Thearrival 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 toyou, 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 wellhis 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 stoppedshort 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 eversaidit, 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. Itmight 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 likekoor, 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 init? 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 wasshenow 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 inher 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.
Downbelow, in the garden of the hotel, all was cheerful enough, and most unlike the existence of any mystery here or elsewhere. The night was very soft and mild, though dark, the scent of the mignonette in the air, and most of the inhabitants of the hotel sitting out among the dark, rustling shrubs and under the twinkling lights, which made effects, too strong to be called picturesque, of light and shade among the many groups who were too artificial for pictorial effect, yet made up a picture like the art of the theatre, effective, striking, full of brilliant points. The murmur of talk was continuous, softened by the atmosphere, yet full of laughter and exclamations which were not soft. High above, the stars were shining in an atmosphere of their own, almost chill with the purity and remoteness of another world. At some of the tables the parties were notgay; here and there a silent English couple sat and looked on, half disapproving, half wistful, with a look in their eyes that said, how pleasant it must be when people can thus enjoy themselves, though in all likelihood how wrong! Among these English observers were Mrs. Lennox and John Trevanion.
Mrs. Lennox had no hat on, but a light white shawl of lacey texture over her cap, and her face full in the light. She was in no trouble about Rosalind’s absence, which she took with perfect calm. The girl had gone, no doubt, to sit with the children, or she had something to do up-stairs— Mrs. Lennox was aware of all the little things a girl has to do. But she was dull, and did not find John amusing. Mrs. Lennox would have thought it most unnatural to subject a brother to such criticism in words, or to acknowledge that it was necessary for him to be amusing to make his society agreeable. Such an idea would have been a blasphemy against nature, which, of course, makes the society of one’s brother always delightful, whether he has or has not anything to say. But granting this, and that she was, of course, a great deal happier by John’s side, and that it was delightful to have him again, still she was a little dull. The conversation flagged, even though she had a great power of keeping it up by herself when need was; but when you only get two words in answer to a question which it has taken you five minutes to ask, the result is discouraging; and she looked round her with a great desire for some amusement and a considerable envy of the people at the next table, who were making such a noise! How they laughed, how the conversation flew on, full of fun evidently, full of wit, no doubt, if one could only understand. No doubt it is rather an inferior thing to be French or Russian or whatever they were, and not English; and to enjoy yourself so much out of doors in public is vulgar perhaps. But still Mrs. Lennox envied a little while she disapproved, and so did the other English couple on the other side. Aunt Sophy even had begun to yawn and to think it would perhaps be better for her rheumatism to go in and get to bed, when she perceivedthe familiar figure of young Everard amid the shadows, looking still more wistfully towards her. She made him a sign with great alacrity and pleasure, as she was in the habit of doing, for indeed he joined them every night, or almost every night. When she had done this, and had drawn a chair towards her for him, then and not till then Mrs. Lennox suddenly remembered that John might not like it. That was very true— John might not like it! What a pity she had not thought of it sooner? But why shouldn’t John like such a very nice, friendly, serviceable young man. Men were so strange! they took such fancies about each other. All this flashed through her mind after she had made that friendly sign to Everard, and indicated the chair.
“Is any one coming?” asked John, roused by these movements.
“Only Mr. Everard, John; he usually comes in the evening—please be civil to him,” she cried in dismay.
“Oh, civil!” said John Trevanion; he pushed away his chair almost violently, with the too rapid reflection, so easily called forth, that Sophy was a fool and had no thought, and the intention of getting up and going away. But then he bethought himself that it would be well to see what sort of fellow this young man was. It would be necessary, he said to himself sternly, that there should be an explanation before the intimacy went any further, but, in the meantime, as fortunately Rosalind was absent (he said this to himself with a forlorn sort of smile at his former disappointment), it would be a good opportunity to see what was in him. Accordingly he did not get up as he intended, but only pushed his chair away, as the young man approached with a hesitating and somewhat anxious air. John gave him a gruff nod, but said nothing, and sat by, a grim spectator, taking no part in the conversation, as Mrs. Lennox broke into eager, but, in consequence of his presence, somewhat embarrassed and uneasy talk.
“I thought we were not to see you to-night,” she said. “Ithought there might be something going on, perhaps. We never know what is going on except when you bring us word, Mr. Everard. I do think, though the Venat is supposed to be the best hotel, that madame is not at all enterprising about getting up a little amusement. To be sure, the season is almost over. I suppose that is the cause.”
