SEVERELY SMITTEN.
"She should never have looked at me,If she meant I should not love her."R. BROWNING.
SYBELLA'S forehead wrinkled as Evelyn fled, and she sighed pensively.
"I shall have to appeal to General Villiers," she murmured. "He has more influence over the girl than I have. So very wilful and obstinate! It is most melancholy. But she will listen to General Villiers, because he was her father's friend; and he will not approve of such conduct. I must certainly speak to him. He is almost sure to look in by-and-by."
This was true. General Villiers had taken to "looking in" on most days: and undoubtedly he had a strong influence over Evelyn. Sybella thought him most kind and fatherly to the child: only perhaps a little too ready to show how very pretty he thought her.
Sometimes it struck Sybella that he came to the house rather often, all things considered. There were a good many arrangements to be made, and he had constituted himself general adviser and helper: but still—! Now and again this thought would recur, bringing a blush with it. Could he mean anything particular? General Villiers was only about fifty-five in age, and except for his grey hairs, he did not look so much. He was handsome and gentlemanly; a person of good standing and of considerable wealth. His antecedents were irreproachable. Sybella herself was barely forty. Fifteen years of difference on the right side! What could be more suitable?
Some such ideas floated vaguely through her mind, as she came indoors and sat down. She was not in the least in love with General Villiers; but she was quite ready to fancy herself so, if desirable; and she felt that matters began to look suspicious. That poor dear man might well feel lonely at Dutton Park, with no companion. Sybella woke up at the sound of an "Auntie darling!" to find Cyril by her side.
"Auntie darling, may I go out?" He systematically addressed her thus—to the delight of Sybella, but not at all to the delight of Evelyn. The iteration was apt to grow tiresome.
"Yes, my pet. But you must put on your overshoes, and your coat and necktie. The wind is east."
"Yes, auntie darling."
"And don't go on the grass, or sit down anywhere."
"No, auntie darling."
"You are pale, my sweet. Not a headache, I hope?"
Cyril had to consider. "Just a little wee one, auntie darling."
"Then you must not play in the sun. Walk in the shade; and mind you don't run fast so as to get too hot."
"No, auntie darling."
"If you see Evelyn, don't let her excite you. And if the headache doesn't go soon, you must come in and lie down. Something must have disagreed with you yesterday. Perhaps it was the baked apple. I think you had better have only broth to-day for dinner—and just a little dry toast."
"Yes, auntie darling."
Cyril obeyed the various directions given, so long as he remembered them. He crept about in the shade, like a venerable invalid, till near the river. By that time the fresh air, acting upon so much of a boyish nature as had been allowed to develop in him, overcame the cultivated languor, and he began to run. A bright idea sprang up, and Sybella's cautions vanished.
He had never yet made a second trial of the stepping-stones. He would do it now. Jean had urged him to conquer. He would not be a coward.
There was natural force of will in the boy, though his fond parents had done their best in the past to weaken it; though his doting aunt was now doing her best to carry on the process.
"You don't like so-and-so! Then don't do it, darling!"—had been the manner of his training hitherto. Such treatment is an absolute cruelty to a child, unfitting him for the exigencies of future life. To teach a child to master his own will, to control his own inclinations, is a grand beginning for life. To wrap the will in cotton-wool, and slay its vitality through disuse, means often a terrible after-slavery to the inclinations. "If I like!" becomes the rule of action in place of "If I ought!"
Cyril had enough of latent vigour to prevent his succumbing utterly to even Sybella's training. As yet, however, he was very young for his age; small, timid, almost babyish; and his affectionateness made him the more malleable. The chief bracing influence in his little life was Jean Trevelyan. Oswald frightened him; and he shrank from Evelyn's high spirit; but he was ready to do or bear anything for Jean.
So he made the effort bravely, though his heart fluttered, and dire sickness crept over him, as the waters ran past. He knew no more than did Jean of the physical weakness which caused these sensations. It was "cowardice" in his eyes as in Jean's; and it had to be conquered, because she said so.
From stone to stone, he struggled on—whitening, shivering, hardly able to hold himself upright, till the middle of the stream was reached. Then he could do no more. Water and banks swept round with dizzy whirl, and as he crouched down in a forlorn little heap, he seemed to be sinking through unfathomable depths. He would not cry this time, for Jean despised boyish tears, but further advance was not possible.
"Hallo! What's wrong?"
It was a man's voice, full and musical; a voice unknown to Cyril. A few strides brought the owner of the voice near, and Cyril was lifted in a pair of strong arms, to be carried the rest of the way.
"What's the matter, you poor little chap?"
Cyril burst into tears. "Oh, I did want to get over," he sobbed, "and I couldn't; and Jean—Jean—"
"What about Jean?"
"Jean says—says—it's so cowardly—and she won't—won't love me!"
"What's cowardly?"
"I can't get across the stones."
"Turns you giddy, eh?"
"Yes," sobbed Cyril, from the depths of his heart.
"Never mind. I wouldn't cry. When I was a little fellow like you, I was just the same—every inch as bad; and you see I don't mine the stones now."
Cyril was wonderfully comforted. Tears lessened, and he could manage to look up into the other's face—a young face, frank and kindly; with a mouth of exquisite curves, sweet, strong, and smiling; with a broad forehead above the grey eyes, which were full, half of mockery, half of tenderness, a touch of sadness running through both.
"Please put me down," entreated Cyril, direfully afraid of seeming girlish.
The young man obeyed very gently, as if he were handling a piece of porcelain. There was something porcelain-like in the child's look. Cyril tottered, and caught at his new friend.
"Dizzy still, poor little man? Sit on this bank."
"I mustn't. Auntie says the grass is damp to-day. And I promised."
"Whew! Quite right to do as you are told. Well; you won't find me damp. I'll be your cushion."
He threw himself down, lifted Cyril on his knee, and encircled the child with kind arms. Cyril rested his curly head on the broad shoulder, with evident relief.
"That's better, eh? Now tell me your name. Cyril! What—little Devereux? I know all about you. And is Jean a friend of yours?"
"Jean? O yes! I do love her so."
Pretty, but hardly boy-like, the young man thought.
"She's a jolly little girl, isn't she?"
"Do you know Jean?"—with great eagerness.
"Rather! I should think so! Hasn't she ever talked to you about Cousin Jem? If not, I'll pay her out."
The mocking grey eyes sparkled, then grew soft as they glanced down on Cyril's tiny white hand. Jem's oppositions of mood were almost as marked as those of Jean.
"O yes; I know. Jean told me. She said Cousin Jem was a sort of a cousin. And she likes him—you, I mean—ever so much. Next after Oswald, you know. And I think I shall like you next after Jean. And Evie said you were coming to stay with General Villiers. But—" with an elderly air—"I didn't know it was you, of course, at first: because Evie called you a boy."
Cyril was regarding, in his turn, the muscular brown hand beside his own, a hand of aristocratic outlines and powerful grasp, matching well the lithe muscular figure.
