at
the _table d’hôte_. “And these people were Russians, after all?” she
said. “Why, I thought them English, and you remember Rosalind and you,
Mr. Everard, declared they must be German; and all the time they were
Russians. How very odd! And it was the little man who was the lady’s
husband! Well, I never should have guessed that. Yes, I knew our going
away would make a great gap--so many of us, you know. But we have got
some friends coming. Do you mean to take rooms at the Venat for Mr.
Rivers, John? And then there is Roland Hamerton--”
“Is Roland Hamerton coming here?”
“With Rex, I think. Oh, yes, he is sure to come--he is great friends
with Rex. I am so glad the boy should have such a steady, nice friend.
But we cannot take him in at Bonport, and of course he never would
expect such a thing. Perhaps you will mention at the bureau, Mr.
Everard, that some friends of mine will be wanting rooms.”
“I had no idea,” said John, with a tone of annoyance, “that so large a
party was expected.”
“Rex?” said Mrs. Lennox, with simple audacity. “Well, I hope you don’t
think I could refuse our own boy when he wanted to come.”
“He ought to have been at school,” the guardian grumbled under his
breath.
“John! when you agreed yourself he was doing no good at school; and the
masters said so, and everybody. And he is too young to go to Oxford; and
whatever you may think, John, I am very glad to know that a nice, good,
steady young man like Roland Hamerton has taken such a fancy to Rex. Oh,
yes, he has taken a great fancy to him--he is staying with him now. It
shows that though the poor boy may be a little wilful, he is thoroughly
nice in his heart. Though even without that,” said Mrs. Lennox, ready to
weep, “I should always be glad to see Roland Hamerton, shouldn’t you,
Rosalind? He is always good and kind, and we have known him, and
Rosalind has known him, all his life.”
Rosalind made no reply to this appeal. She was in no mood to say
anything, to take any part in common conversation. Her time of peace and
repose was over. If there had been nothing else, the sudden information
only now conveyed to her of the coming of Rivers and of Hamerton, with
what motive she knew too well, would have been enough to stop her mouth.
She heard this with a thrill of excitement, of exasperation, and at the
same time of alarm, which is far from the state of mind supposed by the
visionary philosopher to whom it seems meet that a good girl should have
seven suitors. Above all, the name of Rivers filled her with alarm. He
was a man who was a stranger, who would insist upon an answer, and
probably think himself ill-used if that answer was not favorable. With
so many subjects of thought already weighing upon her, to have this
added made her brain swim. And when she looked up and caught, from the
other side of the table, a wistful gaze from those eyes which had so
long haunted her imagination, Rosalind’s dismay was complete. She shrank
into herself with a troubled consciousness that all the problems of life
were crowding upon her, and at a moment when she had little heart to
consider any personal question at all, much less such a one as this.
The party round the dinner-table was thus a very agitated one, and by
degrees less and less was said. The movements of the servants--Mrs.
Lennox’s agile courier and John Trevanion’s solemn English attendant,
whose face was like wood--became very audible, the chief action of the
scene. To Everard the silence, broken only by these sounds and by Mrs.
Lennox’s voice coming in at intervals, was as the silence of fate. He
made exertions which were really stupendous to find something to say, to
seize the occasion and somehow divert the catastrophe which, though he
did not know what it would be, he felt to be hanging over his head; but
his throat was dry and his lips parched, notwithstanding the wine which
he swallowed in his agitation, and not a word would come. When the
ladies rose to leave the table, he felt that the catastrophe was very
near. He was paralyzed by their sudden movement, which he had not
calculated upon, and had not even presence of mind to open the door for
them as he ought to have done, but stood gazing with his mouth open and
his napkin in his hand, to find himself alone and face to face with John
Trevanion. He had not thought of this terrible ordeal. In the hotel life
to which he had of late been accustomed, the awful interval after dinner
is necessarily omitted, and Everard had not been brought up in a society
which sits over its wine. When he saw John Trevanion bearing down upon
him with his glass of wine in his hand, to take Mrs. Lennox’s place, he
felt that he did not know to what trial this might be preliminary, and
turned towards his host with a sense of danger and terror which nothing
in the circumstances seemed to justify, restraining with an effort the
gasp in his throat. John began, innocently enough, by some remark about
the wine. It was very tolerable wine, better than might have been
expected in a country overrun by visitors. “But I suppose the strangers
will be going very soon, as I hear the season is nearly over. Have you
been long here?”
“A month--six weeks I mean--since early in August.”
“And did you come for the ‘cure’? You must have taken a double
allowance.”
“It was not exactly for the cure; at least I have stayed on--for other
reasons.”
“Pardon me if I seem inquisitive,” said John Trevanion. “It was you, was
it not, whom I met in the village at Highcourt two years ago?”
“Yes, it was I.”
“That was a very unlikely place to meet; more unlikely than Aix. I must
ask your pardon again, Mr. Everard; you will allow that when I find you
here, almost a member of my sister’s family, I have a right to inquire.
Do you know that there were very unpleasant visitors at Highcourt in
search of you after you were gone?”
The young man looked at him with eyes expanding and dilating--where had
he seen such eyes?--a deep crimson flush, and a look of such terror and
anguish that John Trevanion’s good heart was touched. He had anticipated
a possible bravado of denial, which would have given him no difficulty,
but this was much less easy to deal with.
“Mr. Trevanion,” Everard said, with lips so parched that he to moisten
them before he could speak, “that was a mistake, it was indeed! That was
all arranged; you would not put me to shame for a thing so long past,
and that was entirely a mistake! It was put right in every way, every
farthing was paid. A great change happened to me at that time of my
life. I had been kept out of what I had a right to, and badly treated.
But after that a change occurred. I can assure you, and the people
themselves would tell you. I can give their address.”
“I should not have spoken to you on the subject if I had not been
disposed to accept any explanation you could make,” said John Trevanion;
which was but partially true so far as his intention went, although it
was impossible to doubt an explanation which was so evidently sincere.
After this there ensued a silence, during which Everard, the excitement
in his mind growing higher and higher, turned over every subject on
which he thought it possible that he could be questioned further. He
thought, as he sat there drawn together on his defence, eagerly yet
stealthily examining the countenance of this inquisitor, that he had
thought of everything and could not be taken by surprise. Nevertheless
his heart gave a great bound of astonishment when John Trevanion spoke
again. The question he put was perhaps the only one for which the victim
was unprepared. “Would you mind telling me,” he said, with great gravity
and deliberation, “what connection there was between you and my brother,
the late Mr. Trevanion of Highcourt?”