Their petals, he meant.
"Immense improvement on the old smudge and scratch style. Anything went down with people in those days. A blue patch stood for e sky, and a green blur did duty for a forest."
"I'm afraid a blue patch often does stand for the sky in London!" suggested Cyril, under his breath. "And a green blur does duty for a forest in my eyes—if the forest is far enough."
"Oswald does not mean that," promptly spoke up the devoted sister in his defence.
"Well—some question of distance is involved, certainly," admitted Cyril. "But if a forest, half-a-mile off, isn't a green blur, one can't on the other hand count its leaves. And a botanist can hardly count the stamens of a flower growing on a bank ten yards away."
"Not one person in a hundred knows a good picture when he sees it," declared Oswald. "Nature is the true test. What is true to Nature is true to Art. I'd sooner have a pair of tongs, with the firelight upon them, done well, than any number of fantastic things that mean, nobody knows what."
"I would have" settled the question, of course, permanently.
"Here she is!" Cyril's voice told of relief; and Jean found herself face to face with Evelyn.
That Evelyn should pass anywhere unnoticed was impossible: yet, as she came forward, she showed no consciousness of the many eyes turned in her direction. Jean had received a good deal of attention in the crowd hitherto, appreciated by Cyril, though unnoticed by Oswald or herself; but Jean would win few glances in Evelyn's neighbourhood, young and fresh as she was by comparison. There was that about Evelyn which age could not do away with.
Yet time had told upon her, and more severely than it ought to have done. The pure delicacy of girlish bloom had vanished, leaving a pale skin, with only a faint patch of colouring on either cheek; and she was thinner than of old, too thin and worn for actual beauty. It is only in novels that girls of twenty-nine necessarily bid farewell to youth, and join the ranks of middle-age; but this young widow, close upon twenty-nine, attractive as she still was, might often have passed for thirty-five.
The violet eyes, with their dark fringes, were lovely yet, and would have embellished even a plain face, which Evelyn's face could never be; but the old restless craving in them had deepened, chasing away all girlish sparkle. She had still the look of one for ever dissatisfied with the present, for ever grasping after something unattainable; while the lips were alike more sad and more satirical than four years earlier. With all this, every gesture was so full of grace, every motion was so fascinating, that it was no wonder she should become, wherever she went, a centre of observation.
"Jean! At last!" she said, and her fingers closed round Jean's with a soft pressure which spoke volumes. "My dear, how you have altered; and yet how entirely you are the same!"
She had not seen Oswald for some four or five years, and did not recognise him. Oswald stood as if spellbound.
"My brother—" Jean said, and she put out her hand, smiling.
"Of course—I ought to have known. We are old friends."
Then she turned again to Jean, standing in the middle of the room, oblivious of the crowd around. "It does me good to see you again. I have had such a want lately—to be with you! Have you ever wanted me? Sometimes I think you are the main attraction to home."
"And you will settle down there now?" asked Jean, captivated anew, as she always had been captivated, by the grace of Evelyn's presence. She forgot even Oswald for the moment. "You will not want to go away again directly?"
"No, not at present. Not at all, permanently, I hope. Why should I? There is nothing to take me away. Dutton Park is my home for life, and they say the place looks neglected. I think—" in a hushed voice—"he would not like that. I must do what he would wish. It has come over me lately. O no, I shall settle down at home, and look after things. I have found a friend to be my companion—so far as anybody can be—" in the old weary tone. "And you will be near too! You—" with an affectionate glance—"and your good father. I wish I could have seen Madame Collier again."
"Aunt Marie wished it too. She left a message."
"Ah, she was always charming—so delightfully unconventional . . . How soon am I coming? I don't know. There is nothing to hinder or hasten my movements. I wish there were!—" dropping her voice anew. "I am only too free—no ties or burdens, except the one burden of myself."
Then a faint smile: "You see I am the same Evelyn as of old, never content with what I have. If the ties existed, I should want to be rid of them. But you shall do me good, dear . . . What nice news this is about your cousin, Mr. James Trevelyan, and the Dutton living! I remember him, years ago, as very pleasant. And he has been in the East-End all this time!"
Then the pictures claimed renewed attention, under Oswald's patronage. He attached himself resolutely to Evelyn; and Jean fell behind with Cyril. Any other arrangement was hardly possible, since people cannot march, four abreast, through Academy crowds near the end of July: but to Jean it was a spoilt afternoon. She could see Oswald talking continuously to Evelyn; or, Evelyn listening with a courteous air; but she could not hear what was said. Cyril claimed continuous attention: and despite all Jean's efforts, he and she were left in the rear.
"Jean, I really wouldn't go in for all that—about painting," he remarked presently, hesitating for a word and leaving it to the imagination. "I wouldn't really. You know what I mean. Oswald's a capital fellow, of course; but everybody can't be artistic, and if it isn't in him, he's not to be blamed. Black spots on a lady's veil are all very well in a dressmaker's fashion-book, but that is not high art. And if an artist can't do more than make a coloured photo of grass and trees and human beings—Well, I admit that lots don't do more; but then they are not artists. They are only painters! They might just as well take to photography, and not bother their brains with an easel."
Jean was amazed. That Cyril should venture openly to attack Oswald's views to her was something unprecedented. She listened in bewildered silence.
"Don't you see, Jean? You understand."
"What more do you expect?" asked a constrained voice.
"As if you don't know! A great deal more. An artist has to get at the inner soul of things—the hidden meaning. Not merely to copy colours and shapes. A photo gives one single glimpse of a face—the impression of a moment—a grin, or a frown, or a simper, as the case may be. It can't do more. But an artist, painting that same face, ought to give you the man himself—the man as a whole. Not just one glimpse of a passing mood, but the essence of the character—a sort of resume of body and mind. Don't you see? An artist ought to be like a poet, able to dive deeper and rise higher than common men. You wouldn't think much of a poet who is always telling you that grass is green and the sky blue. Anybody can do as much, without poetic power. But half the modern painters don't tell us more, don't go deeper than the outside . . . I'm afraid Oswald would call all this 'bosh;' but, you know, you can't be in leading-strings to Oswald all your life. Oswald doesn't know everything; and you have brains enough to think for yourself."
Jean was still too much amazed to be able to analyse her own sensations. She said only, "Thanks."
"You don't like me to go against him in anything! Never mind! When you and I are married, you will learn to think as I do."
Jean did not blush.
It was Cyril who blushed; not Jean.
She only turned and faced him full, with calm wide-open eyes.
"When!!!" was all she said.
"Now what did make me say that?" Cyril demanded of himself, somewhat later. "Odd how things slip out! . . . After all, there's nobody like good old Jean! . . . If neither of us should come across anybody else in the next few years—Well, I really don't see why it shouldn't be! . . . Jean might take it as a joke—but—Anyhow, I am in no hurry."
THE PROCESS OF FORMATION.
"We alter day by day;Each little moment, as life's current rolls,Stamps some faint impress on our yielding souls;We may not rest nor stay,Drifting on tides unseen to one dread goal and sure."L. MORRIS.
"WALK, Jean?" asked Mr. Trevelyan, putting his head into the Rectory dining-room, one early October afternoon. He was not given to the use of superfluous words.
