Finally she disappeared to attend to household duties; and when, half-an-hour later, she came back, carrying for her invalid a hot treacle posset, which after much circumlocution of ideas she had decided upon as superior to even the camomile compound—lo and behold, the bird was flown.
"Yea, ma'am, Sir Cyril is gone out," Pearce said, when Sybella had poured upon him a small cascade of questions and sentiments. "He didn't mean to be long, he said."
"He will get a fresh chill. He will be laid by with inflammation of the lungs! Another attack of congestion!" gasped Sybella. "So wrong—so thoughtless!"
"It's an uncommon hot day, ma'am," averred Pearce, with a glance at the August sky.
"But damp—quite damp. The air is full of damp," declared Sybella. "See what an amount of dew on the grass. Dew always means damp in the air," she went on scientifically.
Like most unlearned people, Sybella was positive in proportion to her ignorance.
"Where else could the damp come from? And damp is the worst thing possible for a chill. If only you had told me sooner, Pearce!"
"Sir Cyril didn't give me no time, ma'am. He just said he was going to get a breath of air, and then he was off like a shot."
"Imprudent boy! Those Trevelyans again!" sighed Sybella, too much agitated to be circumspect.
Cyril had to pay for his wilfulness—not in the coin of ill-health, but in that of endurance. Sybella made known her views to him very fully on the enormity of his conduct; and a lecture from Sybella was apt to be, not loud perhaps, but long.
He did not get inflammation of the lungs, as she had foretold, and in a few days the cold vanished. Yet consequences even more momentous flowed from the doings of those two days. Thenceforward there were changed relations between the aunt and nephew. A slowly-widening chasm appeared, separating the two. Unquestioning submission on the part of Cyril ceased; and a struggle for authority on the part of Sybella began.
IN THE GORGE AGAIN.
"But 'tis done—all words are idle—Words from me are vainer still,But the thoughts we cannot bridleForce their way without the will."BYRON.
ONCE more Jem and Jean were in the gorge, not rushing headlong down the steep path, but walking steadily up. Jean could have raced as lightly the one way as the other; only she held herself in for the sake of her companion. Jem was overworked and out of condition. He had come to Dulveriford for rest, arriving late the evening before.
This sharp ascent was about as much as he could manage, taking it easily. There is no great practice in hill-climbing to be had at the East-End. Jean's quick eyes noted the occasional pauses, which were not only for admiration of the scene. He had lost his healthy tan, gaining instead a fixed paleness; but the face at twenty-nine was handsomer than at twenty-two. It had grown finer and more refined. The nobility of deep thought and the purity of self-abnegation shone through every feature.
Seven years since he had walked through this gorge.
The former time was vividly present with Jem. He found himself unexpectedly haunted by recollections of the fair girl, whom he had last seen here. Seven years at his age are a considerable slice out of a lifetime; and Jem had long ago risen out of the despair into which he was plunged by Evelyn's engagement to General Villiers. He could look back now, with a kind compassion, to his own misery of mind at that time, almost as to the misery of another person; and he could feel a friendly interest in Evelyn's welfare. He had ceased to dream of her in connection with himself. His life was full of thought, full of work; it was a life entirely devoted to the good of others; and so of necessity it was a joyous life.
Yet somehow he had never managed to fall in love a second time. Evelyn Devereux had been his first and only love. That one short episode had tinged his whole being. Evelyn Devereux, his love, was dead; but Evelyn Villiers would always be to him "a bright particular star."
All these seven years he had not been to Dulveriford. At first he had purposely stayed away, in dread of associations, in dread still more of seeing Evelyn, and so renewing the misery of loss. Later, he had not been free to come.
During five years past he had toiled, with every power of mind and body, in a great East-End Parish, rising to the position of Senior Curate—a man esteemed and beloved by all who knew him. He was in touch with his brother clergy, in touch with the working men around, in touch with the mothers, the children, the sick, the poor. Dominated in his uttermost being by the love of Christ, intensely loving and lovable himself, he won the love of others, and through their love for him, he led them to a nobler life, a life of service to the Muster whom he served. But the doing of this meant no easy-chair existence.
Offers of livings had come to him, not once or twice only. Jem was, however, in no haste to change. He delighted in his present sphere; and he cared little for advancement.
Once a year, generally in spring or early summer, he went for a month to Scotland, to recruit his much-tasked energies. At other times he could seldom be spared; and when he had a few days, his mother wanted him. Two or three times he had met the Trevelyans of Dulveriford in Scotland, when his holiday had happened to coincide with that of Mr. Trevelyan: but Dulveriford, he had not seen, declining all invitations.
This year his annual change had, from one cause or another, proved less successful than usual; and the advent of hot weather knocked him down. Jem struggled on till August; then doctor and friends insisted on another rest. An invitation from Dulveriford Rectory, coming at the right moment, was accepted.
Jem had not known, till after his arrival, that General and Mrs. Villiers were at home again. The knowledge would have made no difference as to his coming; for he counted himself completely cured of that long past suffering, able even to smile over it. Yet, walking through the glen once more, amid the surroundings of golden water, flecked leaf-shadows, sunshine and rocks, Jem experienced something like a transient revival of the old pain. He seemed to see Evelyn's face at every turn; to meet again the fringed black-blue eyes turned full upon him in wondering delight.
"Is it too far? Shall we turn back?" asked Jean, when Jem paused again near the rustic bridge, to lean against a tree.
Jem smiled at her. "You must give me a day or two to get up my powers," he said.
Jean did not pester him with solicitude. She had been trained to despise fussiness in the health-line. To be ill at the Rectory was almost a crime; not in the sense in which Sybella Devereux made it a crime, by always ascribing it to the sufferer's own imprudence; but bodily weakness was something to be ashamed of, something to be hidden and trampled under foot.
"Do you remember the last time you and I were here?" asked her companion.
He could not get the recollection of Evelyn out of his head. It was, however, a soft recollection, not unpleasing, though sad; and he could quite well bear to talk of her.
"Just after General Villiers was engaged to Cyril's sister," Jean answered promptly.
"General Villiers told me of the engagement here—in the gorge."
"Yes; I heard him begin, and I ran away. Aunt Marie had been so vexed, because I came upon her and my father talking about it. Aunt Marie didn't like her to marry somebody so old."
"You were a funny little girl in those days." Jem looked attentively into the grave face. "Jean—I should like to see you laugh more."
"Would you? But there is nothing to laugh at."
"Never?"
"Oh, sometimes—when people do odd things. Not often. Why should one be always laughing?" asked Jean, with girlish solemnity. "I don't think life is so very funny. It is worse than funny. There are so many things that one can't understand."
"What things?" Jem moved to a fallen log, and sat down, motioning Jean to do the same.
"A great many. There are no end of puzzles."
"Tell me one of them."
Jean considered, and came out abruptly with—
"I never do see how Evelyn could marry General Villiers."
