For a while Admiral Grice's gout and Sybella's assortment of mild ailments had full swing. Some at table were amused to overhear scraps of the dialogue, with its perpetual—
"I have had that—!" "I know so well what that is!" "I have gone through just the same!" "I assure you, I suffered from—" "My doctor advised me—" "I was recommended to take—" each seeming anxious to outvie the other in dolefulness of experience.
If one cannot hope to shine in any other respect, one may at least seek to excel in the matter of aches and pains.
Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan were in a steady swing of talk; Giles Cuthbert in subdued and sleepy tones made himself agreeable to Evelyn; Cyril kept Lady Lucas going; and Jean, far from looking bored, enjoyed her companion—a pleasant and gentlemanly young fellow, when he could be kept clear of certain controversial subjects which were to him as a red rag to a bull.
Rub the first, not to be called an explosion, was on the score of weather—a fruitful subject at all times for discussion. Sybella had long ago taken the winds of the neighbourhood under her especial patronage. She knew all about them, always; and with a person who can never be in the wrong, it is perilous to suggest a mistake. There could be no surer road to Miss Devereux's displeasure, than to assert that a breeze was northerly when she counted it westerly.
Unwittingly Mr. Trevelyan made this blunder. He alluded to the fact of a "strong south-east wind" that day, not three minutes after Miss Devereux had enlarged to her Admiral on the pleasantness of a "nice soft south wind." Of course, he had not heard her; but, of course, she did not believe this.
Sybella reddened, and turned from her gouty Admiral, who had wisely listened without comment, to the offender.
"I assure you—" she interposed—"I assure you, the wind has been exactly south all day. I watched the clouds for ever so long; and they were coming precisely from the south. Some may be so easily mistaken, because of currents of air down here; but up there, you know, one cannot be wrong."
Miss Devereux was nothing if not scientific.
"And I know—The weathercock! Oh, I don't think one can always depend on weathercocks. Beside, the weathercock must have pointed south to-day. I know by my own feelings. Any east in the wind always affects me directly. I am so sensitive to an east wind. It has been direct south the whole day."
Mr. Trevelyan bowed slightly, and intimated that a gentleman might not contradict a lady.
"But anybody must know who has paid attention," persisted the lady, feeling the gentleman unconvinced. Miss Devereux not only counted herself always in the right; she could not be content unless others counted her the same; and this was rather difficult to bring about. "I assure you, if there had been the very least east in the wind, I could not have ventured out with my neuralgia. East winds are so dangerous. People who are strong, of course—But it was because the wind was south that I thought it so safe."
Mr. Trevelyan bowed again. He had a way of looking down upon Sybella, mentally as well as bodily, from his superior height, which she was conscious of, while unable to define it.
For the hundredth time, she wondered, "What dear Cyril could find to like in that disagreeable man?"
And her voice had an injured intonation as she continued—
"It is quite extraordinary how few people understand the direction of the wind."
"But we at The Brow, being near the clouds, are always accurately informed," put in Cyril wickedly from the further end of the table.
"Suppose we agree to call it south, and settle the matter," suggested Evelyn's soft tones. "Things are very much to us as we believe them."
"There was once an old gentleman," drawled Cuthbert, "who could never go out in an east wind. Quite impossible, you know. It always gave him bronchitis. Invariably. But a kind friend one day tied the weathercock, with the vane pointing west, while the wind blew from the east. The old gentleman went out for his constitutional, rejoicing in the west wind; and—wonderful to say—he caught no cold."
Sybella was offended. "Of course, I understand," she said. "Of course; Mr. Cuthbert means it is all fancy. But—" and a hiatus.
"I beg your pardon. There are no such things as fancies in the present day. It is all neurotic," explained Giles, with fascinating mildness.
"My story was merely a little illustration of the interaction between mind and matter—perhaps one may say, of the mastery of mind over matter."
"I thought it was an old schoolmaster," Jean said, while Sybella was trying to understand. "And a school-boy's trick."
"My dear Jean, never put a story right, when the moral is as good one way as the other," murmured Evelyn.
Jean laughed; and before Miss Devereux could make up her mind about that mysterious word, "neurotic," the talk drifted in a fresh direction.
Rub the second was again between the hostess and her Rector. Mr. Trevelyan dropped among matters ecclesiastical in conversation with gentle Mrs. Trevelyan, who always liked to dig a little information out of a man, whether or no her feminine brain could entirely assimilate it. He made unfortunate mention of "The Father's;" and Miss Devereux—scarcely more apt to fall foul of east winds than to fall foul of "the Fathers," all the more because she knew so little about them—overheard the remark.
Sybella bristled up for action immediately; and Mr. Byng sent her a startled glance of sympathy up the length of the table; but being far distant, and being moreover a good deal charmed with his neighbour, Jean Trevelyan, he left actual fighting to Miss Devereux. She was equal to the occasion. Remedies for the Admiral's next attack of gout had to wait, while Sybella plunged into the fray—mauve silk and all, to the rescue of principle! Mr. Trevelyan found himself unexpectedly tackled, and put upon the defensive.
Miss Devereux was "quite sure the Fathers were not infallible. So very extraordinary that people should talk of them as they did! And only last Wednesday, Mr. Kennedy had pointed out in his sermon—Mr. Byng of course would remember—" with an appealing look—"had pointed out to them so carefully how all the Fathers contradicted each other about everything. So how could they possibly be infallible?"
Mr. Byng did remember, and he would have said more, but for a peculiar expression in Jean's eyes. He had never felt himself under exactly the same restraint.
"It is Mr. Kennedy who is infallible; not the Fathers," declared that dreadful Miss Moggridge, whipping unexpectedly into the discussion. "I don't know that they ever professed to be—did they, Mr. Trevelyan? But if Mr. Kennedy holds up his finger, and says, 'I think—' we are all to bow down to his decision."
Miss Devereux drew up her head, and opined that for anybody to say such things of such a man as Mr. Kennedy—
"Say such things! I only say he is a modern Pope! Infallible out-and-out. Much worse than to be an infallible company of old gentlemen!" said Miss Moggridge irreverently. "One would at least keep the others in check; but there's nobody to keep Mr. Kennedy in check. As for their contradicting one another, Mr. Kennedy contradicts himself every other minute. Infallible people always do—not only the Fathers."
A faint shadow of annoyance passed over Evelyn's face.
"Such a devotedly good man!" sighed Miss Devereux. "I am sure, if Mr. Kennedy—"
"But I don't see what his goodness has to do with the question," said Miss Moggridge, getting for the first time a little excited, and flipping a crumb over the table. "Popes generally are pretty good men, I believe—Protestants or otherwise. We're not in the Middle Ages now. I suppose the Fathers were good men too—but that didn't make them infallible, necessarily. Any more than Mr. Kennedy's goodness makes him infallible—or keeps him from being dull!"—sotto voce.