“I don’t think there is anything going on except the usual music and the weekly dance at the Hotel d’Europe, and—”
“I think French people are always dancing,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a little sigh, “or rattling on in that way, laughing and jesting as if life were all a play. I am sure I don’t know how they keep it up, always going on like that. But Rosalind does not care for those sort of dances. Had there been one in our own hotel among people we know— But I must say madame is rather remiss: she does not exert herself to provide amusement. If I came here another year, as I suppose I must, now that I have begun to have a koor—”
“Oh, yes, they will keep you to it. This is the second year I have been made to come. I hope you will be here, Mrs. Lennox, for then I shall be sure to see you, and—” Here he paused a little and added “the children,” in a lower voice.
“It is so nice of you, a young man, to think of the children,” said Aunt Sophy, gratefully; “but they say it does make you like people when you have done them a great service. As to meeting us, I hope we shall meet sooner than that. When you come to England you must—” Here Mrs. Lennox paused, feeling John’s malign influence by her side, and conscious of a certain kick of his foot and the suppressed snort with which he puffed out the smoke of his cigar. She paused; but then she reflected that, after all, the Elms was her own, and she was not in the habit of consulting John as to whom she should ask there. And then she went on, with a voice that trembled slightly, “Come down to Clifton and see me; I shall be so happy to see you, and I think I know some of your Essex relations,” Mrs. Lennox said.
John Trevanion, who had been leaning back with the legs of his chair tilted in the air, came down upon them with a dint in the gravel, and thus approached himself nearer to the table in his mingled indignation at his sister’s foolishness, and eagerness to hear what the young fellow would find to say. This, no doubt, disturbed the even flow of the response, making young Everard start.
“I don’t think I have any relations in Essex,” he said. “You are very kind. But I have not been in England for some years, and I don’t think I am very likely to go.”
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Lennox, “I am very sorry. I hope you have not got any prejudice against home. Perhaps there is more amusement to be found abroad, Mr. Everard, and no doubt that tells with young men like you; but I am sure you will find after a while what the song says, that there is no place like home.”
“Oh, no, I have no prejudice,” he said hurriedly. “There are reasons—family reasons.” Then he added, with what seemed to John, watching him eagerly, a little bravado, “The only relative I have is rather what you would call eccentric. She has her own ways of thinking. She has been ill-used in England, or at least she thinks so, and nothing will persuade her— Ladies, you know, sometimes take strange views of things.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I cannot allow you to say anything against ladies. For my part I think it is men that take strange views. But, my dear Mr. Everard, because your relative has a prejudice (which is so very unnatural in a woman), that is not to say that a young man like you is to be kept from home. Oh, no, you may be sure she doesn’t mean that.”
“It does seem absurd, doesn’t it?” the young man said.
“And I would not,” said Aunt Sophy, strong in the sense of superiority over a woman who could show herself so capricious, “I would not, though it is very nice of you, and everybodymust like you the better for trying to please her, I would not yield altogether in a matter like this. For, you know, if you are thinking of public life, or of any way of distinguishing yourself, you can only do that at home. Besides, I think it is everybody’s duty to think of their own country first. A tour like this we are all making is all very well, for six months or even more.Weshall have been nine months away in a day or two, but then I am having my drains thoroughly looked to, and it was necessary. Six months is quite enough, and I would not stay abroad for a permanency, oh! not for anything. Being abroad is very nice, but home—you know what the song says, there is—Rosalind! Good heavens, what is the matter? It can’t be Johnny again?”
Rosalind seemed to rush upon them in a moment, as if she had lighted down from the skies. Even in the flickering artificial light they could see that she was as white as her dress and her face drawn and haggard. She came and stood by the table with her back to all the fluttering crowd beyond and the light streaming full upon her. “Uncle John,” she said, “mamma is dead, I have seen her; Amy and I have seen her. You drove her away, but she has come back to the children. I knew— I knew—that sometime she would come back.”
“Rosalind!” Mrs. Lennox rose, forgetting her rheumatism, and John Trevanion rushed to the girl and took her into his arms. “My darling, what is it? You are ill—you have been frightened.”
She leaned against his arm, supporting herself so, and lifted her pale face to his. “Mamma is dead, for I have seen her,” Rosalind said.