"Evie calls everybody boys."
"Does she? Who is Evie?"
"Oh, she's my sister. She's so pretty. I love Evie; only not like Jean." A pause, as if for reflection. "I mean to marry Jean, some day."
"Ah!" said Jem. "Have you told her so?"
"O no!" Cyril's voice had a sound of indignant surprise. "I haven't told anybody."
"Except me!" Jem Trevelyan was used to this. He had the indescribable power over all who came in contact with him, which causes unlimited confiding. Young as he was, other people were perpetually telling him things which they "had told nobody else." He never knew why: neither did they: but in a tête-à-tête with Jem, secrets were sure to ooze out; and Jem never abused anybody's trust.
"You won't tell Jean!"
"Not a word. You needn't be afraid. I wouldn't advise you to tell Jean either. Many a lady is lost through the gentleman speaking too soon." Jem stated this as seriously as if he had been addressing a full-grown man; and indeed the little fellow's intense seriousness hardly admitted of a joke. "Wait a while."
"How long?"
"Oh, wait—let me see—how old are you?"
"I'm just ten."
"Well, you must wait ten or twelve years at the very least. Perhaps more. Never do to speak sooner."
"Jacob waited fourteen years."
"So he did." Jem mentally contrasted the patriarch with this dainty infant, and had difficulty in keeping his lips straight. "If you have to wait fourteen years, it's nothing. Just bring you to twenty-four."
"And then I'll marry Jean."
"Supposing Jean consents. There's that little point to be considered. I'll tell you one thing—Jean will never marry a man to whom she can't look up. Do you understand? You must grow into a real man before you speak—strong and brave and good—a man she can respect and lean upon, not a twopence-halfpenny creature in a coat."
The words sank deep; deeper than Jem knew.
"Yes, I will!" said Cyril.
"And don't mind waiting. Don't be easily disheartened, or get into a tiff and throw it up, because she isn't to be had at the first go. If she's worth winning, she's worth waiting for."
Cyril heaved a sigh. Sybella was always giving vent to audible expirations of air, and the trick is infectious.
"I think Jean is just exactly like Rachel," he said. "Rachel was so beautiful, you know."
Jem's expression became comical. Had he uttered his thought, he would have said, "She's a queer little scarecrow, but she'll improve." Happily he was spared the need for a reply.
"Hallo! There she is! Wait and see if she knows me. We've not met for two years."
Jean advanced slowly, recognising Cyril, and perplexed at his position. Cyril would have struggled up, but for Jem's grasp. When Jean came near, a flash of light appeared in her eyes.
"Cousin Jem!" she cried.
Jem pulled her down on the grass beside him, and kissed her cheek.
"How d'you do, little one? Can't get up, for I'm acting bolster. Here's somebody in mortal dread of a scolding from you. Tried to get over the stones, and turned giddy."
"Cyril is always frightened," Jean said, with disdain.
"It's not fear. He can't help the dizziness."
Jean looked up in surprise. "Can't he?"
"No. The feeling isn't cowardice. If he caved in, and made up his mind to be beaten, that would be cowardice. But he won't."
"I won't, really and truly, Jean," pleaded Cyril. "I did try so hard."
Jem's hand went with a tender motion over the curly hair. Jean saw and understood, the soft side of her nature springing in response.
"You won't mind some day, Cyril."
"Not he," said Jem. "He'll be as plucky as anything! See if he isn't! You must give him time. Everything isn't easy to everybody, you know. It really is braver of Cyril to get half over, feeling as he does, than for you to run backwards and forwards fifty times. Yes, of course, much braver!"—emphatically. "Because one is hard, and the other isn't. Mind, Cyril, don't try it alone for a time or two. Take Jean's hand, and try a few stones. Do a little more every day. By-and-by you won't care a rap."
"No, I won't," assented Cyril.
"It's a nasty feeling. I used to be just as bad—got into an awful funk if I had to walk along a board. Had a hard fight too, before I could master it. But it had to be mastered. If I'd given in, and been a slave to that, I should have been a slave to a hundred other fancies as well; and think what a useless fellow I must have grown. Always a bother to myself, and a hindrance to everybody else."
"I won't!" declared the little baronet, with concentrated earnestness.
"That's right. You'll conquer, never fear! Now you're better, eh? Able to stand again? Why!—Who—?"
Jem, otherwise James Trevelyan, sprang to his feet, snatching off his cap.
He had seen pretty girls in his lifetime—any number of them; and his pulse was not wont to beat fast at the sight. They did beat now, furiously. For not many "pretty girls," so called, could match the one coming at this moment across the stones.
She was tall for her age, slight and willow-like in figure. Brown hair clustered thickly about the brow; and dark curled lashes fringed the violet eyes. Other features, if not classically beautiful, were delicate, unobtrusive, and set off by a rare complexion of ivory and pale rose. One ungloved hand held a garden hat, the other guarded a crape-trimmed skirt.
In leisurely style she drew near; not troubling herself to put on the hat; not in the least embarrassed by Jem's bewildered gaze. Evelyn saw it, of course; but admiration was an everyday thing in her life. It came and was accepted, much in the same fashion that sunshine comes and is accepted.
Had admiration failed, Evelyn would have felt the loss. Having it in superabundance, she received it carelessly. While aware of her own exceptional charms, and appreciating the privileges of beauty, she was far less vain, far less occupied with her own looks, than many a girl not one tithe so fair. Evelyn was much more disposed to vanity in respect of her mental gifts than of her pretty face.
"That's Evie," announced Cyril.
"Who?"
"It's Cyril's sister—Evelyn," said Jean, wondering what had come over "Cousin Jem."
Jem stood motionless, cap off, till Evelyn quitted the last stone. Then he went forward, and offered his help for the ascent of the bank.
"Thanks!" Evelyn said, smiling, and just touching the brown hand. She needed no help, but she was too gracious a being to refuse. "Thanks!" she repeated, reaching the level path, with a kind look at Jem which finished him off completely, though it was no more than she would have given to gardener or butler for a service rendered. "Is anything wrong with Cyril?"
"He turned giddy, crossing the river," said Jem.
"But I'm going to try again, and I mean to do it," exclaimed Cyril. "He says he was just as bad, Evie, and he got over it. And I mean to be brave. Jean says I must."
"Jean says!" repeated Evelyn. It recalled Miss Devereux's perpetual citing of "dear aunt."
"He's a boy," explained Jean.
"And I'll be a man some day," cried the little baronet. "You'll see, Evie. I'll take care of Jean when I'm a man."
"Jean is more likely to take care of you at present."
"That state of things is often reversed later," observed Jem, feeling for once unaccountably shy, and striving after self-possession. He was not given to shyness commonly. "Cyril and I had to perform self-introductions. Jean was our connecting link."
"Then perhaps you are General Villiers' friend?"
"And he isn't a boy," cried Cyril, drowning Jem's assent.