"There is, perhaps, a possibility," interposed Mr. Trevelyan, in a solemn and repressive voice, which somehow brought Miss Moggridge to a halt, "just a possibility, viewed even from the mere standpoint of common-sense, that the combined utterance of many good men may be likely to speak fuller and more sober truth than the single voice of one good man. Collective wisdom ought to contain more than individual wisdom. If I am in doubt on some theological point, I am naturally more disposed to turn to a consensus of thoughtful opinions, from the Fathers of the Church generally, than to appeal merely to one excellent man—however unexceptionable he may be as an individual."
Miss Devereux didn't see it, and in perturbed tones, she said so. "The Fathers, she knew, were full of error. Full of error!—" and she performed vehemently the "invisible soap and imperceptible water" operation with her two hands.
"Is anything human not more or less full of error?" Jem asked in a low voice.
Miss Devereux had no wish to listen to either Jem or Mr. Trevelyan. Instruction was the last thing she desired. She felt that she had the best of it; and so doubtless in a sense she had; for she was attacking what Mr. Trevelyan was not defending; and since she knew a great deal more about his views than he did himself, it was not of the slightest use for him to disclaim belief in the infallibility of the Fathers. Miss Devereux knew better. Let Mr. Trevelyan say what he would, she could still go on with her monotonous protest—"Full of error! Full of error!"
"May I ask which of the Fathers you studied last?" asked Mr. Trevelyan.
Sybella was horrified. Read the Fathers! How could he suppose that she would do anything so fraught with peril? Then she looked appealingly at Mr. Byng; but Mr. Byng was tongue-tied by the lurking disdain in Jean's greenish eyes—a disdain more unequivocally expressed in the corners of Mr. Trevelyan's mouth, as he sank into silence. Evelyn once more, with her skilful grace, broke up the discussion, and resolutely started other topics.
"Too bad," Miss Moggridge said to Jem, not referring to Evelyn, but to the change of subject. "I should have liked to see those two fight it out."
Jem moved his head negatively, smiling. "A waste of strength," he said. "Life is too short for skirmishes which cannot lead to victory."
Rub number three did not come till they were all in the drawing-room, the gentlemen having just joined the ladies. This time Cyril was the offender, not Mr. Trevelyan; and Lady Lucas was the offended, not Sybella.
Cyril had not altogether liked Jean's interest in her talk with the Curate at dinner. He had enjoyed the discussions and Miss Moggridge; but he had not enjoyed the sight of those two intent faces. It was all very well for Mr. Byng to admire Jean; but for Jean to be so wrapped up in a subdued dialogue, as not to hear when Cyril spoke to her, was by no means right. Jean belonged to him; whether or no he meant to have her for a permanent possession; and nobody else had a right to Jean.
He had not noticed before what a good-looking young fellow Mr. Byng really was; and the confidential tone in which the Curate expounded his ideas to his listener during dessert made Cyril wrathful. He was no given to wrathfulness about small things; but this could hardly be called a small thing.
Cyril had not recovered his equilibrium when he came into the drawing-room. Jean was standing on the rug, in her white dress, conspicuously tall and slight; the pale face, with its steadfast eyes, conspicuously free from self-consciousness. She was looking at a photograph; and straight as an arrow Mr. Byng went to her side. Cyril forthwith did the same. He was not going to stand that sort of thing.
Mr. Byng made some allusion to their past conversation, which Jean answered smilingly, turning a little towards him and from Cyril as she did so.
Thereupon Cyril forgot himself. If there was one subject more than another which he ought strenuously to have avoided, with Lady Lucas seated only a few yards off upon the nearest sofa, it was aught connected with family disagreeables. Whatever he might think of her mode of action, she as his guest had a right to his silence. But Cyril at that moment could only think of Jean; and in his eagerness to gain her attention, he rushed into the first remark which occurred to him.
"I say, Jean—" with subdued determination to have his own way, though with no outward sign of annoyance: "Jean!—"
Then, "I beg your pardon!" politely to Mr. Byng, and Mr. Byng retreated.
"Jean, you won't forget to take your father soon to call on my friends? You know—at the red house—"
"Captain and Mrs. Lucas! O yes," Jean answered. She too forgot about Lady Lucas. "I will remind my father. When do they come?"
"To-day. So the sooner you can go, the better."
"Hardly. It would be merciful to allow them a few days for settling in."
"Oh, no need. The house is furnished, and has been all put to rights. Only a little unpacking to do; and they are too good travellers to think anything of that. I shall go in to-morrow, and tell them to expect you."
Lady Lucas stood up and moved forward, while her black velvet skirts trailed imposingly. Her plump hands held a large feather fan.
"I think I can hardly be mistaken," she said, looking from Cyril to Jean. "One does not wish to overhear; but—" with a dignified smile—"my own name has a familiar sound, and you did not talk in whispers. Yet surely—it is impossible. That unhappy man cannot have obtained a footing in this house!"
Cyril felt rather like a naughty boy, and he had to brace himself with the recollection that of "this house," he was master. He went a little nearer to Lady Lucas, with his pretty air of courtesy—boyish still—leaving Jean on the rug. Except Admiral Grice and the older ladies, no one had yet sat down. Evelyn was talking with Jem and Mr. Trevelyan in the distant bow-window; and Mr. Byng had retired to Giles Cuthbert.
"I met Captain Lucas abroad," Cyril observed.
"But your aunt—Miss Devereux—"
"My aunt saw him once. Not oftener. They are friends of mine," said Cyril bravely, as a sudden thought came to him of Emmeline—courageous little Emmeline, with so much in life to render her sad.
"Miss Devereux will not call," Lady Lucas stated. She had ceased smiling, and no longer looked gracious.
"Perhaps not." Cyril's manner became more resolute. "I am sorry this has come up," he said frankly. "It is not the time or place—and I forgot. But since it has, I ought to explain. I met the Lucases abroad; and I assure you, I found them most kind—as pleasant as could be. I like them immensely—yes—him!" in reply to a monosyllable. "I mean—one is so sorry for him, and he does fight so hard not to be overcome. I don't really think it's a case when everybody ought to stand aloof. I don't—really, Lady Lucas."
"You will, I suppose, permit 'everybody' to judge for themselves," said Lady Lucas. "I quite understand that Sir Cyril Devereux is perfectly independent in these matters; and time alone can teach experience. It is, of course, useless for me to assort that my unhappy nephew is unfit to associate with gentlemen. That is only an old lady's opinion—though it is held by some who are not old ladies."
"I am very sorry," apologised Cyril. "But if you were to see him now—"
"We shall, I think, do little good by discussing the question. Only I must beg you to remember one thing, Sir Cyril—that I do not meet or acknowledge Captain Lucas or his wife. And, excuse me—in your position you ought to be careful. You do not know what you may be drawn into."
Sir Cyril made a little gesture of comprehension, not of assent, and Lady Lucas swept her trailing skirts away. Sybella was on a more distant sofa, and thither the lady retreated. A murmured conference between the two began.