WhenRosalind came to herself she had found little Amy in her white nightgown standing by her, clinging round her, her pretty hair, all tumbled and in disorder, hanging about thecheeks which were pressed against her sister’s, wet with tears. For a moment they said nothing to each other. Rosalind raised herself from her entire prostration and sat on the carpet holding Amy in her arms. They clung to each other, two hearts beating, two young souls full of anguish, yet exaltation; they were raised above all that was round them, above the common strain of speech and thought. The first words that Rosalind said were very low.
“Amy, did you see her?”
“Oh, yes, yes, Rosalind!”
“Did you know her?”
“Yes, Rosalind.”
“Have you seen her before?”
“Oh, every night!”
“Amy, and you never said it was mamma!”
They trembled both as if a blast of wind had passed over them, and clasped each other closer. Was it Rosalind that had become a child again and Amy that was the woman? She whispered, with her lips on her sister’s cheek,
“How was I to tell? She came to me—to me and Johnny. We belong to her, Rosalind.”
“And not I!” the girl exclaimed, with a great cry. Then she recovered herself, that thought being too keen to pass without effect.
“Amy! you are hers without her choice, but she took me of her own will to be her child; I belong to her almost more than you. Oh, not more, not more, Amy! but you were so little you did not know her like me.”
Little Amy recognized at last that in force of feeling she was not her sister’s equal, and for a time they were both silent. Then the child asked, looking round her with a wild and frightened glance, “Rosalind, must mamma be dead?”
This question roused them both to a terror and panic such as in the first emotion and wonder they had not been conscious of. Instead of love came fear; they had been raised abovethat tremor of the flesh, but now it came upon them in a horror not to be put aside. Even Rosalind, who was old enough to take herself to task, felt with a painful thrill that she had stood by something that was not flesh and blood, and in the intensity of the shuddering terror forgot her nobler yearning sympathy and love. They crept together to the night-lamp and lit the candles from it, and closed all the doors, shrinking from the dark curtains and shadows in the corners as if spectres might be lurking there. They had lit up the room thus when nurse returned from her evening’s relaxation down-stairs, cheerful but tired, and ready to go to bed. She stood holding up her head and gazing at them with eyes of amazement. “Lord, Miss Rosalind, what’s the matter? You’ll wake the children up,” she cried.
“Oh, it is nothing, nurse. Amy was awake,” said Rosalind, trembling. “We thought the light would be more cheering.” Her voice shook so that she could with difficulty articulate the words.
“And did you think, Miss Rosalind, that the child could ever go to sleep with all that light; and telling her stories, and putting things in her head? I don’t hold with exciting them when it is their bedtime. It may not matter so much for a lady that comes in just now and then, but for the nurse as is always with them— And children are tiresome at the best of times. No one knows how tiresome they are but those that have to do for them day and night.”
“We did not mean to vex you. We were very sad, Amy and I; we were unhappy, thinking of our mother,” said Rosalind, trying to say the words firmly, “whom we have lost.”
“Oh, Rosalind, do you think so too?” cried Amy, flinging herself into her sister’s arms.
Rosalind took her up trembling and carried her to bed. The tears had begun to come, and the terrible iron hand that had seemed to press upon her heart relaxed a little. She kissed the child with quivering lips. “I think it must be so,” she said.“We will say our prayers, and ask God, if there is anything she wants us to do, to show us what it is.” Rosalind’s lips quivered so that she had to stop to subdue herself, to make her voice audible. “Now she is dead, she can come back to us. We ought to be glad. Why should we be frightened for poor mamma? She could not come back to us living, but now, when she is dead—”
“Miss Rosalind,” said the nurse, “I don’t know what you are saying, but you will put the child off her sleep and she won’t close an eye all the night.”
“Amy, that would grieve mamma,” said the girl. “We must not do anything to vex her now that she has come back.”