"Hardly needful for another person to see, if she cared for him enough."
"No—but—" There was a singular echo of Jem's "if" in Jean's expressive face.
"And we have not to settle that point."
"No—but—" a second time, followed by another pause. "No: of course. Only I don't see how one can help wondering. Evelyn is so unlike everybody else; so beautiful and clever. Oh, 'clever' isn't the word. She is much more than clever."
"Intellectual."
"Yes; that is more what I mean. She seems to have such a—I don't know what to call it! She takes everything in, and thinks everything over; and then it comes out quite different, and so fresh. I'm not explaining myself properly. My father says she is original. And General Villiers isn't the least original, or clever, or anything. He is only good."
"That is a very important 'only.'"
"Oh, but don't you understand? One ought to be good, but one ought not to be only good. It shouldn't be just mere commonplace goodness."
"It ought to have a distinct character of its own, in each individual," suggested Jem, not a little interested in the play of Jean's face.
"Yes; I suppose that is what I want to say. My father always talks of General Villiers as such a 'very good man;' and it sounds to me as if he said it because he had nothing else to say. But I don't think one loves people merely because they are good—does one? At least I don't. There are numbers of good people that I can't love at all. I suppose I like their goodness, but I don't love themselves, because there doesn't seem to be anything in them to love."
"Or if there is something, Jean does not see it."
Jean was silent for a minute, and her next words might have seemed disconnected with her last. They did not so seem to Jem. He had the clue, and he could supply the connecting link.
"Evelyn was only two or three years older than I am now when she married. Only just eighteen—and he was the same age that my father is now."
"A considerable difference!"
"Cyril says people drift into things and can't help themselves."
"Cyril has had immense experience, no doubt."
"Then it isn't true?"
"Some people are weak enough to let themselves drift; but nobody need. Mind that, Jean."
"If Evelyn drifted into marrying the General—"
"Yes?" as Jean came to a stop.
"She must be very sorry now. That is what I have been thinking. Because it wouldn't be enough, I should think, to have a husband who was only just so very good and nothing else. And he doesn't care for the same things or the same people that she does. He never reads the books she likes most . . . Evelyn often looks as if she were sorry. She looks as if—I don't know exactly how to put it—only there's a look in her face, as if she did so want something else, something more than she has. He is very kind, of course; but still—I shouldn't think she was so very happy."
Jem rested his forehead on his hand. Jean's words brought a curious sharp sense of pain; literal pain darting through his temples, symbol and fruit of an acuter pain below. The pain was for Evelyn, not for himself. He was not thinking of himself, or of his own loss. Personally he had nothing to do with Evelyn Villiers, whatever he had felt for Evelyn Devereux. But, if Jean's conjecture were true—if that fair creature's life had been marred by hasty action, before she was old enough to judge for herself, Jem hardly knew how to face the thought. It seemed to him so very possible, and so very terrible.
If Evelyn were happy, he could rest in the consciousness of her happiness, going his own way peacefully enough; but if she were not—How could he rest, knowing her to be miserable, while he was powerless to help? "Miserable" is a strong word; but if love and sympathy were lacking between the husband and wife, what could it mean less than misery for either of them?
Jem's pulse throbbed with the picture which unconscious Jean had conjured up; yet he spoke quietly: "Jean, you must take care how you say such things."
"I wouldn't, to anybody accept you. I never do. But I can't help seeing: and it is true."
A good ten minutes of silence followed. Jean rose and went to the edge, gazing down upon a swirl of dark water in the rocky bed below. Jem remained where he was. He had to quell a rush of fierce longing to ask more, to find out more, to learn how things really were with Evelyn, to know if possible only that she was happy. He craved nothing further, but that he did crave, passionately, bitterly—just to know that she was happy!
The peace of years was suddenly broken up, and a whirlpool of the old suffering had him in its grasp. There was nobody to see, for Jean's back was turned; and had anybody else been present, there was not much to be seen. At the ten minutes' end, Jem had mastered himself.
He came to Jean's side, only a little paler than usual, to say, "Don't go too close to the edge. You would have a poor chance if you fell over."
Jean retreated two steps obediently. "But I am never giddy," she said. "Cyril can't stand there. It makes no difference to me."
"You have strong nerves."
"I've always lived here, you know. Shall we go on now?"
"I don't think I can walk much further to-day. Stupid of me, isn't it?" said Jem cheerfully. "I'm a little—tired, perhaps. So, on the whole, we may as well turn back."
It seemed like a dream to Jem. He could hardly believe his own eyes, when, as they came down the path, two people advanced towards them from below, passing out from the tree-shadows as once before. It was almost on the self-same spot that the encounter took place. Jem and Jean were not rushing now, however. Jean was no longer a child, but verging on womanhood; and Jem had lost some of his buoyancy; and twice seven years might have passed over the General's head.
Evelyn was perhaps the least altered of the quartette; or so Jem thought at the first moment. She appeared hardly less young or less lovely than the picture stored in his memory. Yet the next instant, he saw that she, too, was changed—not only developed into fuller beauty and more womanly grace. Development had not taken place merely along the lines that might have been expected. The faintly satirical set of her lips was altogether new; and the eyes—those wonderful violet eyes—no longer shone with delight in the world around her, but were full of a sad forlornness, as if she had come to the end of her life, had tasted all it had to offer, and had found that all unsatisfying. Jem understood now what Jean had meant.
The four stopped, of course, and exchanged kind greetings.
General Villiers was delighted to see Jem. "I meant to call on you this afternoon," he said, "but we met Mr. Trevelyan, and my wife has asked him to bring you in to dinner to-night. Just a family dinner—only one or two others. You will come, of course. Mr. Trevelyan could not promise for Madame Collier."
"Thanks, I shall be much pleased," Jem answered.
"Why not give us three or four nights before you go back? We should be delighted," urged the General.
"I don't think I can. I'm afraid I shall have to hurry away, even sooner than I meant."
Jean gave him a look.
"Thanks, all the same."
"So you have secured a peep at the glen the first thing," remarked Evelyn. "Is it not curious that we should meet again just on this spot, after so many years? Do you remember?"—with her gracious smile. Then she asked, "Have you been ill lately? I had not heard of it."
"Rather out of sorts. Yes—I remember! Seven years ago."
"Only seven. It seems so much longer. I could believe you if you said 'seventeen years!'"
General Villiers looked down on her with a smile. "That would make you a good deal older than you are, my dear," he said. He was proud of her youthful beauty, and never sought to hide the discrepancy in age—which, indeed, would have been a hopeless task. "Now, with me the years slip by in a marvellous way—like lightning. Almost as soon as a year begins it is gone. Seven years! Impossible! But Mr. Trevelyan looks older."
Evelyn's glance went again to Jem with kind solicitude. "He looks—not at all well," she said.
"East-End work takes something out of a man," Jem said, in apology for his appearance.