"You have been quite wrong, my dear," Lady Lucas said softly. "Sir Cyril ought to have been put into some regular profession—the Army, or anything—for a few years. I told you so long ago. He will get into mischief from the sheer lack of something to do."
Then an interruption came. Jean still stood upon the rug; and Cyril remained where Lady Lucas had left him, lost in thought. Emmeline's dark sunny little face was before his mind's eye.
"I will call—of course, I will call. What rubbish!" he said to himself.
A curious croaking sound drew the attention of all—a sound as of something giving way.
"Jean!" her father called in an agitated shout from the bow-window. "Back, Jean!!" He was too far to do more than shout, as he saw the great mirror over the mantelpiece seem to detach itself, and for an appreciable fraction of a second lean forward. Jean, with her instinct of obedience, born of long habit, sprang back, not hesitating for even the fraction of a second; while Cyril, hearing both the loud crack and the warning cry, as instinctively started forward. The huge mirror crashed heavily down; one sharp edge tearing a wide rent down Jean's white skirt, and bringing her to her knees; the other striking Cyril prostrate.
Sybella's shrieks almost drowned the loud crash of shattered glass: Sybella herself keeping at a safe distance. The gentlemen made a simultaneous rush forward; and Jean spoke calmly: "I am not hurt. Please see to Cyril. Never mind me."
Five pairs of hands lifting the massive frame released both; and Jean sprang to her feet. She had been pinned down by the weight pressing on her skirt, but was entirely uninjured.
Mr. Trevelyan held her fast, his hands visibly shaking, and his face grey. "My child! You are sure! Nothing wrong?" he said hoarsely.
Jean had never seen him so overcome.
"Nothing—not a scratch. See—only my dress!" she said reassuringly. "But—"
His lips touched her forehead, with a murmured—
"Thank God!"
And she hardly caught the words following, "I thought it was all up with my Jean."
Then he leant against the back of a tall arm-chair, a glazed look coming over his eyes, and Jean knew that he had difficulty in holding himself upright. Before she could speak, however, he had rallied, though not without a supreme effort of will.
"Merely a passing sensation—a touch of dizziness," he said cheerfully, in response to her glance. "Not worth attention. Come—" and he walked across the room, Jean following closely to the couch where Cyril had just been laid, white to the lips with pain.
Evelyn knelt to support his head, and Sybella hovered round about, in a state of incoherent though talkative distraction.
Cyril looked up at Mr. Trevelyan. "Jem has gone for Dr. Ingram," he said, bringing the words slowly. "I don't think it will be very much . . . The frame caught my shoulder . . . Don't touch, please—" with a shrinking gesture. "I'm only—so glad it wasn't Jean!"
Jean, to her own indignant surprise, actually burst into tears.
DARK-EYED EMMIE.
"But who could have expected this,When we two drew together first,Just for the obvious human bliss,To satisfy life's daily thirst?"R. BROWNING.
THE "queer little red house near the Post-Office," owned by Captain Lucas, had been for three years empty. It was not an easy house to let: standing just too far out of the main track for business purposes, yet too much buried in a region of shops to be attractive. Perhaps Captain Lucas asked too high a rent. One way or another, it had remained long in the hands of an aged caretaker; and the Lucases had troubled their heads little about the matter, till sudden curtailment of income came. Then, since nobody else was content to live there, and to pay a reasonable rent, Captain Lucas decided to make it his home.
The decision cost him a good deal; and he would hardly have reached it without necessity. He was not anxious to put himself in the way of relatives, who would look him in the face, and pass him by as a stranger. Captain Lucas was a man who naturally loved society, naturally delighted in pleasant companionship; and to cut himself off from intercourse with his fellow-men was like cutting off his right hand or foot; yet to a large extent, he had done and would do this. Not for a limited time only, but year after year; sustained by his courageous wife, and surely upheld by Divine power: he and she knowing, alas, too well, that only by such means could he hope to keep in check the terrible tendency which all his life had dragged him downward.
The heroism of such a strife, and of the self-denial which it entailed, could only be appreciated by those who knew him best.
But to refuse himself certain perilous indulgences, such as hotels, clubs, dinner-parties, nay, even such as taking lunch or supper with a friend, as a matter of manly self-control, was one thing; and to be treated as an outcast by those to whom he was bound by natural ties, was another thing. The first, however trying, brought a certain sense of satisfaction in his own victory over weakness. The second could bring only smarting and pain.
Moreover, he know that Dutton would be dull for his wife and child; and Captain Lucas, with all his faults—perhaps it would be more forcible to say, with his one great fault—was an affectionate man. He dearly loved his gentle wife, and his sunny Emmeline. They were all that he had to make life bright. He would have sacrificed much to bring brightness to them; but there seemed to be no choice. He could no longer afford to travel, or to pay rent elsewhere.
There was a charm of manner still about Captain Lucas: a charm which Cyril had felt at once. He was not in the least heroic-looking; not tall, and rather stout; while the face, which had once been handsome, was marred by early years of self-indulgence. Still he had retained the manners of a gentleman; and he had by nature an unusual power of making himself agreeable.
His wife and daughter loved him dearly despite all they had endured through him—despite the shame he had made them suffer. And for more than a year he had not once given way. Emmeline's tender little heart was sure—quite sure—he never would again. The poor wife would fain have felt equally sure. She better understood the power of sudden temptation.
As Cyril had told Jean, the house was furnished, albeit in an old fashioned style. Dark pictures in heavy frames half covered the walls; thick curtains shut out much of Heaven's light; chairs of ponderous make stood solemnly about the small rooms; and huge centre-tables left little space around.
Emmeline did what she could to improve matters. She arranged and re-arranged the uncompromising furniture; she draped the curtains anew; she dragged centre-tables into corners; above all, she shed the light of her own smiling presence through the little house, and in a measure transformed it—for others, rather than for herself. The shining of a star flows outward, not inward; and a blazing body like the sun may conceivably have a dark interior.
Emmeline's mental "interior" was not dark; she was too brave-spirited to be often a victim of depression. Still, when a week in the new home had gone by, she was conscious of a dreary aspect to things generally—more conscious than on their first arrival. She had worked desperately hard; and now she was tired, and little remained to be done.
Moreover, she was labouring under a sense of disappointment, which means a worse kind of tiredness than mere weariness of back or limbs. Through the whole week Sir Cyril Devereux had never once been near the house. Nobody had been. Nobody had called. Nobody had spoken a word or left a message of welcome. The three seemed to be stranded on a barren shore, where none cared to greet them. Emmeline had known much of such isolation in her short life; yet somehow she never grew used to it, for she always saw how different life was to other people. There are some kinds of mental, as of bodily pain, to which the sufferer never does or can grow really used.
Like most girls, she had her girlish love of friends and companions, her girlish enjoyment of chatter and fun, her girlish longings and dreams. She had built a good deal—much more than she was aware—on the prospect of Sir Cyril's friendship; not so much for herself as for her parents. She was hardly more than a child yet; but she knew how much her father liked Sir Cyril, and how good it was for him to have outside interests—so long as no danger was involved—and how it cheered her mother to have her father in good spirits.