And so strong is nature and so weak is childhood, that Amy, wearied and soothed and comforted, with Rosalind’s voice in her ears and the cheerful light within sight, did drop to sleep, sobbing, before half an hour was out. Then Rosalind bathed the tears from her eyes, and, hurrying through the long passages with that impulse to tell her tale to some one which to the simple soul is a condition of life, appeared suddenly in her exaltation and sorrow amid all the noisy groups in the hotel garden. Her head was light with tears and suffering, she scarcely felt the ground she trod upon, or realized what was about her. Her only distinct feeling was that which she uttered with such conviction, leaning her entire weight on Uncle John’s kind arm and lifting her colorless face to his—“Mamma is dead; and she has come back to the children.” How natural it seemed! the only thing to be expected; but Mrs. Lennox gave a loud cry and fell back in her chair, in what she supposed to be a faint, good woman, having happily little experience. It was now that young Everard justified her good opinion of him. He soothed her back out of this half-faint, and, supporting her on his arm, led her up-stairs. “I will see to her; you will be better alone,” he said, as he passed the other group. Even John Trevanion, when he had time to think of it, felt that it was kind, and Aunt Sophy never forgot the touching attention heshowed to her, calling her maid, and bringing her eau-de-cologne after he had placed her on the sofa. “He might have been my son,” Mrs. Lennox said; “no nephew was ever so kind.” But when he came out of the room, and stood outside in the lighted corridor, there was nothing tender in the young man’s face. It was pale with passion and a cruel force. He paused for a moment to collect himself, and then, turning along a long passage and up another staircase, made his way, with the determined air of a man who has a desperate undertaking in hand, to an apartment with which he was evidently well acquainted, on the other side of the house.
TheHotel Venat that night closed its doors upon many anxious and troubled souls. A certain agitation seemed to have crept through the house itself. The landlady was disturbed in her bureau, moving about restlessly, giving short answers to the many inquirers who came to know what was the matter. “What is there, do you ask?” she said, stretching out her plump hands, “there is nothing! there is that mademoiselle, the youngAnglaise, has anattaque des nerfs. Nothing could be more simple. The reason I know not. Is it necessary to inquire? An affair of the heart!Les Anglaiseshave two or three in a year. Mademoiselle has had a disappointment. The uncle has come to interfere, and she has a seizure. I do not blame her; it is the weapon of a young girl. What has she else,pauvre petite, to avenge herself?”
“But, madame, they say that something has been seen—a ghost, a—”
“There are no ghosts in my house,” the indignant landlady said; and her tone was so imperious and her brow so lowering that the timid questioners scattered in all directions. The English visitors were not quite sure what anattaque des nerfswas. It was not a “nervous attack;” it was something not to be defined by English terms. English ladies do not have hysterics nowadays; they have neuralgia, which answers something of the same purpose, but then neuralgia has no sort of connection with ghosts.
In Mrs. Lennox’s sitting-room up-stairs, which was so well lighted, so fully occupied, with large windows opening upon the garden, and white curtains fluttering at the open windows, a very agitated group was assembled. Mrs. Lennox was seated at a distance from the table, with her white handkerchief in her hand, with which now and then she wiped off a few tears. Sometimes she would throw a word into the conversation that was going on, but for the most part confined herself to passive remonstrances and appeals, lifting up now her hands, now her eyes, to heaven. It was half because she was so overcome by her feelings that Mrs. Lennox took so little share in what was going on, and half because her brother had taken the management of this crisis off her hands. She did not think that he showed much mastery of the situation, but she yielded it to him with a great and consolatory consciousness that, whatever should now happen,shecould not be held as the person to blame.
Rosalind’s story was that which the reader already knows, with the addition of another extracted from little Amy, who had one of those wonderful tales of childish endurance and silence which seem scarcely credible, yet occur so often, to tell. For many nights past, Amy, clinging to her sister, with her face hidden on Rosalind’s shoulder, declared that she had seen the same figure steal in. She had never clearly seen the face, but the child had been certain from the first that it was mamma. Mamma had gone to Johnny first, and then had come to her own little bed, where she stood for a moment before she disappeared. Johnny’s outcry had been always, Amy said, after the figure disappeared, but she had seen it emerge from out of the dimness, and glide away, and by degrees this mystery had becomethe chief incident in her life. All this Rosalind repeated with tremulous eloquence; and excitement, as she stood before the two elder people, on her defence.
“But I saw her, Uncle John; what argument can be so strong as that? You have been moving about, you have not got your letters; and perhaps—perhaps—” cried Rosalind with tears—“perhaps it has happened only now, only to-night. A woman who was far from her children might come and see them—and see them,” she struggled to say through her sobs, “on her way to heaven.”
“Oh, Rosalind! it is a fortnight since it begun,” Mrs. Lennox said.
“Do people die in a moment?” cried Rosalind. “She may have been dying all this time; and perhaps when they thought her wandering in her mind it might be that she was here. Oh, my mother; who would watch over her, who would be taking care of her? and me so far away!”