Jean had been alone for an hour, busily working and busily thinking. She had a good deal to occupy her mind just then. Jem and his mother were expected at Dutton Rectory next day; and Evelyn and Miss Moggridge had arrived three nights earlier at the Park; and Cyril was at the Brow, and moreover was very perplexing.
Perhaps the last-named topic claimed the larger share of her attention, for Jean was provoked with Cyril. She could not forgive him the ridiculous speech he had made in the Academy. As a mere joke it was nothing, but Cyril had looked self-conscious ever since, and his looking so made her feel the same. Jean detested to feel self-conscious. Besides, the whole thing, was absurd. That she should ever marry Cyril—Cyril, with his dainty tastes and fanciful ways!—Impossible!
Cyril was unlike his real self—the real self she had known—and Jean, in popular phraseology, could not tell what to be at with him. What she called being unlike himself, was actually being like his present self, and only unlike his former self. He had so long been her slave, that she did not know what to think of herself or of him, under the new position of affairs. When she had seen him last, he had been a mere unformed lad, submissive to her lightest wish. She had laughed at his bondage, and had told him to think for himself; yet now that the bondage existed no more, she found that she had valued it.
For the young man had ceased to watch Jean with wistful devotion, as the lad had done. He had sprung into a different being. He was pleasantly conscious of his title, his position, his age, his good looks, his gifts, his belongings; above all, of his Manhood. The manhood of twenty-one, though full of potentialities, since at that age, one can seldom guess where may lurk an embryo Shakespeare or an undeveloped Wellington, is such overpowering a matter to other people: but to the individual himself, it is often vast in possibilities.
One leading characteristic of early manhood is, not seldom, a disposition to worship womanhood—using the word "worship" in its conventionally poetic sense. But Jean did not represent Womanhood to Cyril. She was only Jean. He had run after her persistently from infantine days: he had always looked up to and leant upon Jean. Now he wanted somebody who should look up to and lean upon himself. And Jean was hopelessly capable of standing alone.
The idea of some day marrying Jean was an old idea, so familiar that it had slipped out, unexpectedly, at the Academy, surprising himself as much as Jean. Her reception of the speech had rather nettled Cyril: not so much at the moment as afterwards, when he recalled her look. He resolved no longer to trot meekly in her wake. It was time that Jean should learn who and what Sir Cyril Devereux of Ripley Brow really was.
As for marrying—there was plenty of time, and plenty of choice. Any number of nice girls might be glad to become Lady Devereux. Cyril was too modern a young man to be troubled by any morbid humility on the score of his own attractions. True, he did not much care for the ordinary run of "nice girls," since he prided himself on his fine discrimination of taste—whether exercised on sauces and stews, or on pictures and young ladies. But none the less, he was conscious of a wide field before him.
Jean was not ordinary, and therein lay her charm. Somebody else, whom he had come across, was also not ordinary, and therein lay Cyril's perplexity. For this somebody was by no means of so independent a temper as Jean. She had looked up to Cyril, had appealed to his judgment, had treated him in a pleasing manner as something superior to herself. Serious difficulties in that direction threatened to bar advances on the part of Cyril, beyond a certain point: but he was not disposed to deny himself present enjoyment, because of what might come after. The future could take care of itself.
Still, all his life he had been used to tell everything to Jean, and this habit of mind continued unchecked, even after fifteen months of separation. When at the Brow, he suffered from a haunting desire to wander incessantly towards the Rectory. Whether he would ever require Jean for his wife, he did not know. The only thing about which he felt absolutely sure, was that he did not wish Jean to marry anybody else.
The outcome of these ups and downs was a variableness of mood which exasperated Jean. It is a pity that we of modern days cannot go through life with the innocent simplicity of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, who seem habitually to have slided and glided into love, without the remotest suspicion beforehand of what was going to happen next. One can picture the surprise that it must have been for those dear old people—when they were young—one day to be in blissful unconsciousness of anything unusual; the next day to wake up and find themselves over head and ears in a world of new sensations. But even then they never dreamt of tearing their new-found love into little bits, to examine its component parts. They had not come to an introspective and analytic age.
Cyril could no more have walked unconsciously into love with Jean—or with the other girl—than he could have strolled unconsciously into the middle of his deepest pond. One half of himself was always watching the other half with a jealous eye. The minutest symptom of a change of state in either half had no chance of escaping observation. Whether he would rightly read the meaning of each symptom is a different question; for the power of self-gauging is in most people very limited; but at least it would be seen and commented upon.
Cyril had been at home a fortnight, and almost every day, on one pretext or another, he had made his appearance at the Rectory. When he came, he was vexed with himself for coming; and when he stayed away he was miserable. In fact, he very seldom did stay away. He only resolved each day to do so; and each morrow, he failed to carry out yesterday's resolution.
"If he would just be natural and sensible!" murmured the much-exercised Jean. "Or if he would amuse himself at home! . . . Does he haunt the Rectory because he thinks I wish it? He might know better! . . . Well, I shall not have much leisure for him now, with Evelyn and Jem and Cousin Chrissie! . . . After all, I believe it is only that he is a little spoilt. He will find his level by-and-by."
At this juncture, Mr. Trevelyan put his head into the room, and uttered his brief question—
"Walk, Jean?"
"Yes. Anywhere particular, father?"
To herself, Jean added, "So much the better! If he comes, he will find me out."
"Up the gorge. Cottages beyond the V-point. I can't take you in, for there's a case of diphtheria—where from, nobody can imagine. But you may wait for me on the bridge."
"I'll be ready in three minutes."
Strictly in three minutes they were off, through the garden and towards the river. They had a glimpse of the stepping-stones, standing up, solid and square; and Jean saw a little vision of a small white-faced boy, crouching thereon, with pitiful wails for help. Cyril was a great deal changed since those days! She had leisure for recollections, since Mr. Trevelyan never talked for talking's sake, but only spoke when he had something definite to say. He seemed to-day in a silent mood, yet Jean knew well that he liked to have her with him.
They struck away at a brisk pace up the path which led through the gorge. Golden-brown water flowed below; rocky banks rose sharply on either side; and a complex pattern was sketched upon the ground by sunlight through clustering leaves. Autumn colouring had begun to appear in sharp patches of rod and yellow; dying tints, beautiful in death. Jean loved this slow fair fading of foliage in autumn, because of the silent promise embedded therein of winter's quiet sleep, to be followed by spring's Resurrection.
"It is delicious here," she said, as she pressed upward with a light step; and not till they had gone some distance, did she note a movement of her father's—the taking out of his pocket-handkerchief to wipe his face. Jean looked at him in surprise. They were wont to pelt at full speed up this gorge, without "turning a hair," either of them.
"Why, father—are we going too fast?"
"No," rather breathlessly, and as if ashamed. "It is nothing. Warm day."
"I thought the weather perfect." Jean seldom thought it aught else. Sunshine and frost, storm and calm, came alike to her.
She would have slackened speed, but Mr. Trevelyan pressed forward, as if bent on proving to Jean how entirely he was his usual self. The attempt was hardly successful. Reaching the bridge, he came to a pause, leant against the wooden parapet, and actually gasped for breath.