Evelyn did not blush. She said, "No?" and looked straight at Jem with a soft laugh, which put him at his ease, but tightened the strings of fascination.
"I reached Dutton Park last night. General Villiers, is an old friend of some of my family. A delightful man."
The girl's eyes drooped. "He is—I don't know anyone like him!"
"A sort of modern preux-chevalier style."
"And always so gentle."
Jem wondered whether any human being could be otherwise than gentle to Evelyn. He knew little of Miss Devereux.
Evelyn made a move as if to go. "Come, Cyril—" she said; "we will walk round by the bridge. I suppose you have had enough of the stepping-stones for one day."
"There's a prettier path to the Brow up the glen—crossing the rustic bridge," observed Jem. "But of course you know."
"Oh, I know it all. I have spent so many of my holidays here—only not very lately. That is my favourite ramble. But it is supposed to be too lonely for me, with only Cyril; and somehow nobody is ever free to escort us."
"Why, I go alone anywhere," said Jean.
Jem's glance went from the one to the other. "That is different," he remarked; and then he turned again to Evelyn, audacious though embarrassed. "If you would not mind—Jean and I would gladly act escort. The glen is perfect just now. You really ought to see it. I have been the whole round this morning."
"Thanks!" in a considering tone.
"Jean and I are cousins," apologetically. "So I thought—"
"A sort of cousins," corrected Jean, trained in habits of rigid accuracy.
"My father was first cousin to Jean's father, so Jean and I are 'seconds.' It is a convenient tie where people suit; and Jean and I do suit; so perhaps—"
"Perhaps, on the strength of it, we may count ourselves acquainted."
"There is General Villiers as well to vouch for my respectability."
"Ah!"—with a smile.
"Then you really will make use of us! I'll walk behind, if you would rather."
Evelyn laughed. She found the proposal tempting, and could see no harm. "I don't think a rearguard will be needful," she said. "Thanks—if it really is not giving you trouble—"
"Trouble!!" protested Jem.
QUITE TOO UTTERLY.
"A dim Ideal of tender graceIn my soul reigned supreme;Too noble and too sweet, I thought,To live, save in a dream—Within thy heart to-day it lies, and looks on mefrom thy dear eyes."A. A. PROCTER.
THE winding glen in its tangled beauty, far surpassed ordinary English types of scenery. It might almost have served for a Swiss ravine, but for the lack of enclosing mountains; and, indeed, the range of great hills, not many miles away, where the river had its birth, might not inaptly have been called "mountains," at least as an act of courtesy.
Banks, rising on either side of the gorge to a height of two hundred feet and more, were carpeted thickly with moss, decked with ferns, and clothed with trees which descended to the very brink of the swirling stream, there to overhang its surface. The path led through a prolonged bower of foliage, occasional gleams of sunshine creeping through. Gnarled roots projected themselves fantastically; and large flat stones, now high and dry, showed the wash of the water in flood-time.
Cyril grew timid at the nearness of the path to the steep lower bank. He slid his hand into Jean's, and she did not rebuff the appeal, for Jem had taught her a lesson. She put him on the side away from the stream, and held his fingers protectingly.
Jem did not mark this. Usually he saw everything; but his whole attention was given to Evelyn. Her delight with the exquisite tints, the lights and shades of the gorge, was pretty as a study; and it meant more than a study to Jem. She did not use up a vocabulary of adjectives, but the closed lips parted, the violet eyes deepened, the blush-rose tint of her cheeks grew bright. She went slowly—it could not be too slowly for Jem!—devouring with earnest gaze every detail of light and shadow. Jem was enchained with the grace of her movements, the more remarkable from utter absence of self-consciousness. He had never come across any one like her before, though the girls he had known were in number legion.
Still Evelyn said nothing till they reached a wilder part, less shut in. Trees grew scanty, and the rocks were steep and bare, while the stream rushed swiftly through a straitened bed, foaming past with a sweet high note. Then she did say "Oh!" and her eyes went in a swift appeal for sympathy to Jem. Not in the least because he was Jem, but only because in her joy she wanted a response from somebody.
Jem could hardly be expected to understand exactly how things were. He realised only that a new world was opening out before him—a new world in the shape of Evelyn Devereux. If he had not been already taken captive, this one glance would have done the business. Such a pair of great violet eyes, liquid, radiant, fringed all round with even lashes, turned full upon him, as if he, and he alone, could enter into her delight—what chance had he? And yet he was nothing to Evelyn. She would have bestowed the same look upon almost anybody who had happened to stand in his place at the moment. It was simply the natural expression of her pleasure.
Jem was a devotee of Nature commonly; but the sole item of Nature which he had eyes for on this particular day was a human item. The fair scenery of the gorge was lost upon him. He forgot even the presence of the children, and saw only Evelyn.
She had the dumb response she wanted, and went on, thinking no more about him. Jem was content not to talk. His one wish was to be allowed to walk beside Evelyn indefinitely, watching the play of feeling in her face. But this could not last; and somewhere in his mind, he was counting on five minutes of her free attention, when they should have crossed the rustic bridge, into the path which led away from the gorge, straight to the Ripley Brow grounds. The gorge itself would take a sharp bend just after the bridge, becoming then the second arm or branch of the letter V, and growing for a while even more rugged and wild in character, before it flattened and sobered down.
When, however, the bridge had been crossed, and Jem's hopes were high, a clerical figure could be seen striding down the glen towards them.
"Mr. Trevelyan!" exclaimed Evelyn.
She had taken, as already intimated, a strong girlish fancy to the Rector; and, as also intimated, the fancy was being fed by opposition. Left alone, it might have sunk into insignificance. Stamped upon, it was sure to flourish.
"How do you do?" said Mr. Trevelyan. He had always a curt and rigid manner, but a certain softness crept into his eyes as he bent them on Evelyn; for no man could be grim to Evelyn Devereux.
Jem received a handshake, and a brief, "Heard you were coming."
"Have you been for a walk?" asked Evelyn wistfully.
"On business. Not pleasure. A man ill in cottage."
"And you are going home down the gorge?"
"No; I have another visit to pay beyond your sapling plantation."
"O then you were coming our way; so I need not trouble Mr. Trevelyan any longer. He has been so kindly taking care of us through the glen. Thanks; I am so much obliged to you for coming all this distance," she said, giving her hand to Jem with bewitching graciousness. "It has been lovely."
Jem submitted to her decision with lifted cap, and did not betray the depth of his disappointment. Evelyn would scarcely have seen it, if he had, for she was busied with her new companion.
"Jean, it is nearly time for you to go home," said Mr. Trevelyan, as he turned away.