John Trevanion sprang from his chair. It was intolerable to sit there and listen and feel the contagion of this excitement, which was so irrational, so foolish, gain his own being. Women take a pleasure in their own anguish, which a man cannot bear. “Rosalind,” he cried, “this is too terrible, you know. I cannot stand it if you can; I tell you, if anything had happened, I must have heard. All this is simply impossible. You have all got out of order, the children first, and their fancies have acted upon you.”
“It is their digestion, I always said so—or gout in the system,” said Aunt Sophy, lifting her handkerchief to her eyes.
“It is derangement of the brain, I think,” said John. “I see I must get you out of here; one of you has infected the other. Come, Rosalind, you have so much sense—let us see you make use of it.”
“Uncle John, what has sense to do with it? I have seen her,” Rosalind said.
“This is madness, Rosalind.”
“What is madness? Are my eyes mad that saw mamma? I was not thinking of seeing her. In a moment I lifted up my eyes, and she was there. Is it madness that she should die? Oh no, more wonderful how she can live; or madness to think that her heart would fly to us—oh, like an arrow, the moment it was free?”
“Rosalind,” said Mrs. Lennox, “poor Grace was a very religious woman; at that moment she would be thinking about her Maker.”
“Do you think she would be afraid of him?” cried Rosalind, “afraid that our Lord would be jealous, that he would not like her to love her children? Oh, that’s not what my mother thought! My religion is what I got from her. She was not afraid of him—she loved him. She would know that he would let her come, perhaps bring her and stand by her; perhaps,” the girl cried, clasping her hands, “if I had been better, more religious, more like my mother, I should have seen him in the room too.”
John Trevanion seized her hands almost fiercely. Short of giving up his own self-control, and yielding to this stormy tide of emotion, it was the only thing he could do. “I must have an end of this,” he said. “Rosalind, you must be calm—we shall all go distracted if you continue so. She was a good woman, as Sophy says. She never could, I don’t believe it, have gratified herself at your expense like this. I shall telegraph the first thing in the morning to the lawyers, to know if they have any news. Will that satisfy you? Suspend your judgment till I hear; if then it turns out that there is any cause—” Here his voice broke and yielded to the strain of emotion; upon which Rosalind, whose face had been turned away, rose up suddenly and flung herself upon him as Amy had done upon her, crying, “Oh, my mother! oh, my mother! you loved her too, Uncle John.”
Thus the passion of excited feeling extended itself. For amoment John Trevanion sobbed too, and the girl felt, with a sensation of awe which calmed her, the swelling of the man’s breast. He put her down in her chair next moment with a tremulous smile. “No more, Rosalind—we must not all lose our senses. I promise you if there is any truth in your imagination you shall not want my sympathy. But I am sure you are exciting yourself unnecessarily; I know I should have heard had there been anything wrong. My dear, no more now.”
Next morning John Trevanion was early astir. He had slept little, and his mind was full of cares. In the light of the morning he felt a little ashamed of the agitation of last night, and of the credulity to which he himself had been drawn by Rosalind’s excitement. He said to himself that no doubt it was in the imagination of little Amy that the whole myth had arisen. The child had been sleepless, as children often are, and no doubt she had formed to herself that spectre out of the darkness which sympathy and excitement and solitude had embodied to Rosalind also. Nothing is more contagious than imagination. He had himself been all but overpowered by Rosalind’s impassioned certainty. He had felt his own firmness waver; how much more was an emotional girl likely to waver, who did not take into account the tangle of mental workings even in a child? As he came out into the cool morning air it all seemed clear enough and easy; but the consequences were not easy, nor how he was to break the spell, and recall the visionary child and the too sympathetic girl to practical realities, and dissipate these fancies out of their heads. He was not very confident in his own powers; he thought they were quite as likely to overcome him as he to restore them to composure. But still something must be done, and the scene changed at least. As he came along the corridor from his room, with a sense of being the only person waking in this part of the house, though the servants had long been stirring below, his ear was caught by a faint, quick sound, and a whispering call from the apartment occupied by his sister. He looked round quickly, fearful, asone is in a time of agitation, of every new sound, and saw another actor in the little drama, one whose name had not yet been so much as mentioned as taking any part in it—the sharp, inquisitive, matter-of-fact little Sophy, who was the one of the children he liked least. Sophy made energetic gestures to stop him, and with elaborate precaution came out of her room attired in a little dressing-gown of blue flannel, with bare feet in slippers, and her hair hanging over her shoulders. He stood still in the passage with great impatience while she elaborately closed the door behind her, and came towards him on her toes, with an evident enjoyment of the mystery. “Oh, Uncle John! hush, don’t make any noise,” Sophy said.