"You will not keep on at that always. You will have a living some day," said the General.
Jem might have told of several rejected livings.
"Some day, perhaps. One would wish to give one's best years to that work—and then—"
"But not to go on too long," suggested Evelyn. "Not to use up all your powers."
"They could hardly be used up to a better purpose."
"No—only—" she hesitated, dropping her voice, as the General turned to speak with Jean. "Oh, I understand! It must be a splendid life—a life worth living."
"It is a life worth living."
"So different from most people's lives!" and the deep blue eyes, which for a moment had kindled as of old, went forlornly to some far distance, with a listless sadness which struck home to Jem like a keen stab. Then they came back to him, kind and anxious again. "But you do look too much overdone. You must remember your friends."
"My love, we have not much time to spare," the General said. "I suppose we can hardly ask Mr. Trevelyan to come again with us to the bridge."
"He said he was tired," put in Jean.
"I am sure he is. Oh no; we shall meet by-and-by. He ought to go back now," Evelyn said at once, and they parted.
Jem made no effort to decide the matter for himself.
Few words were spoken on the way home. Jean gave a questioning glance now and then, of which Jem seemed unconscious. He was absorbed in his own thoughts. They did the remaining distance at a good brisk pace, never slackening speed. But when the house was reached, Jem all at once succumbed, seeming to be utterly wearied out. Jean had never known him so before, and she saw with a sense of dismay. To be scolded by Madame Collier for not taking better care of her cousin was a new experience, in a house where nobody ever thought about health; but Jem's exhaustion was something new also.
He had found his way to the drawing-room sofa, and there it seemed most merciful to leave him undisturbed. None in the house could guess at the real cause of his prostration—could know how the haunting vision of those sad violet eyes never left him for a moment. Jem saw them continually, whether his own aching eyes were open or shut.
"I'm sure I don't know what's to be done. He doesn't seem fit to go," said Madame Collier, when six o'clock came.
Jean would hardly have been more startled by the fall of a stack of chimneys than by the implied doubt. Not go to dinner at the Park! Memory failed to supply any precedent in the shape of a broken engagement. If a Trevelyan undertook to do something, he did it at all costs and hazards, short of absolute impossibility.
"I don't know what he really wishes, or what is the matter with him. He is tired and has a headache, and he can't or won't say more. Do bring him to a point, Jean, somehow. I wish he had not been so far this morning: but one could not guess, and it had no business to knock him down like this. Your father ordered a fly, for we didn't suppose Jem could manage the walk; and it will be here soon after seven."
Jean went to the drawing-room, wondering. Flys were not a common indulgence at the Rectory. She found Jem in the deep easy-chair near an open window, with his hand over his eyes. Jean's step was light as of old, and he seemed unconscious of her entrance. She stood looking at him for some seconds.
"Aunt Marie thinks you don't want to dine at the Park," she said at length.
Jem's sudden movement was as of one awakened from a dream. "It's no matter," he said.
"But if you are too tired—" Jean paused, astonished at her own words. Nobody at the Rectory ever thought of leaving a matter undone, merely on account of fatigue.
Jem did not at once reply. He was leaning back, quiet enough outwardly: and Jean could not see through the shield of composure. She could see the pale and drawn look: she could not know how intense was the craving to judge for himself as to Evelyn's happiness. The whole force of his desires pointed in that direction. But there was another side to the matter. Jem needed all his powers for his work: and if one glimpse of Evelyn's face had so destroyed his calm, how would things be after a whole evening in her presence? Might he deliberately risk it? Would it not be wiser, better, to keep away? For he could do no good. If Evelyn were not happy, he had no power to touch her unhappiness. Seeing her thus could only mean distress to himself, not gain to her.
Jean stood waiting, perplexed at his indecision; and as his hand went slowly over the rumpled hair, she began again—
"If your head is so bad—I mean, if you think you had better not go—"
"It is bad. Yes—I think I had better not go."
"Stay at home! Must you?" Jean had not expected this; and she was a good deal disappointed in Jem.
"I am afraid I must."
"It isn't walking, you know. The fly is ordered. And Evelyn will expect you. Wouldn't going do you good?"
Jem could truly answer, "No, I think not." He added in a gentle voice, which Jean knew to be decisive—"Tell aunt Marie I will give it up. And, Jean, I wish you would explain something else. I am sorry, but I find I can only stay two more nights here."
"You are not thinking of London again so soon."
"No."
Jean moved away without a protest, and gave her double message.
"Well, it can't be helped, though I know your father will be vexed," was Madame Collier's comment. "There's something wrong with Jem that we don't understand. Go home in two days! That he will not. He has heard something from somebody by post, I suppose. It doesn't matter. We won't let him off any of his week."
But when Jem knew himself to be in the right, his will was unbending as iron. After two nights, he left and he did not see Evelyn again meantime.
FRICTION.
"If two lives join, there is oft a scar,They are one and one, with a shadowy third,One near one is too far."R. BROWNING.
MRS. VILLIERS of Dutton Park was a marked personage in Dutton; partly from her husband's wealth and position, partly from her own personal charms. Her actions were watched and commented on to any extent. Where she drove, how she dressed, what she said, thought, and did, became matters for daily chit-chat. Above all, whom she called upon, whom she chose to welcome, and whom she treated with coldness, were questions which stirred the neighbourhood—more especially that part of the neighbourhood which belonged to the congregation of St. John's.
General Villiers was looked upon as the exclusive property of the St. John's clique; and where he belonged, his wife of course belonged also. How could she help it? He always occupied in Church one of the few carved chancel chairs, and Evelyn occupied a second by his side—an enviable distinction not to be accorded to everybody. When he stood up, martial and handsome, he was a fine specimen of the "old soldier," and he spoke out the responses in a deep bass voice, while his face was illuminated with earnest feeling, the sincerity of which none could doubt.
Evelyn, standing by his side, looked lovely and graceful, of course, for she never could be anything else; but nobody could help noting her air of habitual weariness, more especially during the sermon. Mr. Kennedy always preached for half-an-hour, sometimes more, on no occasion less. Whether or no his brain happened to contain matter enough for a thirty minutes' discourse, thirty minutes at least the congregation invariably had. Now a sermon, like a gas, is capable of indefinite expansion; but also, like a gas, a sermon grows thinner through stretching. That which might be a forceful little address, when compressed into fifteen or twenty minutes, becomes too often thin and weak when pulled out to fit thirty or forty minutes.
The congregation generally did not object. These soothing effusions, lengthily spun out, suited them—or at least suited their taste, which is not quite the same thing—and since they thoroughly accepted Mr. Kennedy, they were loyally willing to accept any amount of sermon from him, wholesale and without criticism. But to this state of mind Evelyn had not attained; and she chafed beneath the weekly infliction, making little effort to hide what she felt, and thus becoming a subject for animadversion. To add to the displeasure of the clique, she only came to St. John's when her husband came. If he were kept in by rheumatism, she wandered to Dulveriford Church.