The tiny baronet, with a parting glance at Jean, trotted in the rear of the retiring two. He was desperately in awe of Mr. Trevelyan, and seldom by choice approached within fifty yards of him; so Evelyn was likely to have what she thoroughly enjoyed, a tête-à-tête talk with the Rector. His characteristic air of dry attention did not repel her, as it would have repelled many girls; and there was nothing small or nagging about his severity. She felt the man to be thoroughly genuine in all he said or did. If the path of duty should lead him through fire and water, he would follow it unhesitatingly. Whatever his faults might be—and faults, of course, he had, being human—self-indulgence was not one of them. Evelyn's keen insight read him truly.
Jem would have given all he possessed, which was not much, to follow Evelyn along the path, and into the "Brow" grounds; no matter at what distance. But gentlemanly feeling rendered this impossible. He stood like a statue, gazing fixedly till the three had vanished, unconscious of Jean's watchful attention.
"Well—" he said at length, and he made an effort to pull himself together, to awake to common life once more. "Well, Jean?"
"Do you think Evelyn very pretty?" asked Jean, with a child's directness. "Is that why you stare at so?"
Jem felt ruffled. His worst enemy could not lawfully accuse him of anything so objectionable as "staring."
"Rather a rude remark, Jean!"
"I don't mean to be rude. But you did," asserted Jean.
"I beg your pardon! Looking is not staring. A gentleman never stares."
"Do you think her very pretty?" repeated Jean, dropping what she counted an unimportant question.
"Yes. Don't you?"
"Not so much as some people."
Jem was amused. He planted himself with his back against a tree, and scanned curiously the straight supple child.
"Who is prettier than Miss Devereux, among your acquaintances?"
Jean was puzzled. "Miss Devereux isn't pretty. She's too old. Aunt Marie says she is fifty."
"Oh, I see. But I mean Miss Evelyn Devereux. I say, Jean, don't you go about talking Of Miss Devereux as fifty years old. She wouldn't like it."
"Aunt Marie said so."
"You needn't quote Aunt Marie. Come—who is prettier in your estimation than Miss Evelyn Devereux?"
The answer was delayed. Jean seemed to be weighing the matter. She said at length composedly:
"You!"
Jem did laugh. He had a pleasant musical laugh, round and full like his voice. It rang out now, not loudly but irresistibly. Jem held on to a bough, and bent with his merriment; while his eyes danced, and fairly ran over with tears of fun.
"Jean, you are past everything. It's the best compliment I ever had in my life," cried Jem, nearly convulsed.
"It's true," sturdily answered Jean.
Jem mastered himself, though every muscle in his face was twitching yet.
"Are you sure you don't mean Oswald?"
"Oh no. Oswald says boys are never pretty; only brave. But I think men are pretty sometimes."
"What do you find pretty in me? Eh?"
Jean found response easy. "Your eyes are pretty," she said. "They look so funny. And your mouth is pretty, only you're getting a horrid moustache. And I like the way you do your hair. It's got a nice wave just on the forehead. And you laugh so often. Nobody's pretty that doesn't smile."
"But Miss Evelyn Devereux smiles."
"Oh, not like you."
"What a pity Jean doesn't smile more!"
"I shouldn't be pretty, anyhow."
Jem could not contradict this. He patted her arm.
"Never mind. You are a nice little girl, and I like you. What is to be your next step?"
"Now? I'm going home to lessons."
"Not holidays yet!"
"I don't have holidays. I wish I could. Aunt Marie says they are such waste of time."
"I'll see if I can't beg you off a day or two. Come along! Yes, this minute!"
Jean's face of wondering delight was worth inspection. A passing question slid through Jem's mind—was she so plain, after all? But he did not trouble himself to answer the question. He was longing to get away from everybody, that he might dream over his new vision of beauty. Perhaps not many in his place would have voluntarily put aside the longing, to beg a treat for a child; and he half regretted his own offer the next instant, though he never thought of drawing back. Jem was essentially kind-hearted.
Together they went to the Rectory; and Jem pleaded so successfully that four whole days were granted. This was Friday. Lessons should not begin again till the Thursday following. Jean heard in a maze of silent rapture. Five days of uninterrupted freedom, counting Sunday! Freedom to devote herself to Oswald!
Jem did a good deal of walking and fishing those days; and a good deal more of dreaming. Whatever else he might have in hand, Evelyn was never out of his mind.
He saw her each day, one way or another. Sometimes it was only a glimpse, of which Evelyn knew nothing. Once they met in the road, and had a little chat. Once General Villiers took him to the Brow for afternoon tea, and Jem was in her presence for an hour. It all meant to Evelyn—nothing. To Jem it meant—everything.
AN APPEAL AND ITS RESULTS.
"And just because I was thrice as old,And our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was nought to each, must I be told?We were fellow-mortals, nought beside?"R. BROWNING.
"I CERTAINLY am surprised! I could not have expected such a want of correct feeling!" Miss Devereux spoke in tremulous accents, moving her hands nervously with a washing gesture, one over the other.
Sybella's hands were seldom at rest. Either she was twiddling her chain, or she was drumming the table, or she was going through some other digit-exercises of her own devising. People who have unpretty hands, and do not wish to call attention to them, should refrain from needless gestures. Sybella had not pretty hands, but she was far from following this rule.
Miss Devereux's face was in a flutter, as well as her extremities, and her eyes roved anxiously about. Evelyn's composure made her increasingly nervous.
"I certainly am surprised," she reiterated. "Such an extraordinary thing to do. My dear aunt would have been quite shocked: she would indeed. I am sure, when I was your age, I should as soon have thought of flying as of such an impropriety!"
"Impropriety! To let that boy walk up the glen with us!"
"James Trevelyan is not a boy. You cannot pretend to think him so. He has been through college."
"Twenty-two, is he not? I know he said he could not be ordained for another year."
"Five years older than yourself."
"Ten years younger in mind and character."
"Really Evelyn—"
"And I shall be eighteen in a week."
"Really, Evelyn, if you persist in this sort of thing, I shall have—I shall be compelled to appeal to General Villiers."
Evelyn laughed, but it was easy to see that the threat told.
"Ask General Villiers whether I may walk in the company of a big boy and two children, for fifteen or twenty minutes!"
"Your flippant tone only makes me feel—"
"General Villiers told me yesterday all about young Mr. Trevelyan," said Evelyn. She was not rudely interrupting her aunt. Sybella's sentences were apt to die away unfinished, as ideas or language failed. "He must be a nice lad."
"Mr. Trevelyan may—That has nothing to do with your conduct! Your conscience must convince you how wrongly you are behaving! I shall certainly have to appeal to General Villiers," quavered Sybella.
"General Villiers!" announced Pearce.
With more than usual gravity, the General entered. No doubt he had heard the words last spoken, for Miss Devereux's voice always grew shrill under excitement. She greeted him with a disturbed air, while Evelyn stood in the centre of the room, carrying her head like a young princess.
"I hope nothing has happened," General Villiers said, with his air of polished politeness. He kept Evelyn's hand, scrutinising the unwonted spot of crimson on either cheek. The exceeding kindness of his look was almost too much for her self-control; and tears flushed her eyes.