When Captain Lucas had written to tell Sir Cyril of their plans, he had replied that he "would be sure to look in directly they came." And Emmeline had set her little heart on the fulfilment of this promise.
It had not been fulfilled, and Emmeline was sorely disappointed, because she felt that it was a disappointment to her father and mother. She liked Sir Cyril herself, with a frank girlish liking; but it was honestly for their sake that she grieved. It did seem hard that nobody could be depended on.
"Only a week, of course!" commented Emmeline. "One week is not long. But he said directly—and if I were a man, I would do what I had said, if it were ever so hard."
Persistent rain had fallen all the morning and was falling still, making the Dutton pavements wet, making the Dutton world muddy. To keep up one's spirits on such a day is always more difficult than in sunshine.
Emmeline stood at the window of the crooked little drawing-room, looking across at a second-rate grocer's shop, in the open doorway of which stood a woman, contemplating the weather. There was not much else to be contemplated. A cart jogged slowly by, between the two gazers; but not many vehicles came this way. The red house stood out of the main line of traffic.
Emmeline was seventeen years old, and a pretty girl. She had childishly rounded cheeks, the bright colouring of which did not fade under fatigue; only the soft dark eyes, usually dancing with fun, had grown a trifle heavy. Her dainty little hands held a duster, for she had just finished arranging the last shelves of unpacked books.
"And now I really don't think there is anything more to be done," sighed Emmeline.
"Talking to yourself, Em?" asked a gentle voice.
Emmeline's face flashed into immediate brightness, as she turned towards a pale-faced lady, fragile and sweet-looking.
"O mother! I didn't hear you come in. Yes, I believe I was doing what that maid called 'siloloquising.' Isn't it a horrid day? Come and look-out."
"Should we not be better repaid if we studied the fire instead?"
"Then you'll sit down in this arm-chair—" running to pull it forward. "And here is a stool—and here is a cushion. I'll tuck my duster away—and then we can be cosy. So my father has gone out?"
"He wanted to take you; but I thought it best not, as you have a cold, and he meant to go some distance."
"Oh, my cold is nothing. I wish you had told me." Emmeline knelt on the rug looking thoughtfully at a purple flame. "Mother, Sir Cyril has never been—after all!"
"No."
"Do you think he will come?"
"I can't tell. He meant to do so, I am sure. But he has his aunt to consider; and she is a friend of Lady Lucas."
"Only he wrote and promised. I don't think he is very fond of his aunt."
"She brought him up. I suppose he owes her some submission."
"But he said the Trevelyans would call."
"I dare say they will drop their cards some day."
"Mother—" and a pause.
Mrs. Lucas put back the short dark hair which clustered round the girl's brow.
"What is your mind so busy about to-day, dear?"
"I'm thinking just now about that old lady—about Lady Lucas—" resentfully. "I'm glad you don't think I need speak of her as 'aunt,' because she doesn't certainly behave like an aunt."
"She would no doubt prefer that you should not."
"Mother, do you suppose she is a good woman?"
"I always suppose every one to be good until I know the contrary."
"But—" with a half laugh, yet still resentfully—"don't we know it? If she were good—Mother, she knows all about my father!" the girl burst out in choked tones.
The mother and daughter did not often allow themselves to talk of the family skeleton which haunted them. They would speak in vague terms of the ever-present necessity to "amuse" and "take care of" the household head; their work in life being to strengthen his resolution, to ward off peril, to aid and abet him in the daily fight. But the dread, always more or less pressing on them, was seldom specifically alluded to. Once in a way, however, the subject would come up; and Mrs. Lucas would not check her child's confidence. She could see now that Emmie's heart was full to overflowing.
"Yes, dear."
"She knows all that so well. Shouldn't you think, if she were a really good woman, she would want to do something to help? She would not leave him alone, to feel dull and miserable, and perhaps to—Mother, she must know how bad that is for him—how much harder it makes it for him to keep on."
"I don't suppose she thinks of the question from his side at all, but only from her own."
"But then it isn't goodness—it's all selfishness."
"There's a good deal of selfishness among people—yes, even people who are more or less 'good.' And most people's 'goodness' is very much alloyed—not pure gold—not even 18-carat gold. Only a little gold, mixed with very inferior metals. I suppose one ought to be glad to find any gold at all, in anybody."
"I don't believe there is a speck of gold in Lady Lucas."
"Ah, that is just what you and I can't judge. We can't see with her eyes, you know, or understand exactly how things look to her. She may be acting most conscientiously even in keeping away from us. I believe she really is extremely kind and benevolent—to other people."
"People who don't need it."
"People who do need it."
"Oh—the poor. But then, of course, that is quite easy. People are praised for being kind to the poor," said Emmeline shrewdly.
"Yes; and she would not be praised for kindness to us. Her friends would even say—'How odd!'"
"I would not stop for such a reason."
"It is not at all impossible that Sir Cyril may."
"But it isn't as if my father—It isn't as if all that were not over—"
"Or rather, as if he were not fighting a brave battle! Even if it should not just yet be complete victory, I do think he ought to have help and sympathy . . . But that is not the way some people judge."
Emmie sighed deeply. "It seems so very very hard," she said. "When he does try so!"
"Men have to pay the penalty for past wrongdoing," Mrs. Lucas went on patiently, as if dissecting the question. "We have to pay it—we with him. Even you, dear. It may seem hard—suffering for what one has not done. Yet that has to be. All wrong that is done, brings evil upon others. It is one of the great mysteries of life. By-and-by, we shall understand better—the reasons, I mean—the why and the wherefore. Perhaps not in this life. We can only see now that it is one of the laws of our being—inevitable, I suppose. If a mother is careless, her child pays the penalty . . . Your father suffers for what his father was.
"He said that once to me. Last year—" in smothered accents. "It frightened me. He said he had inherited the craving. He said it was born in him. Must one inherit such things?"
"One person may, and another may not. And if one does inherit the taste, there is no must be about using it. We have it in our choice whether to use or not to use the things we are born with. It is the same all round. You have inherited two eyes; but whether you use those eyes is at your own option. If you like to bandage them up all your life, you will slay them by disuse."
"Mother, I think that's a lovely idea."
"I have had to work these questions out by myself. If a little child uses his legs, they grow large and strong with exercise; but if you pack them in cotton-wool and never let him stand, they will wither and become useless . . . It is the same with evil things. Suppose you did inherit a taste—that taste—still it could never grow into a craving, except through indulgence . . . I think, perhaps, your father did inherit the inclination—he always says so. But, after all, it might have been nothing. If he had been guarded as a child, and brought up to shun the danger, instead of being incessantly tempted, he might have grown in time as strong as other men to resist. The weakness of will came through long yielding. That has made the struggle so hard."
Emmeline drew another long breath, "Then nobody need be conquered," she said. "Nobody need go down—hopelessly."
"Nobody, Emmie! Never! There is always help to be had—if only one is willing."