"I don't think you ought to do so much," Jean remarked, mindful of her aunt's parting injunction. She knew better than to show any marked concern, but it was impossible to avoid seeing his condition. For some seconds, he was unable to speak: his eyes had grown dim; a livid paleness overspread his face; and when he again swept away the streaming damp, large drops started anew on his brow.
"It's all right," he said at length, breathing hard. "Nothing of consequence. I am a little out of condition, perhaps. Now I must leave you here."
"May I not come with you? I am not afraid of infection."
"If it were your duty to go, I would say nothing; but it is not. No; take a stroll for fifteen minutes, if you like, and then wait within sight of the bridge. I may be twenty minutes or half-an-hour. Barclay's cottage is only five minutes beyond the others."
"Must you see him to-day?"
"As well go, when I am so near. He was rude last time I called, so the more need that I should call again soon. A strange man—but the poor fellow has had everything in life to harden and embitter him—nothing softening or humanising."
"Then is it his fault that he is what he is?"
Mr. Trevelyan went off at his usual pace, unheeding the words: and Jean crossed the bridge into the path beyond, which led towards the Brow plantations. She was busied with the question she had asked, and with this difficult now parishioner, whom she had not yet so much as seen.
He was, as Mr. Trevelyan said, a strange being; gloomy and repellent; a man who had tasted the dregs of sin and humiliation. After years of penal servitude, followed by the semi-freedom of a ticket-of-leave existence, he was now at liberty to make a fresh start. But he was soured, and friendless. The present had for him no happiness, the future no hope. He seemed to have come to Dulveriford chiefly because he knew nobody there: and the one thing he demanded was to be left alone. He had no doubt something, however little, to live on, since he made no effort to find work. His was a solitary existence. He exchanged amenities with none; rarely entered the village except after dark; and haunted lonely lanes, to the terror of cottage children. Kind words won no response; and kindness in action was spurned. He had lost or flung away all faith in God and in man: and thus far Mr. Trevelyan had failed to make any impression on him.
Jean knew all this, and Mr. Trevelyan's involuntary utterance was a further revelation.
Everything in life against the man! Everything hardening; everything embittering; nothing softening; nothing humanising. Then, how far could he help being what he had become? How far was Barclay responsible? Might he have emerged from such surroundings aught else than the miserable and guilty being that he was? Surely, yes—had he the will to emerge! But could the crippled and stunted will so assert itself? There lay the real core of the problem, rather felt than expressed by Jean. Suppose Barclay to have chosen his own line of life; then he would be responsible for the outcome of that choice. Suppose him to have had no power of choice; then he would only be responsible for the use he had made of surroundings from which he could not escape. Jean saw distinctly the two positions.
"And oh; it is puzzling," she sighed, bending to look at a delicate cobweb, with its silken spokes and parallels, scattered drops of sticky fluid, and spotted crouching owner, all moored by a long elastic cable to a bough overhead.
"The life of lower animals seems so much simpler. They only have to do this or that, without freedom of choice . . . Yet how little we can tell! Even they may have more freedom than we know: and the higher they rise, the more they must decide for themselves . . . A dog can choose whether to obey or disobey; and Prince has a conscience for right or wrong. But then again comes in the question of training. What a different animal Prince would be, if he had run wild in the streets all his life! And he could not have helped the difference."
Precisely at the fifteen minutes' end, she reached the Bridge, and stood there waiting.
It was a pleasant place to wait in, and Jean was in no haste. Like most natures of a finely-strung and intellectual type, hers included a strong love of solitude, and great enjoyment of a tête-à-tête with Nature. The most intimate friend standing by must in some degree detract from this peculiar happiness. Perfectly to enter into Nature's moods, to hear Nature's voices, to be swayed by Nature's influences, one must be absolutely alone with Nature—that is to say, with Nature inanimate and animate, excluding only man.
Nature's mood that day was calm. Just above the rustic bridge the river-bed narrowed, rocks rising perpendicularly on either side; and the golden water flowed between in a steadfast shoot, slanting downward through a fluted channel, which had been polished by the continual rush into smoothness. Near the base of this channel, the swift watery shoot impinged on a projecting rock—of harder texture than surrounding rocks, therefore more slowly worn away—and glanced aside in a continuous rebound, a broad sheet of water, yellow-brown and translucent, curving gracefully from left to right, the edges of the curved sheet being folded as a sheet of iron might have been folded. All this was a temporary arrangement between rock and water; for each drop of water that swept against or over the rock helped to fret away the solid substance; and each passing year would witness further changes in the river-bed.
It is always so in life. Everything tells upon everything else—everybody upon everybody else—by the mere force of impact: and nothing can stand still in a lasting changelessness.
How long the waters had been carving for themselves this fluted rock-channel, who may venture to say? No doubt in past ages, the stream had poured over opposing boulders, making a waterfall beyond: and what was then a waterfall had been since transformed into a swift shoot. Inanimate Nature is very thorough in her mode of work; never getting into a flurry, never stamping aught that she undertakes, but steadily persistent through centuries.
Trees grew around; oak mingling with birch and sycamore with beech, in a very labyrinth of foliage. Creeping ivy had embraced whole trunks, and flung itself from bough to bough. Abundant bracken crowded the banks, turning fast to brown and gold, more fair in its dying than in its fuller life. Mosses and lichens dressed the grey stones with borrowed beauty. Not a breath of air stirred, and not a leaf moved, except where one loose birch-bough near the stream swayed to and fro, swung by the breath of the rushing water. No wonder the rush was strong; for the whole river had to gather itself together and pour through this slender sluice, in the same time that it would loiter below through a bed of unlimited width capabilities. Lack of space had to be balanced by excess of speed.
Jean leant on the parapet, to gaze and listen. She gathered first the broad utterance of the stream, a continuous sound, busy and loud, not unlike the murmur of a town. Then she separated the whole utterance into its many voices, as a trained ear can separate the instruments of an orchestra, listening first to flute, then to violin, and then to 'cello. Jean could hear the little inner whispers, the low gurgles and mutters, of tiny watery whirls and waves, together with the swish of runlets checked by opposing boulders: all of which voices mingled together into one chorus.
A heavy step drawing near brought Jean to an upright position; and at once she was face to face with a gaunt man, tall though slouching, dark-browed and sullen. Jean did not like his look. In a general way, she thought nothing of meeting a stranger in a lonely spot; and personal fear had been hitherto a sensation almost unknown to her. But at the sight of this man, strange to say, fear sprang into existence. She became aware of her unprotected position.
"Good-evening," she said, as he came nearer.
It was the country custom at Dulveriford for everybody to greet everybody in passing; and Jean thought it best to speak, showing no alarm. She moved to leave the bridge, purposing to walk on and meet her father; but this plan was frustrated. The man placed himself at the entrance of the bridge, barring exit on that side.
Should she retreat to the other side? It would look like flight; and the man might follow. To escape along the long path which led towards the Brow plantation, with such a pursuer, seemed worse than to stay where she was. Moreover, she would then be out of Mr. Trevelyan's reach; and here, at any moment, he might appear.
PROTECTOR AND PROTECTED.
"You can't do some things with impunity.""The Ring and the Book."