"Aunt Sybella is vexed," she said. "Your friend, Mr. James Trevelyan, was so good as to walk up the glen with us, the day he arrived. I had been longing to go there, and nobody was ever free to take me. I am told I must not do it alone. He and Jean and Cyril and I were together. Was it so very objectionable?"
General Villiers could not drop the small hand, which seemed to creep into his for protection. He stood looking down upon Evelyn, with mingled sympathy and admiration. Evelyn's lip quivered, and two large tears fell despite all her efforts. She dashed them away with the free hand, as if ashamed.
"Evelyn is of course making the best possible story for herself," complained Miss Devereux. "My dear aunt always trained me to be so very particular—"
"But perhaps—" the General said, taking advantage of a hiatus.
"And Evelyn pays no regard to my wishes. None whatever! I am sorry to have to complain of her, but I feel it to be my duty. My feelings matter little, but there is Evelyn's future—and what may be said of her. I feel that I ought to appeal. It is not the one thing only. I am sure if I could have known what these two months would be—Evelyn running deliberately in the face of my wishes—disregarding my opinions—setting up her own judgment—forming friendships which she knows I must disapprove—disobeying my express commands! And then the temper and annoyance, when I venture to remonstrate. If I had guessed—"
"But about Jem?" said the General.
"When I was Evelyn's age, I am sure I should never have dreamt of such a thing as a walk with a stranger—a young man!!—absolutely without even an introduction! But then I was so carefully brought up! I could never have stooped to such an act. I would have walked twenty miles round sooner! Such a want of self-respect."
There was a dangerous flash in Evelyn's eyes. "It is you who give the false impression now," she said. "Mr. Trevelyan helped Cyril when he was frightened; and that was an introduction. I knew all about him; and the two children were there. We went up the glen together, all four of us; and as soon as Mr. Trevelyan appeared—our Mr. Trevelyan, I mean—I said good-bye to him. Was that so dreadful?"—her eyes going to General Villiers. "I did want to see the glen again."
"Why did you never ask me to take you, my child?" the General asked naturally. "However—I think Miss Devereux must have misunderstood matters. Now that it is all cleared up, shall we—?"
"I beg your pardon; it is you who do not understand," tartly interrupted Sybella. "But perhaps I had better say no more. Evelyn is bent upon taking her own way. Dear aunt would have been sadly grieved. If Evelyn did not feel herself to be in the wrong, why did she never tell me what she had done? Why did she so studiously conceal it—and no doubt induce her little brother to do the same? Such underhandedness—But I feel it is useless for me to pursue the subject. I have said all that is needful, and I have done. Perhaps, if you are alone with Evelyn, you may induce her to speak the truth. My remonstrances are thrown away."
Miss Devereux's voice was so high-pitched and shaky as to suggest an imminent breakdown. She left the room, and Evelyn's eyes were again full.
"O it is hard—hard to have to live with her," the girl murmured. "I have never had to bear coldness before: Aunt Sybella cannot endure me. Everything I do and say is wrong. Perhaps I ought to have told her of that walk, but I knew she would worry, and it did not seem worthwhile. Sometimes I almost think I must run away—everything is so wretched. She is winning even Cyril from me."
"My poor child!"
"You feel for me, I know," she said, raising her eye frankly, as to a father. "That is my one comfort. If it were not for your kindness—knowing that you understand—I think I should go wild. I cannot tell you what the pressure is, all day long. One is never left in peace, never allowed to have one's own opinion. Everything must be discussed, and aunt Sybella must always prove herself to be in the right. The weariness of that incessant tittle-tattle—what this person says, and what that person thinks. The only being never in the wrong is aunt Sybella! You are not even allowed to differ in silence. You must listen, you must answer, and you must be convinced."
"I don't wonder that you find things trying."
"Oh, if you knew—how trying. I may speak out this once, may I not? You are my father's friend, and she has appealed to you. I have never ventured before. I did not even ask you to take me up the glen, because she is so jealous of any kind word spoken to me. Don't you see how hard it is?—How alone I am? If only I might go back to school! They did love me there."
A sob broke into the words. General Villiers was deeply moved. Evelyn's face did not lose its attractiveness, even under agitation. Her very weeping was controlled, and her features were not distorted by the muscular expression of distress; but the violet eyes grew pathetic, and large drops fell slowly.
"Two months? They seem like two years to me! How shall I ever bear whole years of it, with no hope of escape? She will never learn to love me."
"She must—in time."
"She will not. I have no power over aunt Sybella. We repel one another at every point. Isn't there a sort of mutual repulsion between certain people?" Evelyn tried to laugh. "I think I shall grow a bad temper here. I never knew that I had one before; but she makes me naughty. Do things lie dormant in us sometimes, till we get into a new atmosphere? Aunt Sybella will be my temper-growing atmosphere, I am afraid. If people love me, and I love them, I can be vexed at nothing. Real love doesn't get vexed, you know. But she—oh, she makes it so hard to be good; so hard to do right."
General Villiers might have whispered patience to the tried young spirit. He might have told her that the very "atmosphere" which threatened to develop a temper ought rather to be the means of developing a spirit of endurance. He might have suggested that one can never learn to bear bravely and Christianly, without having something to bear. He might have reminded her that life and its surroundings are modelled for each individual by ONE who knows that individual's need. But his overwhelming sense of sympathy prevented a dispassionate view of matters.
While feeling for Evelyn, he ought also to have felt for Sybella. The very weakness of character and narrowness of intellect, which made her so trying a companion for Evelyn, added to her perplexities in dealing with Evelyn. She was much to be pitied for those perplexities, and for the enervating education which had fostered her natural feebleness.
General Villiers could not see Sybella's side. He had eyes only for Evelyn's trouble.
The past two months of constant intercourse with this young girl, fresh from school, had worked a revolution in his being. After long years of widowhood, wherein no thought of marrying again had come to the fore, he found himself passionately in love with a pretty creature, not yet eighteen, a complete child in comparison with himself!
The thing was wild, of course; inconceivable. The idea of marriage could not be cherished for a moment. General Villiers had not cherished it thus far. He had scarcely even admitted to himself that he loved, other than in a fatherly way. Or if at times he allowed the fact, he was resolved to keep his secret, to be only her true and father-like friend, to watch over her life, to guard her so far as he might from sorrow, to find his joy in seeing her happy.
So matters might have gone on indefinitely, but for this scene. General Villiers was a man of peculiarly simple nature, single-eyed and straightforward, but by no means incapable of taking a false step. The very directness of his aims, and the childlike eagerness of his impulses, combined with a certain innate incapacity to look upon both sides of a question, made him the more liable to such a step. Evelyn's distress, her free speech, her instinctive turning to him, broke through his purposes of self-restraint. The love, which had smouldered hitherto, leaped up in a fierce flame, and bore down all barriers. He thought how he might bring her speedy relief; and he did not think how the manner of that bringing might possibly mean a fresh thraldom. At the moment it seemed to him that for her sake he might speak.