Evelyn cared little what might be said, since she cared little for Dutton people. If any murmur reached her, she smiled her faintly satirical smile, and went on, unmoved. Why should she shape her life to suit the notions of Lady Lucas, or the Atherstones, or a dozen other people, whose very existence was a matter of indifference to her? The only friends she had in the place were the Trevelyans.
General Villiers had shown displeasure more than once at her persistent coldness to those whom he most favoured. He loved his young wife intensely—not, of course, with the romantic worship of courtship days, which could see no fault in her; but with a deep and tried affection, far transcending hers for him. It is not too much to say that he would willingly have given his life for hers, any day. Nevertheless he was keenly conscious of a certain independence of will, which would not submit to his dictation; and, as we have seen, he did not scruple to tell her plainly when he counted her in the wrong, though never with harshness.
"My love, I wish you would arrange to see a little more of Colonel Atherstone and Miss Atherstone," he said one day in the beginning of December, speaking with his air of gentle authority. He had been incited to this, of course, and of course quite unconsciously on his part: for he was a most transparent man, and very much under the dominion of others, without being in the least aware of it.
Evelyn's wifely instinct divined or guessed both facts. She did not blame him for the first, because she understood the second. She had complete trust in his chivalrous honour. That any person should venture directly to blame her to him was a thing impossible in her eyes. Her affection for him was far more akin to that of child for father, than of wife for husband; and it was often buried under a pile of rubbish, resulting from everyday friction; but her trust was undoubting. Nor was that trust misplaced. Yet—and Evelyn knew it—others could turn him to and fro, without his knowledge.
"I am afraid it is sometimes remarked," he went on, "that you hold aloof from them. You are so often engaged when they call; and you never receive them with any warmth. I do not ask you to give up your friends, Evelyn, but surely I have a right to expect kindness to mine."
"Anybody except the Atherstones,"' she said.
"Nay, Evelyn; why?"
"I cannot endure them."
"You do not give yourself the opportunity to become acquainted—"
"I am too much acquainted already. Anybody rather than them! I can get on with Lady Lucas, for she is a perfect lady. I could not make a friend of her, but we are on civil terms."
"Civil terms!"
"I mean, we are all politeness. We discuss the weather, and we don't yawn. But none of that set suit me."
General Villiers wore a look of displeasure. "I should not have expected you to call my friends by such a term."
"To call them a 'set!' Is there any harm? I thought all Dutton was divided up into sets and cliques. William, I do try to be polite to the Atherstones when they come; but I can't do more. I cannot make myself like them."
"I wish to ask them in to lunch one day soon. To-day is Monday. Will Thursday suit you?"
"If you like," she said coldly.
"You will write the invitation, of course. To lunch, quietly—by ourselves."
"I would rather have some one else to meet them."
"No—I think not this time. In fact, I have promised the Colonel that we would be alone. There are matters that I wish to talk over with him."
"And I am to have the pleasure of Miss Atherstone's interminable gossip."
Evelyn spoke scornfully, and the General sighed, feeling the state of things to be deplorable. He was conscious of a widening gulf between himself and his wife. They could scarcely talk now on any subject without a jar. If only she would have submitted herself to his dictum on disputed points, all would have gone with such delightful smoothness; but this was far from being the state of the case.
He had an odd liking for the hugely-moustached Colonel, whose loud voice and boisterous laugh were so in contrast with his own gentlemanly quietness. Such likings are difficult to understand. The Colonel could talk down all Dutton, and he did not know the meaning of refinement. He was broad and stout, plain-featured and roughly resolute, and he would trample with an iron heel on the opinions of all who differed from himself. He loved nothing better than to decry the doings of Bishops and Clergy, with a slap-dash and jaunty vehemence, surrounded by a circle of listeners, and he would handle recklessly the dearest beliefs of others, caring nothing whatever for the pain he gave.
This it was which utterly repelled Evelyn. Strange to say, the General could listen and not disapprove. He would never himself speak thus; but he would permit and condone harshness, even coarseness, in his friend. Evelyn could only look upon the Colonel's power over her husband as a species of bewildering fascination.
Thursday afternoon happened to be a free time with Jean, and as she had not seen Evelyn for some days, she started for the Park. The sky looked threatening; a sharp frost had set in; and Mr. Trevelyan foretold snow; but Jean cared little for weather. She was secure of a welcome from Evelyn, and secure of an escort home, if she should not return till after dark.
Light of foot and light of heart, she sped briskly on her way. The bitter cold and the half frozen slippery fields were nothing to her young vigour. She had a great joy ahead, for Oswald would be at home for the New Year. Oswald was in the Army now, a fine young man, Jean's pride and delight. She firmly believed that no such promising subaltern had ever been seen in the Service before. Oswald's choice of a profession had been something of a trial to Mr. Trevelyan, who would have wished his only son to follow in his own steps; but he was the last man to use pressure for such a result.
Had it not been for the delight of Oswald's coming, Jean might have felt slightly flat. She had just heard that Cyril would only be at home for a week this Christmas.
"The dear boy had a cough," Miss Devereux said—anybody else would have called it "a scrape." And she meant to give him a few weeks at Bournemouth.
Lady Lucas had recommended change, and change was so good for a boy of his age. Perhaps in the summer she might take him abroad. Lady Lucas thought it would be a good plan. Even now, Sybella always wanted somebody else's opinion to bolster up her own.
Evelyn was alone in her boudoir when Jean entered, and there were traces of tears on her face. Jean asked no questions. It was not her way to show a solicitude which might be unwelcome. She pulled off her thick ulster, and sat down to talk about Oswald's coming.
Generally Evelyn liked to hear about Oswald, because it gave her pleasure to see the glowing sunshine in the sister's eyes, when his name was spoken; but to-day her attention wandered past control; and Jean soon dropped her own affairs, waiting in silence for Evelyn to take the initiative.
For a good while the silence lasted, unbroken. Evelyn was doing nothing, not even pretending to work. She only sat gazing into the fire with eyes which had their largest and saddest look. Jean had often seen her so before; and usually the mood would pass off in talk upon other matters. To-day she seemed unable to converse; and Jean, after waiting a reasonable time, took the initiative herself.
"Has something worried you very much?" she asked, in her direct serious style.
"The Atherstones have been here to lunch."
"Yes." Jean knew that they were not favourites with Evelyn; and she could not wonder.
Since the Colonel in public and in private systematically opposed and abused Mr. Trevelyan, it was not surprising that Jean disliked him. Mr. Trevelyan could afford to smile with grim unconcern: but naturally his daughter felt for him.
"One has to invite them sometimes. But it makes—such a day! When they go, I feel that I must be alone for a few hours to recover myself. I gave orders that only you might be admitted this afternoon. If anybody is offended, it can't be helped. O Jean, I get so tired, so tired, of these people."