THESE thoughts flashed through Jean's mind, as she stood resolutely still, trying to be unconscious of the sense of dread which drove all colour from her face. It was a sensation no less unpleasant than new. Up to this date, Jean could almost have said with the infant Nelson, "What is fear? I never saw it." Something of danger she had known; and she knew what it was to meet danger with an undaunted spirit: but actual womanly terror had not assailed her.
She might have met a dozen men in the loneliest lanes of Dulveriford, one after another, and have cared little for it; greeting each in succession with a pleasant word. But this man—! Jean could not tell what it was about him which frightened her. She was only, all at once, conscious of her own girlish helplessness, as she never had been before.
Still, whatever Jean felt, she would not be soon overcome. As he stood and stared, she said, "Will you let me pass, if you please?"
He half moved as if to comply; then, changing his mind, he grasped either parapet of the narrow bridge with a large hand.
"Perhaps you have something that you wish to say to me. What is it?" asked Jean.
The very effort to seem brave made her inwardly braver.
No answer came.
"Do you want anything?" she repeated. "Are you in trouble?" as the stolid misery of the dark face grew upon her.
"In—trouble!" The words dropped slowly, and a guttural laugh followed. "I like that!—I do!"
"Is your name Barclay?"
"Yer've hit it! My name's Barclay."
He mounted on the wooden bridge, a good step higher than the path on which he had stood; and all Jean's strength of nerve was required to keep her from flight; but she was convinced that her wisest plan was to show no alarm.
"Now yer mind! I've sommat to say to yer—if so be yer the Parson's darter."
Evidently he knew Jean by sight, though she had not known him.
"Mr. Trevelyan is my father."
"Then yer'll tell the Parson as how I don't want none of he! Nor none of his talk! Nor none of his preaching! Nor none of his religion!"
The man spoke with a dogged fierceness, bordering on insolence.
Jean stood perfectly still, her head high, as she answered—"Yes."
"Yer can tell him! I'll have nought of he! Had enough o' parsons, and don't want no more. If he'll let me be, I'll let he be. And if so be he comes a-meddling, it'll be the wuss for he! Yer mind! I ain't a-going to stand it!" He stepped forward, and shook a wrathful fist within a yard of Jean's face; yet still she would not quail. "Yer understand? I ain't a-going to stand it!" And an oath followed.
"Hush! You are not to speak so to me,"' said Jean slowly. "I will tell my father what you say. You are at liberty to send a message; but there is no need to be angry."
Barclay's clenched hand dropped. Something in the still face of the girl calmed the wild animal which was uppermost in him. She had marvellous self-control; for no one looking on could have guessed her terror.
"Look 'ere!" He spoke in accents a trifle more subdued. "I means what I says! I don't mean no harm to nobody so as I'm let alone. But I won't be meddled with. Nor I won't be preached at."
"I will give your message, and my father will do what he thinks right. If you have no more to say, will you please let me pass?"
"No: I ain't done yet." A darker expression rolled over his face, and he scowled at Jean. "I ain't done yet. Look 'ere! Yer don't think it, but I means what I says. If you parson comes along a-meddling, it'll be the wuss for he! Tell yer—! I'd heave him over them rocks, as easy—!"
Jean's breath grew quick, and righteous wrath flushed the young face. "Do you know what you are saying?" she broke in. "Do you know that you are threatening murder? And for what? Because my father is kind and good, and will not leave off trying to help you." She grew very white, speaking with passionate earnestness. "I know—I understand—you have lived a miserable life! And when my father would bring you, if he could, a little hope—then you talk of throwing him over the rocks. Is that worthy of a man? At least you could meet kindness by kindness. What do you suppose my father gains by going after you? Nothing!"
"He be the Parson! 'Tis his trade! He be paid for it!"—sullenly.
"Paid for it! What do you call being paid for it? He has a small income, and he is expected to see to the Church and the Parish. Do you suppose he gets a penny more by going to see you! If he never went near your cottage again, nobody would call him to account. He goes because he thinks it right—not because of anything he can gain by it. He goes because he wants you to be happy."
Barclay seemed with an effort to shake himself free from the effect of her words. "Tell yer—! It's no good! Don't want to be helped. Yer don't know," flinging out once more a clenched hand towards Jean, and holding it extended. "Tell yer—! I'll have nought to do with Parsons. Never no more! Don't believe in 'em! Nor don't believe in Church! Nor don't believe in nothin'. Tell yer! I means to be let alone!"
Cyril's voice rang out indignantly at this juncture: "Jean! You here!"
In a moment he was on the bridge, past Barclay, whom he twisted half round in his passage, and beside Jean; his eyes flashing; his whole figure alert for action.
Jean saw so much; saw the brawny arm struck down; and heard a sharp interchange of angry words, culminating in a contemptuous "Be off!" from Cyril.
Then the man was gone; and reaction from resolute courage had rendered her almost unable to stand. But the relief of Cyril's presence—! Jean had laughed often at his boyishness, congratulating herself on her own independent spirit. She learnt this day that the bravest woman living cannot always do without a man to protect her.
"What was it all about?" asked Cyril, when he had guided Jean to a mossy lump of rock, and had made her sit down. "What did the fellow do to you? No, don't answer yet—" as an effort to reply brought back the convulsive tremor in her throat. "Keep quiet a minute. The wretch!—What a good thing I came! They told me at the Rectory that you were gone up the Gorge. I say, I'll get some water. I've got my little travelling-cup here, in my pocket. It won't take me three minutes to climb down—and you're regularly shaken."
"Don't go—please. He might come back."
This from Jean! Cyril could hardly believe his own ears. For the first time within the recollection of both, he was the protector, Jean the protected. Reversal of the childish order of things had been long in coming; but here it was; and Cyril had difficulty in hiding his gratification.
"The fellow won't come back. He knows better. Now tell me all about it—" with an authority which at any other time would have made Jean laugh or resist. She obeyed now, meekly as ever Cyril had submitted himself to her, and gave particulars.
"You were about as plucky as any girl could be," decided Cyril. "But I say, Jean, you ought to take warning. It's not right for you to be wandering about in all sorts of wild places alone. I wonder Mr. Trevelyan doesn't see. You ought to take more care, really."
"I hope my father will not meet Barclay. You are sure he went down the Gorge—not up? Oh, I am all right again—" in answer to renewed inquiries. "I can't think why I was so stupid. Do you really not mind waiting a few minutes? My father is sure to come directly."
"As if I could leave you for the chance of another fright!" Cyril seated himself on the rock beside Jean, and chatted on matters indifferent, winning her thoughts from the past scene.
He had not been so like his old self for a good while; though it was an old self with new elements intermixed. Presently a break occurred: and as Jean was about to recur to Mr. Trevelyan's long absence, he dashed into a new subject.
"Jean—there is something I want to ask of you!"
"Yes. What?"
"I want you to be kind to some friends of mine, coming to live in Dulveriford."
"What name?"
"Captain and Mrs. Lucas. Nephew of old Lady Lucas, and . . . Then you have heard—?"
"Not much. But, Cyril—! Friends of yours!"
"Why not?"
"I should have thought—Some one told me nobody would call upon them. Lady Lucas least of all."
"I didn't think you stooped to run with the tide."
"Of course, my father as a clergyman would do anything he could. But if they are not in our Parish—"
"Then you'll wrap yourself in your superior virtue, and hold aloof, like the rest of the world?"