Emmeline dashed away one or two tears. "A carriage at the door," she said softly. "And—I do think it is Sir Cyril."
Emmeline's flush and brightness sent a pain to the mother's heart. She could not analyse the causes of her child's pleasure, and it made her fear for the future. Yet what could be said or done? For her husband's sake, she might not check the friendship.
Sir Cyril came in slowly, pale but smiling, his right arm bound across his chest.
"Oh, you have had an accident?" exclaimed Emmie, in distressed tones.
"Yes. Did you think me very long in making my appearance?" with a warm left-handed greeting to each.
He held Emmie's fingers a trifle longer than was quite necessary. The past talk had deepened to a lovely crimson the colour in her cheeks; and the soft dark eyes showed traces of tears, for which Cyril thought the little face looked all the sweeter. It was a sweet little face, and the very antipodes of Jean's! Two girls more unlike one another could hardly have been found. Emmie was dark and rosy, tender and plump, clinging and kitten-like. Jean was straight, slender and pale, reserved and independent.
But as for which of the two Sir Cyril admired the most? Since he himself was unable to answer that question, it is unlikely that any one else should be able to answer it for him. He only knew that he liked best for the moment whichever he happened to be with.
"We hoped to see you soon," Mrs. Lucas made answer, for Emmie was dumb.
"I should have come days ago, if I hadn't been hors de combat."
Cyril lowered himself carefully into the offered arm-chair. He was unable to bear the jar of a quick movement.
"This is the first time I have been out of the house. I am afraid my aunt will be rather scandalised; but she is gone to a kettledrum somewhere—"
Cyril did not feel obliged to state that the kettledrum was at Lady Lucas; the more since his unfortunate word "scandalised" had brought a faint flush to Mrs. Lucas' cheek.
"So I privately ordered the carriage to be ready to bring me here, after taking her there. I mustn't stay long—but—"
"I am afraid you are in pain," said Mrs. Lucas, as he broke off, pressing his lips together.
"Thanks, it can't be helped. We had a dinner-party last week—the day you came—and the large mirror over the fireplace came down with a crash. No warning at all. I was underneath, and the frame just caught me—broke my collar-bone, and damaged the arm a good deal. I shall be all right in a few weeks."
"And nobody else was hurt?"
"Luckily not, Jean Trevelyan stepped back just in time. I should have escaped too, but I stupidly started forward—heard her father shout, and didn't know what it meant."
"You thought she wanted help?" suggested Emmeline, with bright eyes.
"I suppose it was a feeling of that sort. I don't know. There wasn't time to think. One does the sort of thing instinctively."
"Is that the Miss Trevelyan you want us to know?" asked Emmie timidly.
"Yes, you will see her soon. She hasn't been yet, I am afraid, for her father has been ill. I fancy he was unwell before, and the shock upset him. After he got home, he had a sort of unconscious attack—not exactly fainting. Dr. Ingram says he is overworked, and orders—"
Cyril broke off anew, clutching the arm of the chair with his left hand.
"Emmie, ring for some tea. Sir Cyril looks as if he needed it."
"I ought not to let you—but—" apologised Cyril, with a glance at the bell.
He began to feel that he had done a foolish thing in coming out before leave was granted. The jolting of the carriage had brought on a fit of pain in the injured arm and shoulder, momentarily waxing more severe; and Cyril was never good at enduring pain. It turned him yellow-white; and he dared not move.
"Don't stir, or try to talk," said Mrs. Lucas. "I am afraid you ought to have stayed at home. Emmie, dear, that bottle of strong salts—no, I cannot tell you exactly where it is. I shall find it more quickly myself."
Mrs. Lucas vanished, and Cyril rested his head against the chair-back. Emmie stood watching him, with a gaze full of distressful pity. She was always easily stirred by the sight of suffering. For some seconds, Cyril was too much occupied with himself to notice her. Then a fresh stab in the arm brought an uncontrollable start, a change of posture, and a sharp drawing in of his breath, as if he hardly knew how to bear it. A faint sob from Emmie made him look up, to see a pair of dark eyes overflowing, a pair of sweet lips quivering. He tried to smile and to reassure her.
"It doesn't matter. I shall be all right presently."
"Oh, but I am so sorry. It is so bad now."
Tea came in, and Emmie could hardly wait for the tray to be put down. She poured out, and brought the cup to his side, forgetting to cry in her eagerness.
"Let me hold it, please," she entreated. "You must keep still."
Cyril obeyed, by no means unwillingly. The dark rosy little face, with its mingled tears and smiles, looked wondrously attractive, bending so near his own; and as he lifted his left hand to steady the cup, it came in contact with her small soft fingers. She had such a tiny round plump hand, the very antipodes of Jean's long slender one. The touch sent a curious sensation through Cyril. He began to wonder—to feel almost sure—and yet he was not quite sure. He had to lean back and to close his eyes, till the fit of pain should lessen; and Mrs. Lucas returned with the salts; and Cyril tried to analyse his own state of mind, feeling the pulse of his mental being. But it would not do. He could come to no conclusion, and thinking made his head ache; so he gave in, and left matters to settle themselves.
Miss Devereux found out about her nephew's escapade, although he was safely at home before the carriage went for her; and she gave it to him hot and strong for his imprudence. No wickeder word existed for Miss Devereux in the British vocabulary than that dire word "Imprudence."
Remonstrances and warnings floated over him, however, almost unnoticed. All the evening, between sharp twinges in the arm, and dull throbs in the shoulder, he saw Emmie's soft eyes, dark and tender and overflowing.
Jean's calm light-coloured eyes never looked thus. Dear old Jean! There was nobody exactly like her in the world—but she could not vie with Emmie Lucas in bewitching sweetness.
COMPLEXITIES OF LIFE.
"The same old baffling questions! O my friend,I cannot answer them . . .• • • • •"I have no answer for myself or thee,Save that I learned beside my mother's knee'All is of God that is, and is to be;And God is good.' Let this suffice us still,Resting in childlike trust upon His willWho moves to His great ends, unthwarted by the ill."J. G. WHITTIER.
NEARLY a fortnight had passed since the memorable dinner-party; and Mr. Trevelyan had been unwell, even ill, all the fortnight through. That one moment of dire alarm about Jean appeared to have acted on him as the "last straw," minus which he might presumably have fought on a few weeks longer.
Nobody else would have fought on half as long: so said Dr. Ingram, called in three days later.
Mr. Trevelyan made nothing of the slight attack of unconsciousness, which frightened Jean, after their return home; but all next day he was heavy and listless, unable to employ himself. He still strove against the need for medical advice, declaring that a day or two of rest would set him up. A severe cold next laid hold upon him, however, with persistent hoarseness, and sharp rheumatic pains; and at length, he succumbed.
Dr. Ingram found the once vigorous frame of Stewart Trevelyan enfeebled to an extent which would hardly have been thought credible by any one who had witnessed only a few days earlier his apparent energy. The energy had long been a matter of iron will, not of physical strength; and the marvel was that a breakdown had not arrived sooner.