"Of the Atherstones?"
"Of them most. When they have been with me for an hour, I could think I had been under the incubus for ages. Does that sound silly?" Evelyn pressed both hands over her face. "Jean, why am I so easily upset? Why can't I carry it all off, and be indifferent?—Not dare what anybody says or thinks? I am vexed with myself for being so worried—so like a naughty child! Do you know the feeling? I don't know how to be good or patient to anybody to-day."
"You are never naughty to me."
"Am I not? That is because you never rub me the wrong way. If you could have heard the talk, talk, talk, at lunch, about our neighbours' opinions, and our neighbours' errors, and the wickedness of everybody except ourselves! It makes me wild. You mustn't think—My husband never says such things. He never could, never would. But somehow, he doesn't see or understand when others do it. And those people are past endurance!"
Jean was not given to caressing movements; yet her hand found its way to Evelyn's, and was held fast by the white feverish fingers.
"I wonder why your touch is so quieting. You always do me good. O Jean, I am so tired!" She sank back in her chair, pale and listless. "Sometimes I almost feel that I can't go on living at Dutton—that I must get away. My husband likes it so much, and he hates travelling; but I would give anything to be on the move. One is more free abroad. It is such a narrow rut here—always the same people, and the same ideas! And the cliques, and the gossipings, and the party fights—I am sick of the whole!"
AN UNWILLING WITNESS.
"The world goes up, and the world goes down,And the sunshine follows the rain;And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's frownCan never come over again,Sweet wife:No, never come over again."C. KINGSLEY.
"INDOORS, my love? That is right. It seems disposed to snow," observed General Villiers, entering the boudoir half-an-hour later. "Miss Trevelyan here!"
"Snow!" repeated Evelyn, turning to the window. "How pretty! Look, Jean—such great soft feathers. Yes, Jean has been here some time. I shall keep her to tea, and let Walters see her home. You are not going out, William?"
"I have a little business to attend to. It will not take very long."
"But your rheumatism—"
"That has been better lately. I am well wrapped up, and the snow does not seem much. Exercise is good for me. Are you better now, my love?"
Jean turned to the fireplace, making believe to find some object of interest on the mantelpiece. Something beyond common husbandly solicitude underlay the simple inquiry.
Jean's perceptions were very keen. She had caught one glimpse of the General's bent head and tender gravity of demeanour, one glimpse also of Evelyn's lifted remorseful face. More than that she would not see; but she could not close her ears. There was the sound of a hushed kiss, and then a murmur. Jean longed to run away, but she felt it essential to keep her back turned; and the most she could venture on, was a slight rattle of the fire-irons, to cover a possible answer.
"You are sure you won't take cold?" she heard Evelyn say next, in a stirred tremulous voice.
"No fear, dear. I have to go to the Ricketts'—yes, the cottage on the border of the wood. Not so very far. I shall be back by six o'clock, I hope."
The General came forward for a good-bye shake of the hand with Jean, so she had to face about, somewhat discomposed. Evelyn seemed to cling to her husband's side.
"Good-bye. Pray stay as long as you can with my wife," General Villiers begged, with his stately courtesy. "I shall count it a kindness. She has been rather over-fatigued to-day—not quite the thing."
"Jean will not hurry away. She does not mind weather," said Evelyn.
"I should love to be caught in a storm," asserted Jean.
"It is no storm yet. I do not know how things may be by-and-by. Well—good-bye, my love, for the moment. Keep yourself warm, and try to rest."
"I'll try, and—William—"
Evelyn clung to him, white as a sheet, with wide sorrowful eyes, and there was the sound of a sob.
It was of no use for Jean to pretend now not to see or hear. She could only stand in constrained silence.
"William, I am so sorry! You were so good to me! I'll try not to behave so again! Say you forgive me."
"My dearest!" and the General folded her slight figure in protecting arms; for the moment almost as oblivious of Jean's presence as Evelyn was careless of it. "You are overstrained," he said, kissing her brow. "I must not let you do so much. Miss Trevelyan will take care of you now for an hour or two, and when I come back—My dear one, don't fret! You did not mean anything, I know—" in a most audible masculine whisper. "Another time, perhaps—Yes, I quite understand—My own dear little wife! Yes, come to the door, and see me off."
Jean was greatly relieved when the two vanished. She drew a breath of vexation at having been so uncomfortably placed, and walked to the window, where growing darkness was lighted by a ghostly glimmer of white feathers, trailing slowly earthwards.
As she looked, a gust of wind set the feathers swirling in complicated circles; then it died away, and they dropped again with soft deliberation. Jean thought of her two miles' walk as of something delightful to come. She heartily enjoyed a battle with excited elements.
Evelyn returned soon, with moist wistful eyes, and a red spot on either cheek.
"O Jean, he is so good—always so noble and true! If only other people were like him!" Two large tears fell heavily. "I have been so cross to him to-day—before you came! As if he could help the Atherstones being what they are! And it is just his real goodness and humility which make him not even see how different they are from himself. I am sure Colonel Atherstone's way of laying down the law, and riding over everybody, would make any other man angry—but not my husband."
Jean was taken by surprise. She had not expected this little outburst of wifely enthusiasm. It was all true, no doubt. The General was most good: a noble nature in many respects. To be sure Evelyn did not always show so vivid an appreciation of his fine character; but nothing could be more desirable than that she should appreciate him. If a man's own wife is not awake to his merits, he stands a poor chance. Jean knelt on the rug, studying this phase of affairs in the firelight.
"He is very kind," she remarked moderately.
"Yes, you like him, of course. You could not know him, and not like him. But you do not know my husband fully, Jean. Who can—except myself? There are a hundred things that people never hear. He is so ready to take trouble for anybody. And so perfectly honourable—he never could stoop to any of the little mean things which other men do stoop to—even good men sometimes, not thinking. It is such devotion to what he feels to be right. He would give up everything to-morrow—I am sure of it—if there were any question of sacrificing his principles. One must admire such a spirit. And all these years so good to me—so patient! Even when he finds fault, he only does it because he thinks he ought—not from temper."
Jean's glance spoke admiration, not for the General at that moment, but for Evelyn herself. Evelyn failed to decipher it.
"He ought not to go out in such weather as this. It is very bad for him. There is a poor man, ill and in trouble about his rent. Our agent seems to have been hard on him; and the man is taken worse in consequence. My husband will not let him pass another anxious night; and he will not send any one else, because he doesn't understand the rights of the case."
"Couldn't he have the carriage out?"
"The horses are not rough-shod. This frost has taken us by surprise, and we did not mean to drive anywhere, so my husband thought we would wait a day to see if the cold lasted."
Evelyn sighed. "I wish I had not let him go. Suppose he takes a bad chill?"
"But why should one expect it?"