Jean was puzzled at the mortified feeling in his tone.
"I can't understand. How came they to be your friends? Don't think me hard upon them, please, because I can only know what I have been told . . . Miss Devereux will not call."
"You don't suppose I am going to be in leading-strings to aunt Sybella all my life."
"No—only—Where did you come across them first?"
"Last autumn, in Switzerland. Captain Lucas and I met first on a mountain-top—overtaken by the same storm; and we took refuge in the same hut. After that we saw a lot of one another. I had walks with him and his daughter—and I used to go in for afternoon tea. Aunt Sybella was seedy, with any amount of coddling on hand; so I pleased myself."
"Did she and they meet?"
"Oh, she didn't come across them. They were in lodgings—not at our hotel. He's a well-read man—very good manners—and then one's so awfully sorry for him. She's about the nicest woman I know—Mrs. Lucas, I mean. And they are fighting one of the hardest battles a man ever had to fight—that's to say he is; and she helps him . . . You good people are all so exclusive, that you won't put out a helping hand. You only draw your saintly skirts aside, for fear of contamination, and walk by on the other side. If ever a man fell among thieves, Captain Lucas has. And if ever a man needed kind friends—I suppose he would get enough of pity and help too, if he were a working man, struggling to be sober. Being unfortunately a gentleman by birth, he only has the cold shoulder all round."
Jean listened in bewildered silence to this rush of words. A new phase of Cyril had appeared. She could not divine all the hidden springs which moved him; but strong feeling on behalf of another was sure to rouse her interest.
"I should like to understand more," she said. "What I heard was that Lady Lucas' nephew was a confirmed drunkard—dismissed from the army for hard drinking. Don't mind my saying it, please: because I was told."
"There's truth in the tale. He has a desperate tendency that way. It's awfully rough on him. His father died of delirium tremens; and the bent has come down to Captain Lucas. A horrible thing to have inherited! Then there was his bringing up, all through boyhood his father was a victim to drink, and the boy tempted every way. His mother was a good woman, but I don't think she counted for much in the household. Then he was put into the army; and you know what that means. He couldn't stand against it."
"And then—?"
"He had warning after warning; and it ended in his being dismissed. That sobered him; and about the same time, his mother died, making him promise to take a fresh start. Ever since, for years, he has kept up the struggle . . . I don't suppose you or I can fancy what it is—the sort of craving that seizes on him at times. Once in a way, he is overcome; and then he despairs; yet still he fights on. He never goes out to dinner—or anywhere, if a bottle of wine might be on the table; for he daren't trust himself."
"I wonder any one could marry him."
"She had known him all her life. It was a few years after he left the army—and she knew how determined he was to conquer. She thought she could help him; and I am sure she does. He told me himself that in some of his fits of despair, he never could have got up again, but for her. There's nobody else. None of his relations will have a word to say to him—they are such very good people, Jean—"
"You needn't sneer!"
"But it's true! And all her friends have cast her off for marrying him."
"I really can't think how she could. Was it right?"
"I suppose she thought it was: and she had to settle the question for herself. It's not a common case, you know—not like a man mastered by the habit. And the question is now, when he is so different, ought every one to go on punishing him for what he was once? I don't say he will never be overcome again. He may—some day. It's a frightfully hard battle—nobody knows how hard. But what more can he do than he is doing? He has kept straight now for over a year; and I do believe he will conquer in the end. I can't see that he ought to be treated like pariah by all good people. Wouldn't real goodness mean doing all one could to help him? . . . I'm not sneering at religion, Jean!—Only at the sort of sham goodness that—You know what I mean!"
"If one could help him really—"
"Of course one can. Nobody has any business to ask him to dinner, if wine is on table. If he knew, he wouldn't go! They don't have it in their house; and Em—I mean, Miss Lucas—has never tasted anything stronger than water. There's nothing for them but that plan: with his tendencies. He can't be moderate; so he must give up altogether . . . Still, I do think a few friends might call sometimes, and be kind to them, and make a little change for the poor girl; and ask them to afternoon tea. Or even for once, if it wasn't too desperate a self-denial, manage not to have wine on table."
"If my father is willing, I shall be glad enough to call. When do they come?"
"Soon. In a week or two. That queer little red house near the Post-Office belongs to Captain Lucas. He has lost money lately, so they are glad to live there rent-free."
"What is Miss Lucas like?"
"Oh, rather pretty," with would-be indifference. "You'd never guess what a dull life hers has been. I say, Mr. Trevelyan is unconscionably long. We'd better go to meet him. You must keep clear of the cottages; but I can't leave you alone here."
Jean yielded after some hesitation, and they had not far to walk. One turn brought them within view of a figure lounging on the ground, resting against the smooth bole of a large beech.
"Father!" exclaimed Jean. "Why, he has fainted!"
Mr. Trevelyan had never in his life been more ashamed of himself. That he should faint, like any hysterical school-girl, was too ridiculous.
Cyril privately doubted whether the attack were a genuine swoon; but he wisely said nothing.
When with much trouble they had brought Mr. Trevelyan round, the latter refused to be counted an invalid. As for needing help in the walk down the gorge—Cyril might look to Jean! And Mr. Trevelyan strode off at his most vigorous pace. This could not last, however. Cyril's tough young arm was soon needed, if the Rector wished to get home that night.
Once safe in his study, Mr. Trevelyan rallied, and laughed at Cyril's proposal to send for Dr. Ingram.
"Nothing was wrong," he said. "Merely a touch of over-fatigue. A good night would set him to rights."
He had been to Barclay's cottage, had found him out, and had met him immediately afterwards.
"A rather disagreeable interview," Mr. Trevelyan admitted. "The man was abusive. I told him I should follow my conscience as to calling again, whether or no he wished to see me."
Jean's adventure was then related; and Cyril ventured to recommend greater care.
"Jean ought not to go about alone in such places, now she was a young lady."
Mr. Trevelyan's eyes twinkled, and Jean's quick ears caught the sound of a faint mutter, not unlike "teaching your grandmother!" Then he thanked Cyril politely for the hint; since whatever else Mr. Trevelyan might be, he was always a gentleman. "Jean must exercise discretion," he said. "I can't supply a groom to walk in her rear. Barclay probably meant no harm. He is a sulky bear; but I must do my duty."
"He will consider that he has given you fair warning."
"Of his intention to toss me over the rocks? Two are needed for that little game. Possibly I might fail to consent. However, I am much obliged to you for your care of Jean—" holding out his hand with a grasp which almost made up for the preceding irony.
"You don't think the best plan would be to leave the man alone for a while, till he wants you?"
"Least trouble for myself, no doubt. Not most hopeful for him. His has been a dark story; and he shall have one more chance—if I can give it to him." Mr. Trevelyan's penetrating eyes looked into Cyril's, and the stern lips softened unwontedly to ask, "If Christ were here, would He leave that poor fellow to go down hopelessly—without an effort to pull him up?"
"Then you will agree with me!" Cyril exclaimed, and forthwith, he poured out the story of the Lucases.
"Yes: you are right," Mr. Trevelyan said, at the first break. "I agree with you. As brother Christians, and brother Churchmen, we may not 'walk by on the other side.'"
"And you will call?"