"Evelyn, my little girl," he said, and his manly voice faltered, "if I were but younger! If I were but more fitted! I would give my life for you! I would give all I have to smooth your way! And even as things are—if I could be sure that I ought—"
She seemed perplexed, and said, "I don't understand."
"You are too young—only seventeen! Far too young for an old fellow like me. Yes, I am old compared with you, my child! The discrepancy is far too great. It would be wrong! You are such a child. You cannot know your own mind yet. Still I could give love as strong—stronger, I think, than any mere boy. I do give—but how can I ask your acceptance? It would be a cruelty to your future."
She gazed wistfully into his agitated face.
"I don't quite understand," she repeated. "At least I am not sure. But you are the best and kindest friend I have ever had. Nobody can be to me what you are. And I am not a child. I am just eighteen. I have not been a child for years. They said at school that I grew into a woman long before the right time. I don't care for young people or boys. There is always a want in them. Why should you talk as if there were such a very great difference between you and me? I think age has more to do with mind than body."
The words dropped slowly from her soft rosy lips, each with an intonation of serious thought. General Villiers was swept away by them. He took her hands into his own, kissing again and again the slender fingers.
"My little girl! Can it be true? Will you be mine? Could you make up your mind to marry me, my Evelyn—to let my home be yours?"
"Marry you! Live at Dutton Park!" And her eyes opened wider. Despite her would-be middle-aged manner, she looked inordinately young at that moment, her ivory skin and delicate bloom contrasting with his grizzled locks and developing crow's feet. The innocent surprise was so like a child's pleasure. "Live at Dutton Park!" she said. She did not add—"Get away from aunt Sybella!"—but unquestionably that idea was prominent.
"Would you? Could you? Do you feel that it would be possible?" faltered the General. He could hardly speak, he was so stirred and shaken by the rush of his great love; while she was entirely calm, only surprised and pleased. "My Evelyn! My darling can such joy be?"
"Yes, I will indeed," she answered.
PREPOSTEROUS!
"What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?"R. BURNS.
"I NEVER heard anything so preposterous in all my life!" declared Madame Collier, in a muffled tone of righteous indignation.
The muffled sound was due to a physical cause, not to a mental condition. Madame Collier was putting a false hem to an old serge skirt of Jean's for lengthening purposes; and the process required a plentiful use of pins. Two or three white points protruded from each corner of her mouth. She wore her huge untrimmed garden hat, having been previously fruit-gathering; and the rusty alpaca was looped up, Dutchwoman-wise, nearly half-way to her knees, displaying ankles formed rather for strength than grace.
Marie Collier had her little vanities, like most people; as, for instance, in the matter of her name. She plumed herself on being "Madame Collier;" not plain prosaic "Mrs." In the matter of dress, she did not study the becoming. Vanity here took the opposite course, not necessarily less vain. She prided herself on a stoical indifference to appearances.
"Preposterous!" she repeated, taking a pin from her mouth, sticking it into the serge, and reaching energetically across the dining-room table for scissors. Mr. Trevelyan stood on the other side, upright and stern. "I declare the world is going crazy. General Villiers, over sixty years old—and a baby of sixteen! Preposterous!"
"Matters are bad enough without exaggeration. General Villiers is fifty-five, and Evelyn is just eighteen."
"Eighteen and fifty-five! He might be her grandfather! It is wicked! Downright wicked!" declared Madame Collier, paying off her heat of spirit into the folding and pinning. "I never heard such an idea in my life. Who told you?"
"General Villiers. I met him half-an-hour since. He seemed too much delighted to keep the thing to himself; but it is not to be known just yet."
"And Miss Devereux?"
"I gather that she is taken by surprise—"
"I should just think so!"
"But that she will offer no serious objection."
"Sybella Devereux would offer no serious objection if the world were to be turned into a cream-cheese. She hasn't the wits. Oh, she will fall in with the plan—glad to get the girl off her hands. The General can do as he likes—though how he manages to reconcile his conscience passes my understanding."
"He must decide for himself."
"He's sure to do that—and for Evelyn too. What man doesn't? He'll follow his own inclinations, of course, and sacrifice that young creature, before she understands what it all means. Why, she's an infant! What has she seen of life? Care for him! It's out of the question! Preposterous! Yes, I dare say she cares after a fashion—the way a girl cares for her grandfather. Likes to be the Lady of Dutton Park, no doubt! That's the bait. And she and Miss Devereux don't pull together. Anybody with half an eye can see! A lucky chance of escape, no doubt—but as for that child being in love with General Villiers—! I know better. The girl's an actress, if she lets him think so. But it's the General that I blame. She doesn't know what she is doing, and he does. Don't talk to me again of his goodness! I've no patience with such goodness! It's downright wickedness!" cried the Rector's sister, dropping a small shower of pins by way of climax, for anger opens the lips.
Her tone changed suddenly. "Jean! What are you doing there? You have no business to creep in and listen to what people are saying."
"I'm just come home," Jean said in self-defence. She had approached so near that Mme. Collier really had no excuse for not seeing her sooner, beyond abstraction of ideas. Jean had reached the end of the table, not creeping, but walking with her usual erect bearing and light footfall. There she had stopped, electrified by the words which reached her ears. She thought some dreadful calamity must be impending.
"Come home! Yes. But why don't you show yourself properly? I hate creeping and listening ways."
Jean grew stiff under the sense of injustice. Mr. Trevelyan's eyes travelled over her.
"Did you mean to listen, Jean?"
"No, father—" very low.
"I have a great mind to put her to bed for it," declared Marie Collier.
"Jean did not mean to listen!" Mr. Trevelyan was a strictly just man. He had never found Jean in untruth, and until he should do so he would trust her implicitly. "The door was not shut; and we might have seen her come in. How much did you hear?"
This was to Jean. A lump in the child's throat almost prevented speech. She swallowed with difficulty, and said, "General Villiers is going to do something bad."
"General Villiers is going to marry Evelyn Devereux. That is not 'something bad' in the sense you mean. Your aunt is sorry to hear it, because he is too old for such a young girl, and the thing is unsuitable. But remember, it is not your business. Unless by accident, you would not have heard it at present; and the matter must not go further. I trust to your honour."
"She will go and talk to Cyril the first thing. I know what children are."
Mr. Trevelyan looked searchingly into the troubled eyes of his little daughter. They met his, clear and resolute, though pained.
"Can I depend on you, Jean?"
"Yes, father."
"It is not to be mentioned again, unless somebody speaks first to you. And then the less said the better. You will not repeat what you heard us say."
"No!"
A slight dry smile crept into the grim lines round Mr. Trevelyan's mouth.
"Marie, you need not be afraid. That child is trustworthy."