"I don't know. I have had such a feeling this afternoon of some trouble ahead. Do you know what that is? It comes sometimes and lasts for hours, and nothing happens, and then I laugh at myself; but when it comes again I am frightened. I never felt so when I was a girl—only the last two or three years. It was that which made me beg my husband's pardon just now—a kind of dread. I had worried him, and he is so kind and good. When he held me in his arms, I kept thinking, 'Suppose he should never hold me so again?' Why does one have such fancies? I often do, and they lead to nothing—but they might."
"If one is always expecting trouble, one is sure to be in the right some day, because troubles do come sooner or later," said Jean, with severe common-sense.
"That is so like you," Evelyn said, with a sad smile. "But one can hardly reason away such feelings. I suppose they are partly physical—when one is not very strong. I wish he were safe back. Jean, I think we will go to the library. Walters will bring tea there presently. You don't mind staying with me a little longer? The snow seems getting very thick—but I feel as if could not bear to be alone. You won't leave me yet?"
"O no: and I don't mind any amount of snow," Jean could truly answer.
Two hours passed, and Jean was still at the Park, for she could not quit Evelyn. General Villiers remained absent, and Jean had resolved to wait till he should appear.
Not that there was the slightest cause for anxiety, she told herself. Though the wind howled, and the snow fell heavily, it was not a storm of exceptional violence; and though the General was an elderly man for his years, he could be counted well up to a four or five miles' walk.
Jean did not stay on the General's account, but for Evelyn's sake. They had had their tea long since, and Evelyn had walked up and down the library, as a vent to her restlessness, till strength failed. She was leaning back now in an easy-chair, every muscle in her fair face tense with suppressed agitation. She seemed equally unable to endure conversation and silence.
"Sit close to me," she whispered, if the girl moved. "Jean, let me feel you close!" came repeatedly; yet when Jean spoke, she hardly responded.
Jean was perplexed whether to look upon the mood as purely nervous, or whether to conjecture some possible reality in it. No doubt, real foretellings of trouble have been at times experienced; but, on the other hand, Evelyn had frankly confessed to such experiences on her own part as usually without result; and when genuine result does follow, one still has to allow for coincidence. Whatever else the mood implied, however, it meant suffering, and Jean was always tender to suffering.
"Jean, what o'clock?"
"Half past six. That is nothing. The wind would hinder anybody."
"You are so wise and logical."
"Isn't it best?"
"Perhaps—yes. But logic won't do away with this feeling, the dread of some evil ahead. When it comes it always terrifies me, even though it so often means nothing. I am not superstitious; but don't you think warnings are sometimes sent?"
"I am not sure that they may not be," said Jean slowly. "Only—they would be true; and you say that this feeling is often mistaken. But if you are so worried, why don't you send Walters to meet General Villiers? He might be glad of an arm, now the wind is strong."
"Oh, thanks—the very thing! You practical girl! Yes, please, ring."
She roused herself into something like animation when Walters appeared—a middle-aged slow-mannered man, of stout and heavy build. He listened attentively, looking from one to the other.
"Ricketts! Yes, ma'am! On the border of the wood. Which way, ma'am?"
"Are there two ways? The path across the marshes? General Villiers would not attempt that in such weather. The road, of course; and go as quickly as you can, please."
Then they waited again. Seven o'clock came; half past seven. Evelyn had the dinner put off till her husband should arrive; but she consented to take a glass of wine and a biscuit at Jean's urgent request. She had not dressed as usual. Jean could not; and Evelyn would not go upstairs.
Though pale, Evelyn was braver now—now when Jean began to feel that some cause for uneasiness really did exist. Suppose General Villiers had missed his way in the blinding snow? This was not absolutely impossible even on the high road. A false turn might have carried him far out of his route, before he discovered his mistake, and might mean some risk of chill for an elderly man. As for the footpath across the marshes, Jean scouted the idea as absurd. No man in his senses would choose such a path on such an afternoon, even though the high road might mean nearly a mile farther round.
Till close upon seven the snow continued to fall, and then it ceased. Jean, periodically visiting the window, to peer through curtains and blinds, reported breaking, clouds, and presently a gleam of moonlight.
"I shall have a lovely walk," she said cheerily. "If General Villiers has taken shelter in some cottage, he will be able to get home now."
"Jean! There he is!"
Evelyn sprang up with a rare impulsiveness, and ran into the hall. Her cheeks and eyes were brilliant with joyous relief. Jean thought she had never seen her look more lovely.
The front door had been left on the latch by Evelyn's order, and as it opened, they were both at hand. A cloaked figure stepped in, shut the door, shook off soon loose snow upon the mat, and looked at Evelyn. She stood as if turned to stone.
"Father!" Jean said in amazement.
"I thought you might be glad of some one to see you back, if—"
There was an ominous pause. He took Evelyn's cold hand, and the stern set of his lips relaxed.
"My husband!" she said faintly.
"Then he has not come home yet?"
"No. O tell me—"
"I think you had better sit down. You are trembling," said Mr. Trevelyan.
He drew Evelyn's hand within his arm, and led her back to the chair she had left. Without such help she could hardly have reached it. "Your husband has been to the Ricketts' cottage."
"He left us at about four o'clock, and he meant to be back before six," explained Jean.
"Yes: I called to see the sick man, and General Villiers had been there before me."
"How long before?" Evelyn asked.
"He started to come home at five o'clock—"
"Two hours and a half ago!"
"Mrs. Ricketts told me that he seemed spent and out of breath when he arrived. She begged him not to stay long, as the weather was getting worse; and she offered to send her boy with him, but the General would not hear of it. She saw him struggling against the wind before he disappeared. It is not unlikely that he may have turned aside and found shelter somewhere. But the snow is over now. I have come direct along the road. Walters arrived before I left the cottage."
"He had not met my husband?"
"No. General Villiers may have tried the short cut, and—found it difficult," said Mr. Trevelyan cautiously. "It would not be wise; still, if he felt over-fatigued, he might be tempted. Walters and young Ricketts have gone that way, and I have promised to meet them with Adams."
"In case help is needed."
"If he has lost the path—yes. He might be too exhausted to get on. I met Adams outside, and I told him to be ready at once with lanterns—feeling sure you would excuse the liberty. Walters does not profess to know the geography of the marshes, and young Ricketts unfortunately is lame just now from an accident, so they may not get very far. Jean will stay here and take care of you."
"Thanks—I am coming too."
Evelyn stood facing him, a bright flush on either cheek.
"You! Pardon me: it would be madness! You do not know the marshes on a night like this. Stay indoors, Mrs. Villiers, and be ready for your husband when he arrives. You could do no good whatever—only hinder us."
Mr. Trevelyan's manner was uncompromising to sternness. He thought nothing of a buffet with the gale for his hardy Jean—brought up from infancy to fight through any manner of discomfort in the path of duty; but such exposure for this fair porcelain-like creature, always tenderly sheltered, was another matter.
"I shall not be a hindrance," she said resolutely. "You don't know how much I can do and endure when there is need."