"Then I am to take care of myself, as a matter of duty," stated Mr. Trevelyan, after listening to Dr. Ingram's opinion. "Very well. If it is my duty, there's no more to be said."
Mr. Trevelyan's notion of "taking care" might not altogether coincide with his doctor's; still, so far as his reasoning faculties were convinced, he promised to make a difference. He would not for the present walk so far, or sit up so late; and he would endeavour to be in by sundown—unless urgently wanted out. Duty to his people would, of course, come first.
"Duty to them may be included in duty to yourself," suggested Dr. Ingram. "If you are not careful, your duty to them may be short-lived."
"Thanks for plain-speaking. Now I know what I am about," said Mr. Trevelyan.
Jean gave herself up to the care of her father; went hither and thither unweariedly, that he might have the less to do; and left mere calls upon friends for the future. The Lucases, like others, had to wait.
To have Mr. Trevelyan even partially incapacitated was a new experience for Jean. She had never before realised the amount of work which he daily accomplished without fuss, for the thorough care of his extensive though not thickly-populated Parish, until now, when much had to be left undone, and much rested on her own shoulders.
He was little better yet—one dismally wet day, about a fortnight after the dinner-party. Cold and hoarseness, rheumatism and weakness, were persistent; and fight as he might against these ailments, he could not vanquish them.
For two Sundays, he had been unable to preach from sheer voicelessness. It was all very well for him to promise "not to attempt so much as usual." What he did do was the very utmost that he had power to accomplish; and none knew this better than Dr. Ingram.
The temperature was barely above freezing-point; and the intense chill of almost frozen fog and mud and prevailing damp penetrated everywhere. Mr. Trevelyan had not been out since lunch; and he had found it impossible to keep warm, even over the blazing study fire. Rheumatic aching had him in its grasp; hoarseness was worse; and he looked so ill that Jean wished it had been Dr. Ingram's day for a call. He would come on the morrow; and meantime, as occasional hot baths were ordered, Jean persuaded her father to take one early, and to go straight to bed. For a wonder, Mr. Trevelyan complied.
Somewhat later, Jean went softly into his room, to find him sound asleep; so she moved softly away.
A mass of Parish accounts, which she had taken out of his hands, required attention. It was past six o'clock, and Jean counted on a quiet hour for work. Nobody could be expected to call late on such a day. But hardly had she taken up her pen, before a quick double tinkle of the back-door bell sounded.
"Somebody wanting something, I suppose," she murmured, with a little thrill of impatience.
"If you please, Miss Trevelyan—"
Jean turned to face the parlour-maid, a new and raw importation.
"Yes, Elizabeth."
"Master's wanted, Miss—very particular."
"My father? He cannot go out."
"There's a man dying, Miss—up the gorge. He's dreadful bad, and he wants to see master as quick as can be."
"Impossible! Up the gorge, in his state—a day like this. What is the man's name?"
"Barclay, Miss."
Jean knew what this meant; knew in a moment, as with a flash. She recalled at once her father's last interview with Barclay. The man had been especially insolent, threatening physical force, and Mr. Trevelyan had said at parting, "I shall not call again at present. I cannot force you to listen. But remember one thing—if you are in need, send, and I will come!"
He had told this to Jean on his return; and she understood, only too well, how he would regard his own promise, as well as Barclay's necessity.
"Who has brought the message?"
"It's a man who lives near there—Smithson, the name is."
Elizabeth was a stranger to the neighbourhood.
"Call him into the study, please."
Jean was there, waiting, when Smithson entered—a large and broad-shouldered yet stooping man, with a pale face, well known to Jean as a member of the choir. He was one of Jean's greatest devotees, and would have done anything in the world for Mr. Trevelyan. His home was in a little row of cottages beyond the V-point; and, as he at once began to tell Jean, business had taken him that day past Barclay's solitary cottage. He had not entered it before during Barclay's tenancy, since the latter's determined seclusion prevented all intercourse with his neighbours; but a sound of loud groans induced Smithson to open the door. He found Barclay struck down by apparently mortal illness, though still ready to protest that he wanted no help.
Smithson, then on his way to Dutton by a shorter cut than down the gorge, had lingered only to summon his wife to the aid of the unhappy man; after which, he sped as quickly as possible in quest of Mr. Evans, the Parish doctor. No needless time was lost thenceforward; but the time already lost had settled the matter.
When Smithson once more passed the cottage, on his way from Dutton, late in the afternoon, he found his wife still present, and Barclay in worse agony than before. The doctor had pronounced it a hopeless case. Too late to do anything, he said. He would look in again next morning, and he promised some medicine meantime; but he did not expect Barclay to outlive the night.
Barclay knew all this, and his one cry, in the face of approaching death, was for the man he had persistently repelled.
"Send for the Parson! I must see Mr. Trevelyan. For the love of heaven, fetch him quick! For pity's sake, make haste!" were the entreaties and commands gasped out in the midst of mortal pain.
Smithson tried to speak of Mr. Trevelyan's ill-health, but he was not so much as listened to.
"For the love of heaven, be quick! I tell you he'll come! He promised he'd come! For the love of heaven, make haste!"
The labouring breath gave force to these imploring words.
"So I just come off sharp, for I didn't see what else I was to do," continued Smithson: "and I thought you'd know! If it wasn't a matter of life and death—! And Mr. Trevelyan that set on bein' good to him! The times an' agen I've seen him a-goin' there, and the way he's been treated! But anyway it wasn't for me to say 'No' to a man, and he dying."
"You don't think it would do to send for Mr. James Trevelyan? He would go at once."
"Barclay says he'll see none but the Parson, Miss! He's that bent on it! I asked him, and he shouted out 'No!' louder than I'd have thought he could. And I doubt there mightn't be time," in a lower voice. "He's awful bad. The doctor telled my missis, he might be gone any minute. Seems hard, if he can't have his dying wish, poor chap! But if Mr. Trevelyan ain't fit—"
Jean had never in her life so longed, for some one to appeal to; some one of whom to ask advice. How could she take upon herself the responsibility of calling her father?—Yet how could she take upon herself the other responsibility of not calling him? Jean's was no weak nature, loving to shirk responsibilities; but this was a terrible ordeal. It might be a matter of life and death for Mr. Trevelyan! Yet, if Barclay should die, vainly craving the promised help, because she had deliberately withheld it—what would her father say?
The echo of that passionate appeal—
"For the love of heaven, be quick!" filled the room, and entered into Jean's compassionate heart.
She tried to speak of her father's state, of the peril to him of such an expedition; but the words died on her lips. Jean knew already that the thing had to be.
"Wait here till I come back," she said; and she went upstairs.
What ought she to do? That question stood out prominently. She had no doubt at all as to what her father would expect her to do; but the question was, ought she to sacrifice him to the needs of Barclay?—She, his child!