Jean's face changed. Any word of praise was rare in her little life. She hardly knew what to make of it. Mr. Trevelyan, watching still, did not quite know what to make of her. He knew well the Trevelyan half of Jean: but the sensitive loving Ingram half was commonly veiled from his sight: he scarcely recognised its existence. The sudden radiance of response in her eyes, and then the quiver of her lips, surprised him. He did not know what he had said to bring about such results.
Before he could speak, Jean was gone. She felt a rush of tears coming, and fled wildly away to a retired corner of the garden, there to sob her little heart out, not knowing what made her cry.
"Why, Jean!"
Jem's voice startled her to her feet; and tears were checked by a mighty effort. To be found in such a condition was in Jean's opinion a dire disgrace. She stood bolt upright, herself again, though with wet cheeks.
"Please don't tell," she begged.
"Not I! Don't you know me better? What is it all about, little woman?"
No answer came, and he did not press the question, shrewdly suspecting that sharp words from Madame Collier or rough ones from Oswald lay below her distress.
He was not far wrong: though indeed Jean would have found it hard to analyse the different ingredients which went to the making up of that distress. The actual last straw had been the softening touch of her father's unwonted praise; but further back was the aunt's displeasure; and further back still another grief. This was the last afternoon of her short holiday, and Oswald had chosen to spend it away from her.
She was a lonely little being, commonly. Her fervent love had a scant return: her thoughts and feelings were not understood. Few guessed what a sensitive organisation underlay the somewhat curt exterior. With her brother, the child's heart was always craving for a show of affection which never came. No doubt Oswald loved Jean after a fashion: but he loved himself much more; while Jean's love for him was a rapt devotion.
A woman too often lavishes gold, only to receive copper in exchange. Jean was learning early the sense of loss entailed by such barter. At times the vague loneliness would take shape in a thirst for her mother. When Oswald had treated her to a boyish rebuff, she would lie awake at night, clasping her pillow with both arms, and wondering how it would feel to have a mother's arms thus folded tightly round her. The Ingram part of Jean did so cry out for love and gentleness: while the Trevelyan part was ashamed, and tried to stand independently aloof.
With Jem she had a sense of placid satisfaction, unknown in other quarters. She did not pour upon him the frantic devotion which she poured upon Oswald: but there was happiness in his companionship. She could trust his unvarying kindness; and she felt herself to be understood by him. This consciousness often drew Jean on to open her mind to Jem, as to no other human being.
"Where is Oswald this afternoon?" Jem asked. "Cricket! Ah, that's unfortunate. And you couldn't get there to look on. What a pity you are a girl, as girls can't join! I say, Jean, suppose you come for a walk with me up the gorge. I'm all alone; and I want somebody."
Which was true—for Jean's sake. He had not wanted somebody for his own sake, unless it were a somebody unattainable.
Jem loved to haunt the gorge these days, for Evelyn's sake. He would always associate one particular turn in the glen with her face.
They were in the wildest part of the gorge, more than an hour later, beyond the "point of the V," and in the second arm of it. Return could be either along that branch and across divers meadows, or else it could be back the way they had come. Jem decided on the latter, and when they reached the rustic bridge at the Point, he took Jean's hand for a race down the path, resolved to shake the gravity out of her.
He had found the child a pleasant companion, fearless in climbing, untirable in walking, full of quaint simplicity and intelligence. He had exerted himself to interest and amuse her, till all traces of the little trouble were gone; and she had poured out her ideas with a rare frankness. But she had been sober throughout—a slim solemn upright child.
Down they came now, full swing; Jem's light run well matched by a speed of foot in Jean which few children of eight or nine could emulate. Jem of course hung back for her sake, yet not so much as might be expected. Jean hung on his strong hand, like a bird, rushing beside him with a glow of pleasure, for once perfectly natural and childlike.
Jem was delighted. He had not seen her so before. Looking down into the eager face, and at the steady shine of the greenish-brown eyes, he asked himself again, "Will she be so plain?" Jem began to think she would not. "But I wish the poor little mite had a brighter existence."
Faster and faster they descended the rough path, as he saw her enjoyment. Soon they passed at a run the open space which had vividly awakened Evelyn's admiration. Reaching an acute bend beyond, they dashed round, glowing and laughing, to find themselves unexpectedly face to face with another couple, slowly ascending the glen.
Jem took in the situation at a glance. A light shock darted through his whole nervous system.
For Evelyn Devereux was there—Evelyn, by the side of General Villiers. Her hand was through his arm; her face was upturned with a sweet confidingness to his; and the General's head was bent from its superior height towards the fair girl, with a fatherly—no, not a fatherly—interest. Something altogether different from a fatherly interest. Jem saw this. He saw the General's momentary embarrassment, and the soft flush on Evelyn's cheek.
Jem dropped Jean's hand, and stood like one struck dumb. Evelyn's first view of him, had been a surprise to her. She had seen him before in a shy and admiring mood; but Jem's real nature was better shown in his vigorous rush down the gorge. The sure free step, the well-proportioned lithe figure, the dancing grey eyes, and the kind care of the little child—all these came before Evelyn as a flash, unexpectedly.
General Villiers could not have pelted down the steep glen at such a pace for any consideration. He suffered from slight rheumatism of the knees; not enough to spoil his military walk, but enough to prevent violent exercise; besides, joints stiffen after fifty.
In one moment, Jem's career was checked. A sudden gravity crept into the warm face, and the grey eyes, emptied of their sunshine, looked earnestly, questioningly, at Evelyn.
"Nonsense!" Jem was saying to himself, putting aside a sick fear. "Nonsense! Absurd! It can't be!"
But General Villiers, embarrassed no longer, looked smilingly at the small hand on his arm, then at Jem.
"I meant to tell you this evening," he said in a deep tone of happiness. "You have found us out sooner. My darling—she is mine now!" He glanced at Jean, who had moved delicately away, with a child's sense of being de trop. "My own!" the General repeated. "Who could have dreamt that such happiness would be for me?"
The healthy glow was gone from Jem's face. He looked grave, dignified—taller and older too than Evelyn had imagined him. One hand, hanging by his side, clenched itself till the nails almost pierced the skin, but except in his sudden paleness, no sign of pain was allowed to appear. Not all Jem's force of will could control the rush of blood to the heart, as he spoke a few words of formal congratulation.
The General, wrapped up in his own delight, did not see: but Evelyn, far more widely awake, noted at once the change. She could not fail to conjecture its cause: and, knife-like, the question shot through her mind—
"Have I made a mistake? Have I been too quick?"
Too late for that now! Evelyn smothered down the thought, with a voiceless "No! No!" and clung more closely to the General's arm. His attention was drawn by the pressure.
"Yes; we will go on—we have not too much time. I shall be back by-and-by," to Jem. "Good-bye, for an hour or two. Yes, I know you congratulate me. Everybody must!"