"I will do all in my power—and Jean will do all in hers. They will be in Jem's Parish; and you should go to him. But," after a moment's thought, "don't be too ready to condemn those who take a different view. There may be difficulties involved, not apparent to you. If I had boys growing up, I should count it a serious matter to throw them under his influence. Now I must have half-an-hour's rest, before getting to work. So good-bye for the present—" once more holding out his hand.
"Jean, I don't know how it is, but there is something about your father unlike other people," said Cyril, in the passage. "He doesn't go in for a lot of religious talk; but when he does say something, it goes straight to the mark. One can't help knowing how he feels it! He's so real!"
"I'm glad you understand him," Jean answered.
"NOT IN MY SET."
"And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam!And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam!"R. BURNS.
SYBELLA DEVEREUX, with a dinner-party hanging over her head, was a sight to see.
Dinner-parties at the Brow were not altogether unusual; and the servants knew what they were about; and Sybella was able to afford what she considered necessary, without reaching the end of her tether; but, none the less, she always lived through any amount of previous agonies, and invariably expected everything to go wrong.
Any dinner-party was bad enough; even if it were a concoction of her own devising, and after her own taste. Dear Lady Lucas, for example, as the central dish—if in these days one may talk, even symbolically, of "central dishes;" and that good Colonel Atherstone and his sister for side dishes; and the delightful new St. John's curate, Mr. Byng, whom report wrongfully declared to have been selected by Sybella herself for Mr. Kennedy; and of course dear Mr. Kennedy himself, not to mention that less desirable appendage, his wife—all these and any other members of the St. John's "set," as Evelyn had once incautiously termed them, to her husband's displeasure, Sybella was charmed to entertain. Any amount of previous agonies was worth enduring for such a consummation.
If, however, dinner-parties weighed upon Sybella's shoulders, when she had the devising of them, how much more would they weigh when their management was taken out of her hands, and when the traditions of her youth were liable to cruel outrage!
Cyril was not now only of age, but fully aware of the fact, and of all that it implied. He was his own master; and Sybella, his quondam guardian, could no longer exert authority over him; but this, she was slow to realise. His twenty-first birthday in August had been duly observed; and Sir Cyril had comported himself towards friends and neighbours, not only with what Sybella, called his "sweetly aristocratic" politeness, but also with the air unmistakable of master of the domain. Which of course he was! Ripley Brow belonged to Cyril—not to Sybella. Sybella's tenure of office was at an end; and if she remained at Ripley Brow, she remained by Cyril's permission. She had no grain of right to stay otherwise; and since she possessed her own independent income, sufficient to keep her in comfort, many doubted whether the permission would be long accorded. Sybella's worrying ways were pretty well known in the neighbourhood.
To Sybella herself, the idea had not so much as occurred that a change might be contemplated by her nephew. If Cyril were master—and that he meant to be master soon became evident—Sybella was mistress; and mistress she intended to remain. Ripley Brow had always been her home, therefore of course it always would be. No unusual style of argument, this, with more vigorous intellects than Sybella's.
Nay, for a while, Sybella had not even expected Cyril to exercise his rights as master. He was so young still; and she, for eleven years, had had the irresponsible control of everything; and any sudden alteration was most unlikely. Legally, she might not be any longer his guardian; but she was his aunt, and he was her nephew; and Sybella never believed in young people growing up; and she counted his moral indebtedness to herself as enormous in amount. Altogether there was no reason why everything might not go on exactly the same ad infinitum. A remote possibility did, no doubt, exist that Cyril might some day in the course of years desire to marry; but at present, he was too ridiculously young. Sybella did not intend to allow it.
She was unutterably taken by surprise—"struck on a heap," to use a familiar expression—when Cyril one day brought her a written list of names, and expressed his intention to have the said people invited to dinner on a certain evening.
Sybella read the names aloud, with intervening ejaculations.
"Lady Lucas, and the Trevelyans! Impossible, Cyril! I never ask them together. Lady Lucas does not approve of Mr. Trevelyan's Church views. Mr. James Trevelyan and his mother! No, I do not see the least need to begin having them! They are not at all in my set; and Colonel Atherstone says he is really a most dangerous young man! Evelyn and Miss Moggridge! That dreadful Miss Moggridge! One never knows what she will do next. I detest masculine women. Mr. Cuthbert! No, I don't like Mr. Cuthbert at all. He has such a sneering way of saying things. Mr. Byng—"
Sybella laid down the paper, and said it would not do. It was quite out of the question. She was willing to have a dinner-party, if Cyril liked—though really she was so tired with all that had to be done—she would have preferred to wait a few weeks—but at all events, it could not be that dinner-party. The people would not suit one another at all. It would be most unpleasant.
"You know, one has to be so very particular who one asks to meet who," she went on plaintively and ungrammatically. "Anything of clashing is so extremely disagreeable. And besides—"
"Well, perhaps they would not quite suit," admitted Cyril.
He sat down, facing Miss Devereux with a perverse smile, which ought to have warned her of quicksands near.
"I put in Lady Lucas and Mr. Byng solely for your sake, and if you don't mind we'll leave them out. The rest are all right. Ten isn't a bad number. Besides, we might get Dr. Ingram and his daughter, if two more are needed. He's always an acquisition."
"Dr. Ingram! Cousin of all the Trevelyans! Worse and worse!"
"They'll pair off well enough," continued the reckless young baronet, oblivious of the reddening rims round Sybella's eyes. "What—you would rather keep the list as it is—not strike out Lady Lucas? You didn't read Admiral Grice's name?—Look—at the top. He'll take you in, of course; and I thought you would like that, to escape Mr. Trevelyan. He's a jolly old fellow, and there's nothing he likes better than discussing his gout, so you and he will get on famously. I must undertake Lady Lucas, and if only we stumble on everybody's relationships, it's smooth sailing for an hour. The old lady is sure to be serene, retailing her decent from Japhet. It will be almost a family dinner-party, and the talk is likely to become general. That's what—Eh?"
Sybella gasped incoherently.
"That's what I want. Aunt, mind you don't put an enormous block of greens on the table, so that nobody can see anybody. Just streak things about on the table-cloth somehow. Evelyn will give you a hint. Then I've bracketed Mr. Trevelyan with Mrs. Trevelyan, and Cuthbert with Evelyn. I suppose Jem Trevelyan really ought to have Evelyn, in virtue of his new dignities; but he is the last fellow to mind, and I want to see him get a rise out of Miss Moggridge. It's famous when she flips her bread into little bits, and whisks her table-napkin off her knees, in defence of women's rights. And Mr. Byng is left to Jean. He will chatter nineteen to the dozen, and Jean will look like a martyr. But—" hopefully—"if you wouldn't mind dropping out those two, it's easy enough to rearrange. I'll take Mrs. Trevelyan, and—"
"So very uncomfortable!" sobbed Sybella, feeling herself dethroned; and much as she disliked the troubles and responsibilities of office, she by no means disliked its dignities.
"Uncomfortable! I don't see why! Really I don't understand what you have to cry about. You can't surely expect me never to ask my friends to The Brow. That would be rather hard lines!"
Sybella wept lugubriously.