“Is that all you want to tell me?” he asked severely.
“No, Uncle John; but we must not wake these poor things, they are all asleep. I want to tell you—do you think we are safe here and nobody can hear us? Please go back to your room. If any one were to come and see me, in bare feet and my dressing-gown—”
He laughed somewhat grimly, indeed with a feeling that he would like to whip this important little person; but Sophy detected no under-current of meaning. She cried “Hush!” again, with the most imperative energy, under her breath, and swinging by his arm drew him back to his room, which threw a ray of morning sunshine down the passage from its open door. The man was a little abashed by the entrance of this feminine creature, though she was but thirteen, especially as she gave a quick glance round of curiosity and sharp inspection. “What an awfully big sponge, and what a lot of boots you have!” she said quickly. “Uncle John! they say one ought never to watch or listen or anything of that sort; but when everybody was in such a state last night, how do you think I could just stay still in bed? I saw that lady come out of the children’s room, Uncle John.”
The child, though her eyes were dancing with excitement and the delight of meddling, and the importance of what shehad to say, began at this point to change color, to grow red and then pale.
“You! I did not think you were the sort of person, Sophy—”
“Oh, wait a little, Uncle John! To see ghosts you were going to say. But that is just the mistake. I knew all the time it was a real lady. I don’t know how I knew. I just found out, out of my own head.”
“A real lady! I don’t know, Sophy, what you mean.”
“Oh, but you do, it is quite simple. It is no ghost, it is a real lady, as real as any one. I stood at the door and saw her come out. She went quite close past me, and I felt her things, and they were as real as mine. She makes no noise because she is so light and thin. Besides, there are no ghosts,” said Sophy. “If she had been a ghost she would have known I was there, and she never did, never found me out though I felt her things. She had a great deal of black lace on,” the girl added, not without meaning, though it was a meaning altogether lost upon John Trevanion. Though she was so cool and practical, her nerves were all in commotion. She could not keep still; her eyes, her feet, her fingers, all were quivering. She made a dart aside to his dressing-table. “What big, big brushes—and no handles to them! Why is everything a gentleman has so big? though you have so little hair. Her shoes were of that soft kind without any heels to them, and she made no noise. Uncle John!”
“This is a very strange addition to the story, Sophy. I am obliged to you for telling me. It was no imagination, then, but somebody, who for some strange motive— I am very glad you had so much sense, not to be deceived.”
“Uncle John!” Sophy said. She did not take any notice of this applause, as in other circumstances she would have done; everything about her twitched and trembled, her eyes seemed to grow large like Amy’s. She could not stand still. “Uncle John!”
“What is it, Sophy? You have something more to say.”
The child’s eyes filled with tears. So sharp they were, and keen, that this liquid medium seemed inappropriate to their eager curiosity and brightness. She grew quite pale, her lips quivered a little. “Uncle John!” she said again, with an hysterical heave of her bosom, “I think it is mamma.”
“Sophy!” He cried out with such a wildness of exclamation that she started with fright, and those hot tears dropped out of her eyes. Something in her throat choked her. She repeated, in a stifled, broken voice, “I am sure it is mamma.”
“Sophy! you must have some reason for saying this. What is it? Don’t tell me half, but everything. What makes you think—?”
“Oh, I don’t think at all,” cried the child. “Why should I think? I saw her. I would not tell the others or say anything, because it would harm us all, wouldn’t it, Uncle John? but I know it is mamma.”
He seized her by the shoulder in hot anger and excitement. “You little—! Could you think of that when you saw your mother—if it is your mother? but that’s impossible. And you can’t be such a little—such a demon as you make yourself out.”
“You never said that to any one else,” cried Sophy, bursting into tears; “it was Rex that told me. He said we should lose all our money if mamma came back. We can’t live without our money, can we, Uncle John? Other people may take care of us, and—all that. But if we had no money what would become of us? Rex told me. He said that was why mamma went away.”