It might mean the sacrifice of his health, if not worse. Jean faced this fact. In his weakened state, a long walk in such weather after dark might mean a fatal chill. The possibility was not so vivid for Jean, as it would have been for most people, since she been educated to disregard questions of health; still she was conscious of danger. Dr. Ingram had spoken serious warnings.
If she awakened her father, and appealed to his judgment, he would go. Jean knew this perfectly well. He had never been used to put his own comfort or safety before the needs of his people; and she knew that he would not do so now. By calling him, Jean would practically decide the matter.
He would inevitably blame her if she did not call him; he would be displeased—nay, more than displeased, absolutely wrathful. Jean had never yet dared to go against Mr. Trevelyan's iron will; but she had it in her to dare, if only she could feel herself right in so going. She would be able to face his anger, if only convinced of what ought to be done. Would she be right to leave him in ignorance of Barclay's state?
Jean had fought the same battle many a time in miniature; but she had never known so hard a fight. She could far more easily have sacrificed herself than another. That her lips should be the ones to summon him to peril was bitter indeed. Yet from the main question she did not flinch. If the thing were right, she would do it. Many a woman in her place would have very easily decided to let Mr. Trevelyan sleep on, sending the messenger to Jem; but with Jean, such a course of action was impossible, unless she deliberately felt it to be her duty. Then she would be strong to do, and brave to endure all consequences. But if she saw distinctly the peril to her father, she saw no less distinctly the reverse side of the matter—Barclay's need, and Mr. Trevelyan's responsibility.
He was sleeping still when she entered the room; drops of heat and weakness standing on his brow; the face drawn and thin. A great wave of distress and perplexity rolled over Jean. She to have to rouse him from his quiet sleep; to send him forth into the chill evening air; to summon him, perhaps, to his death. And for what? For a graceless wretch who, during long months, had stubbornly resisted Mr. Trevelyan's kindness, had utterly refused his offered help.
And yet—if she did not?
Barclay had had a loveless and embittering life. He had been almost without softening influences. If now, at last, he were repentant—if in his dire extremity and ignorance, he craved help—if Mr. Trevelyan alone could give that help—might Jean, dared Jean, deny it to him, knowing her father's great pity for and interest in the man?
She held the bedstead with one hand, looking down on the worn face, and tried to imagine herself in Mr. Trevelyan's position—bound by his duties and responsibilities, bound also in this case by a particular promise, Jean knew at once, with vivid certainty, that she would count herself bound to go, irrespective of personal risk; that she would expect to be called; that she would blame severely any one who should venture to deny to her the choice.
Suppose Mr. Trevelyan were allowed to sleep, unknowing; suppose Smithson were sent on, two miles further, to find Jem; suppose meanwhile Barclay died; suppose Mr. Trevelyan should wake up next morning to find things thus—Barclay dead, the promise not kept, the longed-for words not spoken, all through Jean's refusal, and all a part of the irrevocable past!
Jean shuddered, with a sick dread, at the thought of his look.
Yet she could have done it, could have dared all, had she felt sure she would be doing rightly. But that she could not feel. She pictured herself, for one moment in Barclay's place! Then came another question, "If CHRIST were here, would HE hold back?"
"Father," she said quietly.
He did not move.
"Father!"
"Jean! Yes."
"I don't quite know what to do."
"Something happened? Yes—tell me."
He was wide awake in a moment.
"A man up the gorge is ill—and he has sent. Don't you think we can ask Jem to go?"
"Wants me?"
"Smithson has brought the message."
"Who is it?"
"Barclay. He is very ill—dying."
"And he has sent for me?"
"You can't go. It is impossible!" That side of the matter was all Jean could see now. The responsibility lay with her father since she had called him, and she would do all in her power to keep him back. "You can't go. It is so cold and wet—a dreadful evening—and you are not well enough."
"I can't help that. Run, my dear. I shall be ready in a few minutes."
"If it were anywhere else—where you could drive! But up the gorge—"
"Yes. Is Smithson still here? Tell him to wait for me. I shall be glad of his arm, going uphill. You don't know what is wrong with Barclay?"
"It is an acute attack—something internal, I fancy. Mr. Evans has seen him, and says nothing can be done. He is in great pain."
"Run away, my dear."
"Father, you don't think—if I were to go to the cottage with Smithson, and tell him Jem would come? The gardener could go for Jem."
"You need not be afraid. A man can always do his duty. I will wrap up well, and take all precautions. Make me a cup of hot coffee, if you like—and give Smithson some too."
Jean retreated, with a terrible weight at her heart; ran down to speak to Smithson; ordered the coffee; then rushed upstairs to don hat and ulster. But disappointment awaited her. When Mr. Trevelyan appeared, a negative movement of his head greeted the outdoor apparel.
"No, Jean."
"I am coming, of course?"—desperately.
"No; it is unnecessary. You have had a great deal to do lately, and you are tired—" which was true, though Jean imagined he had not seen it. "You can do no possible good by coming; and I don't wish you to be there . . . It is practically almost a one-roomed cottage—every sound heard. Stay at home, and keep up good fires."
"You needn't be afraid, Miss," put in Smithson. "I'll see him home safe—I promise you."
"You will not let my father come back alone?"
"No, Miss Trevelyan, I won't! Not if it's ever so!"
Jean was fain to submit. She knew from her father's face, the uselessness of further protest.
He drank his coffee, allowed her to put his comforter over his mouth, gave a little parting smile of encouragement, and was off.
Jean followed him to the front door, where the cold chill of the almost freezing fog struck them as with an invisible hand. Then she was ordered back; but not before the thought came—what would the gorge be like, on such an evening? For herself, she would have thought nothing of it; but for Mr. Trevelyan—!
Jean took off her walking things, and resolutely returned to the Parish accounts, putting from her as far as possible the fears which sought to obtain dominion.
She had wanted a quiet hour, and now she had it. The Parish accounts were gainers thereby; but at the hour's end, Jean could do no more. Even her self-mastery for once failed under the strain. She could neither work nor read, but could only walk to and fro, restlessly questioning with herself; one moment bitterly regretting her own action; the next, feeling that if all should come over again, no other decision would be possible. She knew well that, if she had not called her father, she would be quite as unhappy now from the opposite cause.
Another ring—this time at the front door—and James Trevelyan walked in.
"Jem, if you had only come an hour ago!" was his unexpected greeting.
"Why, Jean! You are as pale as a ghost."
"My father has been so unwell to-day; and he has gone up the gorge."
"Whew! Nice afternoon!"
Jem held two cold hands to the fire, and examined Jean with kind eyes. He had rarely seen her so troubled. She grew whiter as she told him what had passed, and sought his face sorrowfully for an opinion.
"What do you think? Was I right? Could I do anything else?"
"You had hardly a right to decide for your father. I wish he had not felt obliged to go."
"He promised, you know! Not that that makes much difference. He would have gone anyhow. But if it should make him worse—Jem, shall I have done wrongly?"
"Questions of right and wrong don't hinge upon consequences."