"Don't you see? I've waited till now, but people will expect a difference. I'm glad enough that you should have your cronies as often as you like—any number of them—why, I've thrown a couple in, purely on your account. Only I must have my turn."
"To ask Mr. Trevelyan to dinner! And after all these years! Never once since my dear aunt—! And with his views!" wailed Sybella.
"And I don't see how one's to ask him without his views!" murmured Cyril. Then aloud, "That's the very thing! I would have asked him to dinner hundreds of times, but I knew you wouldn't consent so long as you had the responsibility, you know. So I just had to wait . . . It's no good discussing his views with you, because you go by what Colonel Atherstone says, while I know the man himself. If you really knew Mr. Trevelyan, you couldn't help feeling differently . . . As for Jem Trevelyan, the more we can see of him, the better. He's a first-rate fellow—every way! . . . But I don't want to bother you—" in a tone of relenting which brought one gleam of hope to Sybella's breast. "If you dislike the thing so much, and would rather make some other arrangement for yourself for that evening, it is quite easy. Evelyn would come and head my table. There's no real difficulty."
"My table" settled the matter.
Sybella beat a retreat to her own room, but opposition ceased. The last shot had told. To abdicate in favour of Evelyn, for even one night, was no part of Sybella's policy.
Cyril had made up his mind to strike, once and for all, for liberty. A wiser woman than Sybella would have foreseen this, and by judicious yielding would have obviated the need for any such self-assertion on Cyril's part. Had she at once yielded the reins to him, he would probably have put them back into her hands. But striving to retain too much, she was in danger of losing everything.
Sybella, unfortunately, was not wise. She gave in because she had no choice; but for days she sulked; and Cyril's kind-mannered overtures, designed to show that he had no wish to give pain, met with a snappish response.
Little as Sybella knew it, she was slowly killing her last remnants of power over Cyril. A gentle and loving woman might have guided him with a rein of silk, might have done with him almost what she would. His affectionateness could have been worked upon to any extent. But unauthorised attempts at control roused all his latent powers of resistance; and ill-temper on her side deadened feeling on his. Nothing is so deadening to affection as the constant friction of an uncertain and irritable temper. Cyril had once been really fond of Miss Devereux; but through years, the fondness had been lessening under the chill of her uncontrolled egotism, and this autumn's struggles bid fair to put it out of existence altogether.
As the dinner-party drew near, Sybella had to put aside irritation so far as to prepare for it. She found that, if she did not exert herself, arrangements would be taken out of her hands. Thereupon she consented to listen, with an injured air, to what Cyril had to say, and she gave requisite orders.
One thing tending to smooth her ruffled feelings was Cyril's interest in the new dress with which he insisted on presenting her. She had plenty of dresses already; but no doubt he meant the gift for a peace-offering.
A difficulty arose. Cyril wanted Miss Devereux to have a handsome black silk or satin; and Sybella desired pale mauve, trimmed with white lace. Cyril suggested grey as a compromise; but Sybella held to the mauve. She had worn a delicate straw-coloured silk on Cyril's birthday, and Lady Lucas had congratulated her on her youthful looks. Lady Lucas was famed for saying smooth things, and to other people, it had seemed that the too light dress and too juvenile hat had brought out the deepening rumples in Sybella's cheeks, and had shown off the ridges in her throat. But these remarks had not reached Sybella.
After all, she was only just over fifty; and what is fifty compared with—say, with eighty? Sybella felt young still; and she probably would feel the same, if she should live to be ninety; not because she kept youth's elasticity, which does occasionally last into old age, but because she was a creature of one-sided development, and part of her brain had never fully emerged from the semi-infantine stage. Hence her tendency to gush.
Cyril, at twenty-one, naturally looked upon fifty as somewhat advanced; and, theories of age apart, he was keen enough to see that "Aunt Sybella" looked far better in middle-aged grey or black than in pale straw: or in mauve as delicate as the blue of "love-in-a-mist." However, not wishing to give fresh offence, he bought the coveted hazy hue; and Sybella, in consultations with her dressmaker, became almost reconciled to the thought of "that dreadful dinner-party."
All the invitations were accepted, including Jem's. He knew that he would meet Evelyn, and might probably have to take her in to dinner. What then? All "that" was over—a thing of the past. Evelyn Villiers was merely a pleasant acquaintance to him now, and a rather frequent member of his congregation. She seemed to be gradually sliding away from St. John's, and slipping into the Parish Church. Mr. James Trevelyan "helped her," she said quietly, and her husband had liked him. But Jem knew well that they could never be anything further, one to the other.
He did not even think that he wished for anything further in their intercourse. Once, undoubtedly, he had wished it. Whether he had ever been genuinely in love with her, he was not now quite sure. She had been to him as a "bright particular" distant star; as an ethereal unearthly being; as a lovely dream; as "an angel," in short. So he had once told Jean, and it was true. But Jem was older now, and Evelyn was not exactly an angel.
They had exchanged calls. Evelyn had found Mrs. Trevelyan out, and Jem and his mother had found Evelyn in. She had been rubbed the wrong way by a prolonged call, and a lengthy dissertation on the evils of the age, from Colonel Atherstone. Evelyn always bore with him for her husband's sake; but he left her used up and flat, even petulant in a gentle fashion. She vented her petulance once or twice on the unoffending Miss Moggridge; and though Miss Moggridge always seemed to enjoy whatever Evelyn did, the faintest sign of ill-temper in his "angel" was a shock to Jem. He did not expect women in general to be entirely above all human weakness; he was not so unreasonable. But Evelyn was different!
Her violet eyes had their old pathetic unrest; only, perhaps, such unrest is more pathetic at twenty-five than at twenty-nine, especially when the twenty-nine looks like thirty-five; and then craving for something unattainable had grown into what was more like discontent. Nothing can ever be less attractive than discontent.
Moreover, Jem was in a measure preoccupied. He had a great deal of work, worry, and responsibility, all pressing on him. So though he had come to Dutton with some secret dread lest the old pain might revive, it had as yet shown no symptoms of such a resuscitation.
In his East-End Parish, Jem had been judging by that somewhat doubtful test, success—the right man in the right place. He had exactly suited his work, and his work had exactly suited him.
Perhaps that was why he could not be suffered to remain there indefinitely. Friction is often a necessity for the polishing of character.
Jem was likely to have friction enough in Sutton.
His first sermon, after reading himself in, had been preached some three or four weeks back; and Dutton was in a turmoil of talk for days afterwards to make out "what he was." A goodly array of Dutton people had crowded in from other Churches to hear that sermon; not with the smallest intention of being taught by it, but merely to judge therefrom the mental and spiritual standing of the new Rector. Was he able? Was he interesting? Was he dull? Was he High? Was he Evangelical? Was he Broad? Would he think this? Would he say that? Would he do the other? Some asked the more pertinent question, Was he a good man?—But this, translated, too often meant only, Does he hold my opinions?
So they all sat and listened, and each held up as a test the little measuring tape of his own particular views, to see if the Rector's views fitted accurately thereto, in length, and breadth, and thickness.
Certain of the St. John's congregation were present among others; not, of course, from any bad habit of wandering, but solely for the good of their neighbours. If Jem were an undesirable Rector, the sooner folks were warned off from him, the better!