Mr. Trevelyan was not convinced. He thought the scheme an insane one, and he told her so again in plain terms. Delay was much to be deprecated, yet he did delay to urge her compliance.
When, however, in place of opposing her will to his, she laid pleading hands on his arm, and lifted beseeching eyes to say—
"Please, please, let me go! I cannot stay at home any longer! I think it will drive me wild!"
Then he gave in.
Perhaps Evelyn was the only woman living to whom he would have yielded in the face of his own judgment; but what man could ever withstand her?
"Well," he said, "it is not wise, but if you are bent upon it—Yes, you may come too, Jean. See that Mrs. Villiers is well wrapped up. The wind cuts like a knife. Would your husband allow this?" he asked of Evelyn.
"It is for him," she answered. "If it were for anybody else, I would ask his leave. Come, Jean—we must be quick."
Evelyn was all life and energy, as she donned a fur-lined cloak and beaver hat. Jean fastened her dress higher, insisted on the stoutest boots within reach, and wound a woollen cloud round throat and chest.
Jean's own substantial footgear, close-fitting ulster, and cloth cap, were well adapted for such an expedition.
Evelyn's fears seemed almost to have departed, and she smiled at Jean's precautions.
"My dear, there is no need. I never take cold," she said. "But you shall do as you like. How good your father is to let me go! Nothing is so dreadful as to sit still, doing nothing, when one is anxious. Jean, ask Mr. Trevelyan whether we ought not to take a little flask of brandy? My husband might need something of the sort."
Mr. Trevelyan had thought of this already. Adams, the head-gardener, was waiting, and in three minutes, they sallied forth.
ON THE MARSHES.
First Br. "List, list! I hearSome far-off halloo break the silent air."Sec. Br. "Methought so too: what should it be?"MILTON.
EVELYN was strung up to a condition of mind which would admit of no difficulties, which for the moment, could scarcely be conscious of fatigue. The cold blast came sideways, happily not facing them direct; and though very strong, it was not quite so biting as an hour earlier.
"We shall have a quick thaw," Mr. Trevelyan said tersely, noting the difference.
In a general way, Evelyn would have found advance not easy, but now, though she gratefully accepted his offered arm, she seemed scarcely to notice the wind. Mr. Trevelyan was firm as a rock against the roughest blasts; and Jean sprang ahead with a light step of positive enjoyment.
For awhile they followed the high road; but presently a gate led into a large meadow; and beyond this meadow were the flat low-lying marshes, clothed like all else in a robe of virgin white.
The clouds had now almost dispersed, and a nearly full moon shone out, slaying the lustre of all stars in her neighbourhood, and lending a weird beauty to the landscape. But for the cause of this expedition, Jean would have been enraptured. Even as things were, she silently revelled in the exquisite fairy whiteness, to which the moonlight lent a silvery shimmer, unearthly in its purity. No feature in the scene looked like itself, and distances were altogether delusive in that bewildering white shine.
Though short, the snow-fall had been heavy, and the footpath was obliterated. A smooth surface stretched in all directions, broken by the dark lines of deep dividing dykes, which cut up the whole marshland into small meadow-squares. In summer, the dykes often contained only a low layer of water, but now they were full nearly to the brim with recent rains; and interlacing ice-needles had begun to dress the water-surface in a slender skin, even while the deep mud, underlying the snow on the dyke-banks, was scarcely hardened.
The footpath led through these meadows, either straight across or diagonally, and passed from one to another by a natural earth parapet, which had been left standing when the dykes were dug, just wide enough for a path, rough and dirty at the best of times, and now a mere mass of snow and half frozen slush. Moreover, at each crossing was a stile, held in position by a few upright wooden palings on either side of itself. Some of the stiles were very high and awkward, even when neither bars nor earth were in such a slippery condition.
These stiles, with their black supports, rearing their heads gloomily from the white snow, served to point out the route, since the footpath itself was undiscernible. They alone, beside the dykes and an occasional small bush, relieved the monotony of the pure carpet everywhere outspread. While the moon shone, it was not difficult for the walkers to shape their course from stile to stile, keeping note of their bearings. But when the moon had been hidden by a dense pall, and snow was heavily falling, things must have been widely different.
Mr. Trevelyan felt this strongly, though he would not suggest it, when Evelyn remarked—
"After all, if he did cross the marshes, he ought not to have gone wrong. I think he must have taken shelter somewhere, nearer home."
"You will not consent to go back now?"
"Go back! O no; not yet. We must meet Walters first. Where can he be?"
"He may have left the path to explore elsewhere. We shall probably come upon his traces soon."
They left deep footprints themselves at every step, in the soft new snow. It was heavy walking; yet Evelyn pressed on courageously, and Jean still sprang lightly in advance, like a young gazelle, seeming almost to skim the white surface.
A thick cloud passed over the moon, and instantly the whole scene was plunged into funereal darkness; only a ghostly gleam of white being reflected from the ground to mingle with the reddish light of the lanterns.
Evelyn shuddered, and said, "What a difference!"
While again, Mr. Trevelyan pictured to himself these marshes two hours or more earlier, in the white darkness and bewildering flurry of the snowstorm.
"There is Walters!" Jean's quick eyes were the first to see a far-off glimmer. "Look! A lantern!"
"H'm! A good way from the path," muttered Mr. Trevelyan.
"Oh, they have a reason—they must have a reason for going," exclaimed Evelyn. "Can't we get to them quickly?"
"Not that way. We can't go straight across the dykes," said Jean. "Even if father and I could leap them, you couldn't. I don't think we ought to leave the path yet."
"Jean is at home in these marshes," observed Mr. Trevelyan, as Evelyn looked at him. "We could not have a better guide."
"Father—" Jean stood, deep in thought.
"Yes."
"You know where a path forks off, not far from the wood—just after the beginning of the marshes. If General Villiers took that turn by mistake, he would soon get entangled among the dykes—not able to find his way out. He might be somewhere not far from where Walters is now. Perhaps Walters has thought of that—or Ricketts, more likely—and so they have gone to see. We must get round to them the same way, by the other path. O come!"
Jean hastened over the snow with a speed which Evelyn could not equal, even helped by Mr. Trevelyan; and once or twice their eager guide was called in, again to press ahead.
"Take care, Jean! Mind what you are after!"
"O look!" came the same instant, in Jean's soft bell-like tones. "Walters has turned off here at right angles across the marsh. Here are his footsteps and Ricketts' too. What made him do that? I don't know how they have crossed the dykes. Walters is too heavy to jump, and Ricketts, now he is lame—No, no: they've had to come back. Here are their footmarks again. They've gone round by the other path, after all, as we are doing. It's the only way, I know, on a night like this. Look how the lantern swings—as if they were trying to make signals."
"My husband," whispered Evelyn.
"If I was to go nearer, sir, and shout to them?" suggested Adams from behind.