John Trevanion gazed at the little girl in her precocious wisdom with a wonder for which he could find no words. Rex, too, that fresh and manly boy, so admirable an example of English youth; to think of these two young creatures talking it over, coming to their decision! He forgot even the strange light, if it were a light, which she had thrown upon the events of the previous evening, in admiration and wonder at this,which was more wonderful. At length he said, with perhaps a tone of satire too fine for Sophy, “As you are the only person who possesses this information, Sophy, what do you propose to do?”
“Do?” she said, looking at him with startled eyes; “I am not going to do anything, Uncle John. I thought I would tell you—”
“And put the responsibility on my shoulders? Yes, I understand that. But you cannot forget what you have seen. If your mother, as you think, is in the house, what shall you do?”
“Oh, Uncle John,” said Sophy, pale with alarm. “I have not really, really seen her, if that is what you mean. She only just passed where I was standing. No one could punish me just for having seen her pass.”
“I think you are a great philosopher, my dear,” he said.
At this, Sophy looked very keenly at him, and deriving no satisfaction from the expression of his face, again began to cry. “You are making fun of me, Uncle John,” she said. “You would not laugh like that if it had been Rosalind. You always laugh at us children whatever we may say.”
“I have no wish to laugh, Sophy, I assure you. If your aunt or some one wakes and finds you gone from your bed, how shall you explain it?”
“Oh, I shall tell her that I was— I know what I shall tell her,” Sophy said, recovering herself; “I am not such a silly as that.”
“You are not silly at all, my dear. I wish you were not half so clever,” said John. He turned away with a sick heart. Sophy and those unconscious, terrible revelations of hers were more than the man could bear. The air was fresh outside, the day was young; he seemed to have come out of an oppressive atmosphere of age and sophistication, calculating prudence and artificial life, when he left the child behind him. He was so much overwhelmed by Sophy that for the moment, he did notfully realize the importance of what she had told him, and it was not till he had walked some distance, and reconciled himself to nature in the still brightness of the morning, that he awoke with a sudden sensation which thrilled through and through him to the meaning of what the little girl had said. Her mother—was it possible? no ghost, but a living woman. This was indeed a solution of the problem which he had never thought of. At first, after Madam’s sudden departure from Highcourt, John Trevanion went nowhere without a sort of vague expectation of meeting her suddenly, in some quite inappropriate place—on a railway, in a hotel. But now, after years had passed, he had no longer that expectation. The world is so small, as it is the common vulgarity of the moment to say, but nevertheless the world is large enough to permit people who have lost each other in life to drift apart, never to meet, to wander about almost within sight of each other, yet never cross each other’s paths. He had not thought of that—he could scarcely give any faith to it now. It seemed too natural, too probable to have happened. And yet it was not either natural or probable that Mrs. Trevanion, such as he had known her, a woman so self-restrained, so long experienced in the act of subduing her own impulses, should risk the health of her children and shatter their nerves by secret visits that looked like those of a supernatural being. It was impossible to him to think this of her. She who had not hesitated to sacrifice herself entirely to their interests once, would she be so forgetful now? And yet, a mother hungering for the sight of her children’s faces, severed from them, without hope, was she to be judged by ordinary rules? Was there any expedient which she might not be pardoned for taking—any effort which she might not make to see them once more?
The immediate question, however, was what to do. He could not insist upon carrying the party away, which was his first idea; for various visitors were already on their way to join them, and it would be cruel to interrupt the “koor” whichMrs. Lennox regarded with so much hope. The anxious guardian did as so many anxious guardians have done before—he took refuge in a compromise. Before he returned to the hotel he had hired one of the many villas in the neighborhood, the white board with the inscriptionà louercoming to him like a sudden inspiration. Whether the appearance which had disturbed them was of this world or of another, the change must be beneficial.
The house stood upon a wooded height, which descended with its fringe of trees to the very edge of the water, and commanded the whole beautiful landscape, the expanse of the lake answering to every change of the sky, the homely towers of Hautecombe opposite, the mountains on either side, reflected in the profound blue mirror underneath. Within this enclosure no one could make a mysterious entry; no one, at least, clothed in ordinary flesh and blood. To his bewildered mind it was the most grateful relief to escape thus from the dilemma before him; and in any case he must gain time for examination and thought.
Mrs. Lennoxwas 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 couldmake 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 theprivilege 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-roomround 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 thetable 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 gazefrom 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, innocentlyenough, 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?”