Colonel Atherstone watched solemnly for the "dangerous doctrines," which he had resolved beforehand were sure to come; and Lady Lucas nodded sleepily in a conspicuous corner, content to have pitched upon a party catch-word, with the quoting of which she might thenceforward label him; and Miss Devereux endeavoured perplexedly to wade after thoughts beyond her depth, which were therefore "erroneous."
Others present, like-spirited, though not of St. John's, heard no less critically. Miss Moggridge found him "not Broad enough;" and somebody else found him "not High enough;" at the very moment that Miss Atherstone was settling her bonnet-strings, and privately dubbing him "a concealed Jesuit."
Few among the herd of critics had leisure to notice the childlike trust, the earnest purpose, the burning love to God and man, which swept along the preacher himself, and filled the Church with an overflow of the Spirit of Christ.
For all they wanted to know was: "Which party?" And this they could not find out.
Jem, while an ardent Churchman, was no party-man. He had the strength to accept Divine Truth wherever he found it, even in the face of its especial patronage by any party.
Naturally, this made his position not an easy one in a place cut up into cliques and parties, social and religious.
THE SOCIAL BOARD.
"Where men of judgment creep and feel their way,The positive pronounce without dismay;Their want of light and intellect suppliedBy sparks absurdity strikes out of pride:Without the means of knowing right from wrong,They always are decisive, clear, and strong."COWPER.
DINNER at The Brow was in full swing before anybody held a match to the combustible elements there gathered. Miss Devereux had made fretfully sure of an explosion. She held a ladylike belief that if a gun is present, it is sure to go off, forgetting that even a loaded gun will lie quiescent until somebody pulls the trigger.
Cyril was at his best, handsome and conversational; and Lady Lucas' beaming countenance seemed to bespeak her forgiveness of the company into which she found herself plunged. After all, had not the Trevelyans ancestors—and were there not blue ingredients in the Trevelyan blood?
Mrs. Trevelyan, "Jem's mother" as she was called by many, was the model of a sweet elderly lady, and Evelyn was more like her old self than Jem had yet seen her. Jem himself looked fagged and out of spirits with the worries of the past month. Perhaps he felt a little disappointed at not having to take Evelyn in; at all events, Jean thought so, even while dutifully "not allowing herself" to think anything of the kind. He quite failed to get any manner of a rise out of Miss Moggridge, for the young baronet's entertainment; indeed, conversation flagged much between the two. The one being a man of action, the other a woman of theories, they were less likely to act match and match-box than Cyril had expected.
Miss Moggridge was a lady of independent though small means; not a "companion" in the ordinary sense of the word, since she received nothing from Evelyn but a home and the privilege of dancing attendance upon her. She had no home ties of her own, and she had fallen over head and ears in love with Evelyn, as one woman does sometimes fall in love with another. Miss Moggridge did not gush and fuss sentimentally over her love, as some women do in a like case—women of Sybella's calibre—but she was silently ready to give time and life to the object of her affections. Evelyn, touched by this intense though commonly dumb devotion, and feeling the need of permanent companionship, had somewhat hastily suggested living together—in other words, had offered to take Miss Moggridge into her ménage. The offer had been at once eagerly accepted.
But to have a devoted friend out of the house, and to be with that friend always in the house, are two different things. A friendship, which is only enhanced by the little partings and meetings and excitements of the one existence, will not always stand the pull of the other. The compact had not long been made before Evelyn began, after her wont, to regret it.
She was sincerely fond of Miss Moggridge; yet this fondness was a mild affair compared with the absorbing and jealous worship of the older lady. Miss Moggridge's dumbness of love lessened under the thawing influence of perpetual nearness; and the ardour of a devotion which could never leave its object alone became a weariness to that object. Evelyn loved freedom, even while she craved for more ties; and she found her freedom hampered.
Miss Moggridge was large in make, and superlatively plain. Her face, no less than her body, was large; the nose was crooked; the eyes were small; the teeth were discoloured; the complexion really was "liver-hued." She had not in looks a single redeeming point; and she was also somewhat gauche, somewhat excitable, somewhat opinionated, somewhat clever, and by fits and starts a great talker. Towards Evelyn she was monotonously mild and yielding on all questions of opinion: towards other people she was hardly less monotonously argumentative. All this had been a matter for amusement in the friend whom Evelyn saw for an hour or two at a time, but in her perpetual companion, she did not like it so well. She was equally teased by the inevitable agreement with herself, and by the inevitable disagreement with the rest of the world.
There were oppositions and inconsistencies in Miss Moggridge, as in most human beings. Theologically she prided herself on being Broad; and she showed her share of human contractedness by her unlimited abuse of those whom she counted "Narrow." The abuse was not couched in unladylike terms, but it was sufficiently severe; and to Evelyn such tirades always came as an attack upon her husband's memory. Of course, she never said so; and Miss Moggridge never guessed what Evelyn felt, or the tirades would have ceased in her hearing. As they did not cease, they helped to loosen the bond which attached the two ladies together.
Miss Moggridge was also an advocate for "female rights;" and on this topic she was apt to wax explosive, to the immense delight of young men, who, calm in the consciousness of their inborn superiority, could afford to smile. Miss Moggridge might not "see it," but so much the better fun. Evelyn, however, did not accept certain modern versions of female rights, and she had begun to grow tired of the declamations on this subject, once only entertaining.
Side by side with such characteristics were to be found in Miss Moggridge a large modicum of womanly tenderness when something or somebody called it out; a painful womanly consciousness of her own ugliness; and a vehement love of beauty. There is something pathetic in such a beauty-loving soul as hers, enshrined in so clumsy a casket. If, in any mysterious sense, the soul can be supposed to secrete the body, as a mollusc secretes it shell, one can only wonder how Miss Moggridge's poetic soul should have put forth so inadequate an expression of itself.
This jumble of characteristics in female form was now Evelyn's chosen companion. For how long? Perhaps for the rest of her life. Could anything ever separate them? Evelyn sometimes put this question to herself drearily; not that she did not love Miss Moggridge, but that she did not love to be bound.
"I must never marry again; that is certain," she said to herself, with a flickering smile. "So soon as I am tied to a person, I want to be free."
But would Miss Moggridge go, if Evelyn desired it? Could Evelyn ever have the heart to ask her to do so? There were days when Evelyn felt herself under a hopeless incubus. Companionship was all very well; but to be incessantly watched, followed, petted, advised, cared for, was a little too much—at her age, and after years of liberty. She panted under the oppression. Had Miss Moggridge suddenly vanished, Evelyn would have felt lonely; but none the less, this sensation that she could not, if she would, get rid of Miss Moggridge, fretted her.
To return to the dinner-party at Ripley Brow.
Miss Moggridge, like Sybella, was fond of lively colouring. The possession of a poetic soul did not imbue her with good taste in clothing her body. To gratify Evelyn, she had suppressed a startling cheese-hued costume, and wore nothing worse than sea-green. Lady Lucas was in black velvet; Mrs. Trevelyan and Evelyn were in black silk; Sybella alone was resplendent in sheeny mauve and snowy lace. Jean's white dress was the simplest imaginable; her only ornament being one large pearl-pin in her abundant hair; but Cyril again told himself that "he had never seen Jean so handsome." He did not this time make the observation aloud.