"It would be a waste of time. No, Miss Jean is right, Adams. We must keep to our path. The turn is not distant now. If Mrs. Villiers—"
"Don't think of me. I only want not to be a hindrance. Shall we reach Walters this way, Jean?"
"O yes, soon. It is only going round, instead of trying to leap the dykes. She could never manage that, could she, father? I don't think it would be pleasant for any of us in this dim light, with the banks so slippery."
"Jean is more at home in the marshes than I am myself," said Mr. Trevelyan, as Evelyn's eyes again appealed to him. "She and the boys have explored every inch of them, I suppose."
Evelyn was beginning to flag, despite her best efforts, and Mr. Trevelyan doubted whether she could go much further: but he only gave her all possible support, while Jean, free and unencumbered, kept in front. Another cloud obscured the moon, and Jean's slim figure vanished.
"Take care what you are after," called Mr. Trevelyan. "You have no lantern. If you come on a dyke suddenly, you may be in."
Evelyn shivered.
Then the cloud passed, the white landscape was flooded anew with silver, and presently—
"Father!" exclaimed Jean. "Father! This way—take the turn! Look here!"
She was kneeling on the snow, peering under a small bush; and as they came near, she sprang to meet them, holding out a silk pocket-handkerchief. "I can't see the initials. Is this his! It had been blown under shelter of the bush, and so the snow couldn't bury it. If it is his—"
Evelyn took the handkerchief with a trembling hand, and examined the corner, close to the lantern. "My husband's," she said.
"Then he has taken the wrong turn and gone this way."
"Clever girl," Mr. Trevelyan could not help murmuring. "Lead on, Jean. Remember, the handkerchief may have been blown from a distance. However, our business now is to reach Walters. Take my lantern, if you like. Adams will light us. But don't go too far."
"If he has been all these hours wandering among the marshes—" whispered Evelyn. "And no possible shelter—"
"It would be exhausting," assented Mr. Trevelyan. "But I hope we shall be in time to prevent ill effects."
They pressed on; Jean still the leader, showing a sagacity which would have fitted her for a mountaineer's or a backwoodsman's life. Soon they saw a lantern and two dim figures advancing, and when within hearing distance, Mr. Trevelyan shouted—
"Found anything?"
"No, sir! Nothing."
Evelyn stood still, conscious of failing power. "May I rest one moment?" she asked.
"Ah! I was afraid—" Mr. Trevelyan checked himself, for reproaches now were useless. "Lean all your weight on me, Mrs. Villiers. So—your whole weight. I must not let you sit down. It will pass off. Don't speak for a minute, but keep up a brave heart."
She sighed inaudibly, and closed her eyes. Mr. Trevelyan stood like a rock, supporting her; and the two men came up. A few words were exchanged. They had searched in vain for traces of General Villiers, and had themselves become what Jean called "entangled among the dykes," losing their bearings, and unable to find the path they had left. Walters was not at home in the marshes, and Ricketts was by no means a brilliant youth. Jean's approaching lantern had been their guide.
"No use going farther that way, if you have hunted thoroughly," said Mr. Trevelyan.
They had done so, Walters averred—thoroughly. "All along the dykes, and all round about, everywhere."
"Through the furthest corner of the meadow beyond the second dyke from here?" promptly asked Jean, indicating the direction.
There was a pause. No, they had not ventured quite so far. They had only taken a look at the said corner.
"It was an awful bad bit to get over," Ricketts said solemnly. "The General could never have taken that way, sure! The stile was leaning to one side, the path almost broken away; and the piece of marsh beyond was enclosed with dykes—no second way out of it."
"Father, may I see?"
"Yes! You know what you are about. Only take care. After that, we must get Mrs. Villiers home."
Jean moved off, and Ricketts, a big awkward boy, straggled uncertainly in her rear. Like most of the poor in Mr. Trevelyan's parish, he adored Jean, looking upon her as a creature of another sphere.
Mr. Trevelyan despatched Adams to the Ricketts' cottage, to make sure that General Villiers had not meantime found his way thither; and he kept Walters by him with the other lantern, till Jean should return. They could follow her swift sure movements by her lantern, as she climbed the nearest stile, and struck across the snow beyond.
Then Evelyn roused herself. "Thanks," she said. "I am so sorry to be a trouble. I think I was faint for a minute. I am better now. Where is Jean?"
"She will be back directly. She has gone to take a look beyond where Walters was."
"Gone alone! Are you not afraid? I don't know which is the most wonderful, you or Jean. Suppose she were to slip into the water? O do come too."
"Perhaps you had better move; you will be getting chilled. Gently, there is no hurry," he said. "When Jean comes back, I am going to send you and her home."
Jean did not return quickly. The three went over the first dyke, Walters leading; and then they followed Jean's small footprints. A minute later, Jean's voice rang out from the distance, clear and thrilling, with a now sound in it.
"She's found something," Walters exclaimed.
"Father! Come!" The distant appeal cut like a blade through the air, yet Jean did not scream.
"Will you wait here with Walters? I must take the lantern. Don't stir till I come back."
"O no—I must go too."
To pause for discussion was impossible. The second dyke had to be reached and crossed, and the crossing, it could not be denied, was "awful bad." Mr. Trevelyan lifted Evelyn sheer over the stile, and all but carried her through the half knee-deep slush beyond—slush just enough frozen to be slippery, not enough to keep them from sinking into it. A false step might have plunged both into the dyke; but the other side was reached, and Jean came to meet them.
Mr. Trevelyan knew in a moment—knew as his eyes fell upon Jean—what had happened. He had never before seen her thus. Every trace of colour had left her face, and the eyes looked out fixedly from two surrounding hollows which had suddenly sprung into existence. Yet Jean was herself, which means that she was not thinking of herself.
"Not Evelyn!" broke from her blanched lips, and she clutched Evelyn's hands, as in a vice, with ice-cold fingers. "Father—you and Walters—over there—not Evelyn! O not Evelyn!"
"Why not?" Evelyn was perfectly composed now, not nearly so pale as Jean.
"I can't tell you! Father, don't let her! Don't let her!" cried Jean, in smothered agony. "Keep her away! Don't let her go!"
"Jean, dear, I am not a child to be made. Your father knows me better. Tell me, have you found him?"
"If you would but wait—till the others have been—"
"No: I am going on."
Jean's arm fell with a despairing gesture. Then she grasped the lamp which Walters held, thrust it into her father's hand, muttered hoarsely—
"Come—after us—" and led the way with Walters, urging him vehemently to a speed far beyond Evelyn's powers.
Mr. Trevelyan, fully understanding, did his best to hold Mrs. Villiers back.
So Jean and Walters arrived first at the spot, where General Villiers lay, face downwards, on the snow-covered grass, which here sloped a little into the almost full dyke. He seemed to have fallen thus, exhausted, overcome with cold, and his face was buried in the half frozen mud.