A few more meaningless words, and they parted. Evelyn had not much to say during the remainder of the walk, but the General had plenty, so her silence mattered less. He had reached an age when most men like a good listener. Evelyn could safely follow her own train of thought, while clinging to his arm. She had to follow it, had to stamp down the questioning which threatened to disturb her peace.
Not that Evelyn was in love with Jem. Nothing of the kind. It was only that his look had been a revelation to her. It was only that she had awakened to the realisation of another manner of life, upon which she had shut the door.
Too late now, she told herself firmly. She had promised, and she would keep her promise.
Then she found the General saying something—what was it? About—how soon?
Evelyn flushed, and her eyes filled. "Oh, soon—the sooner the better!" she said. "Why should we wait? I belong to you now."
BOOK II.
AFTER SEVEN YEARS.
"There wild woods grow, and rivers flow,And mony a hill between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean."R. BURNS.
MRS. KENNEDY'S NOTIONS.
"How we talk in the little town below!""PIPPA PASSES": R. BROWNING.
"A REGULAR niminy-piminy-molly-coddle! That's what he'll be, my dear."
"But don't you think—by-and-by—when he gets out into the world—?"
"No, I don't. Miss Devereux will have done the business by then. I wouldn't say so much to most people, Mabel: but it's just the old story over again—the hen with one chick, you know. And an old maid hen is the worst of all, don't you see?"
"Only he's such a nice boy!" regretfully.
"He's lovely!" said Mrs. Kennedy. "A real out-and-out gentleman, and the prettiest manners! Too pretty by half for a boy of seventeen! Why, he ought to be a hobbledehoy, and there isn't a scrap of hobbledehoyism about him. It isn't natural. It's like a tadpole growing into a frog, without dropping its tail, you know. And it's ruination to any boy to be treated as if he was a spoonful of salt, ready to melt. That's what she does, don't you see?"
"But at school—"
"Oh, well, yes, there's school. Of course there's school. It's a good school too, from all one hears. Capital masters, and all that; and a hundred and twenty boys isn't bad. I'd sooner have him at a regular public school: but this is next best. Only, the moment Cyril comes home, all the good's undone. Mustn't get his feet wet, don't you know? Dear me, if my boys were coddled like that, there'd be a rebellion, I do believe. They wouldn't stand it, not even from their mother. But Cyril's been brought up to like a fuss."
"He had one bad attack on his chest."
"Three years ago! I wouldn't wrap a boy up in flannel and cotton-wool all the rest of his days, just for that. I'll tell you what, Mabel—you get your father to interfere. A doctor always can step in. Everybody expects good advice from a doctor."
"Not unasked advice," Mabel said, smiling. She was a nice ladylike girl of about nineteen, the eldest of Dr. Ingram's three daughters.
"Oh, as for advice—Miss Devereux is like other people. She doesn't ask for advice, except when she wants to be told that she's in the right. That's the way, don't you know? Why, she wouldn't have sent him to school at all to this very day, I do believe, if General Villiers and his wife hadn't made a rumpus."
"Still—five years and a half of schooling ought to have done something for him," Mabel remarked.
This was Mrs. Kennedy's "At Home" afternoon; and she was seated in the small drawing-room of St. John's Vicarage, expecting callers. Friday had been from time immemorial—in other words, so long as she had lived at Dutton—her "At Home" day.
Not that she dignified it by any such important title: "I am generally in, you know, on Friday afternoons," was her fashion of asking friends to call at that time. She had a free-and-easy manner of speaking. The County people did not care for Mrs. Kennedy; not that they objected to a touch of originality, but they were not satisfied as to her connections.
"To talk of one's 'At Home day' sounds so fussy, don't you know," she often said. "Not fit for such little people as we, my dear! If it was the Canon, now!" For the mother-church of Dutton was held by Canon Meyers.
Mrs. Kennedy was not good-looking, despite a pair of genial and expressive blue eyes. Moreover, she posed badly, rounding her shoulders and squaring her elbows. Though she dressed well in point of material, her clothes were put on more or less awry; and an end of loose hair was often out of place, needing to be perpetually tucked up. She had been known to sit through her Friday afternoon, with a half pinned collar dangling loosely on one side. Such little matters did not affect her serenity. Had she discovered the collar in the midst of a room-full she would have gone calmly to the mirror to pin it into position, without the slightest flurry. Whereby it is evident that Mrs. Kennedy had seen something of good society, even though her family connections might not be altogether unexceptionable.
The frank simplicity of her manner was sometimes mistaken for rusticity. But she was no rustic. She had considerable perception, and not a little knowledge of human nature. There were even touches of intellectual power, only her education had been deficient; and when entirely at her ease, she was apt to express herself in an odd unconventional fashion.
A more devoted Parish worker than Mrs. Kennedy could hardly be found. Mr. Kennedy was not strong in the visiting line, having usually too many committees and meetings on hand; but his wife did her best, as a wife should, to supplement his deficiencies, to fill up gaps in his administration. In public, she always appeared to be at one with her husband in his views and proceedings; in private, she had her own views and her own theories.
Some intimate friends would have described her as "Not quite so desperately Low-Church as he is!"
However, as a matter of duty, she upheld him praiseworthily.
"Have you heard that General and Mrs. Villiers arrived last Monday?" asked Mabel.
"O yes, I know. All the world knows that, my dear. Time enough too—after nearly four years abroad! People who have got property ought to look after it, and not go scrummaging all over the world. But of course it's no wonder Mrs. Villiers likes change—a pretty young thing, tied to a husband old enough to be her father, to say the very least. And then the General's rheumatism makes such a nice excuse for keeping him abroad. The General is a most delightful man, of course—agreeable and all that—and I'm sure she's quite prettily fond of him. It's as nice and proper as can be; only you know one does sometimes expect to hear her say 'Grandpa' when she speaks to him; and when 'William' pops out instead, it gives one a shock. And then the Park must be so awfully dull: for it's only a certain sort of people he cares to see, you know. Just those that think exactly like himself."
"The St. John set," suggested Mabel, with a scintillation of fun in her quiet eyes.
"Well, my dear, the St. John set is very good. Such nice dear people, you know. I'm sure the dear good General always says he is perfectly content with what he finds among them: and if he and they—he and we, I mean—Now, Mabel, don't look wicked! As to family, we've old Lady Lucas, you know: and Miss Devereux is equal to anybody; and then nothing can be more respectable than a lawyer and a Colonel, not to speak of the General himself when he's at home. But still, though he likes us well enough, I'm not sure about his wife. She comes with him always, as regular as clockwork—used to come, I mean—but you know there's no doubt she's got a very uncommon mind, and she reads books that you and I wouldn't know what on earth they were all about! And I shouldn't quite think all the dear good St. John's people would exactly satisfy her: I mean, intellectually, don't you know? I should think she would want a little more friction, perhaps—and originality, you know."
"So my father feels."
"Oh, your father is so clever—I don't suppose he could expect to find his match in Dutton, dear. One can't help being a little afraid of him, you know, he's so clever."