"You would have done the same in my place?"
"Can't be sure. I might not have had the courage."
"I almost thought I hadn't the courage not to call him."
"Would it not have been easier to face his displeasure than to risk doing him harm? Be just to yourself, Jean."
Jean smiled. "I see," she said. "Yes—then it really was conscience. One gets so puzzled . . . And to have to settle in such a hurry—not able to see ahead . . . Did you come on business?"
"Nothing pressing. It can wait till another day. I wanted to know how your father was."
He debated silently how soon to go after Mr. Trevelyan; a step already resolved on. Jean had looked so forlorn when he entered, that he would not at once leave her.
"I should have sent for you, if only I could have felt sure—But if Barclay had died meantime—"
"Yes; I can hardly think you would have been justified."
"I am glad you think so," with a more restful look. After a break, she resumed, "I was telling you, the other day, all about Barclay—the sort of life his has been. I wanted to ask you a question; only we were interrupted. It puzzles me sometimes how a man like that—brought up as he was—how he can help being what he is . . . I mean—can he help it? . . . If he has inherited all sorts of evil ways—and if all his associations were so bad—things he could not alter—doesn't it seem as if he must have grown into his present shape, without any choice of his own? And if that is true, how can he be responsible for it?"
"No man is responsible for what he cannot help."
"Or for its results—"
"Or for results; so far as he has been absolutely powerless to prevent those results."
"If Barclay had had a different home and education, he would have turned out differently, of course."
"To some extent, yes—either better or worse. You and I cannot judge how far he might, if he would, have changed his associations—or resisted them. We don't know where he has or has not deliberately yielded to evil."
"But isn't yielding or resisting a matter of will? And isn't will inherited?"
"Yes—partly, no doubt. The natural will may be strong or weak; and it becomes stronger or weaker through training."
"And if a man's will is paralysed—?"
"I doubt if any sane man's will is paralysed. Most people have will enough to do what they like. Apparent paralysis is commonly shown only in apparent powerlessness to do what they don't like."
"But if the will is what it is, through heredity and training—" pronounced Jean slowly—"and if a man can't control either the heredity or the training—then I don't see how he can help being what he is?"
"Not badly put, for a one-sided view of the question. But you must take care not to lose sight of the other side—the absolute freedom of the will—its God-given freedom. No man living can be forced into evil. It is a matter of inducement, not of force. The will sways right or left, according to the strength of the inducements offered—inducements to self-pleasing on the one hand, inducements to right-doing on the other hand."
"That brings one again to a man's surroundings. But suppose Barclay's surroundings have been all bad? Suppose he has never once had the strong-enough inducement to do right?"
"Jean, are you trying to climb upon the judgment-seat?" asked Jem, in a quiet low voice; and a flush rose to her face. "No wonder your task proves puzzling! Omniscient Eyes are needed there to discriminate—to award due praise or blame. I suppose there is nothing in which we blunder more fearfully."
"Then one ought not to look into the question?"
"Look into it as an abstract question, if you like; but don't try to judge. Leave individual cases alone. The matter is in wiser and more loving Hands than ours . . . And be very sure of one thing—that no lawful excuse exists for Barclay, which will not, by-and-by, be taken into account. Every possible excuse will be made—every difficult circumstance and hardening influence will be allowed for. He will not be expected to have done what he could not do; but only to have done what he could do;—heredity, training, weak will, and aught else, fully considered . . . Do you really think that HE Who made the man doesn't know and understand all this far better than you and I can do? Be reasonable, Jean!"
Jean's "Thank you!" was full of thought.
"Nothing is easier than to get into a tangle of perplexity—looking through our limited peep-holes. You may dwell upon heredity, and all that it entails, until you look upon a man as a mere agglomeration of inherited molecules, unable to move hand or foot, voice or will, except in obedience to inherited proclivities. Or you may dwell upon training and its results, until you look upon a man as a mere lump of dough, pounded and rolled into a permanent shape, from which he can never depart. But these are one-sided views. Heredity has enormous influence. Training has immense power. Nevertheless, through all, a man's will is free; and for his actions, he is and must be accountable . . . After all, few men are ready to carry out these pretty theories to their legitimate end. If a thief comes, and makes away with the plate, we don't say pityingly, 'Poor fellow! He can't help it! He was obliged to act so! All the result of the bias he has inherited from his father, and the want of a sufficient inducement to be honest!' We treat him like a rational being, with a will of his own, and clap him into prison. Thereby, no doubt, supplying an inducement for the future."
Jem was glad to have made Jean laugh.
"Follow out that line of thought for yourself," he said, rising. "Now, it is unsociable to run away so soon; but don't you think I had better meet your father?"
"O Jem! Will you? How kind!"
"We shall soon be back, I dare say." As Jem was putting on his great-coat, he said with rather an odd intonation—
"Cyril seems greatly taken with these Lucases! Is it—the father—the mother—or—?"
"I don't know," Jean answered, startled less by the question than by a sudden pulse of feeling through her own frame. "I have not called yet."
"I have. The daughter is a nice little girl. Not quite desirable for Cyril, though."
"Oh, I should not think—!" and a pause. "Yes, he is always going there. But I thought it was Captain Lucas."
"Perhaps you are right. I hope so. Good-bye for the moment."
Jean went slowly back to the drawing-room, thinking—not of her father, but of Cyril. "Can it be?" she asked. "Cyril—to marry Miss Lucas! Why didn't I see before?"
She tried to laugh, then threw herself back in an easy-chair; an unwonted action for Jean, little given to lounging.
"Oh, how tired I am! I shouldn't have been half so tired if I had gone up gorge! . . . Cyril to do—that! But why not? . . . Cyril!"
She heard herself sigh, as she might have heard another person sigh.
"Well—why not? After all, why not? If it will make him happy!"
Nine o'clock struck before feet sounded on the gravel-walk; and Jean hastened out to open the door. Mr. Trevelyan came in slowly, leaning on Jem's arm.
"He's rather done!" Jem said cheerily. "But all right, now we are back. The study, Jean—and he shall have some hot brandy and water at once. No, I know he doesn't take stimulants commonly; but to-night he must! We'll do our best to keep out the chill. Smithson came half-way, and then I sent him back."
Mr. Trevelyan did not speak till divested of his damp cloak, and placed in his big chair near the blazing fire.
"This is nice," he tried to say, and the words were almost too hoarse to be intelligible. "Fog—got into my throat," he added with a smile.
"Father, were you in time?" asked Jean, as Jem went off for the remedy he advised.
"Nearly an hour. He was past saying much—great pain—but he listened—and I think he understood. I am glad you were not there. The suffering was terrible."
"And—then—?" in a low voice.
The answer came almost like an echo of what Jem had said—
"My dear, we can only leave him now—in just and merciful Hands . . . ONE who knows all about him—better than you or I! . . . But I would not for worlds not have gone."
Jean laid a hand on his, and it received warm pressure. Whatever the consequences might be, she felt at the moment that she had acted rightly.