CONFIDENTIAL WITH THE DOCTOR.
"Far more numerous was the herd of such,Who think too little, and who talk too much."DRYDEN."I shall die if I don't talk."REYNOLDS.
"THE world's in a queer state, Dr. Ingram," Mrs. Kennedy remarked one January afternoon. "Uncomfortable, don't you know?"
She spoke in a contemplative tone, lounging forward, while a loose tail of hair obtruded itself from beneath a not too tidy cap, and her placid gaze was riveted on the Doctor's face. He had been summoned to prescribe for Dicky something which should counteract a too unrestricted course of Christmas plum-cake and "sweeties." The Kennedy children were not trained to habits of self-control in minor matters.
It was three o'clock, and the Doctor had a long list of visits still to pay; yet he could not at once escape. Mrs. Kennedy, though minus the possession of a "glittering eye," like that of the Ancient Mariner, held him with such eyes as she had, refusing to see his anxiety to be off.
"Generally is!" responded her companion.
He was in appearance not at all the stereotyped doctor of novels. He was neither little nor bustling; and he did not jerk out a succession of medical phrases, to mystify the invalid's relations. Professionally, indeed, he was given to saying a very small amount—some complained, a too small amount—and what he did utter was rarely couched in learned language. Of medium height, not too substantial, yet not thin, he had reserved manners, which covered a gentle and sympathetic disposition. His prevailing expression was serious, but a substratum of humour occasionally reached the surface, through superimposed strata of a more solid kind.
Mrs. Kennedy's chief confidante was the Doctor's oldest daughter, Mabel; but she had not the least objection to confide in the Doctor himself, when opportunity offered.
"Uncomfortable, don't you think?" she repeated meditatively. "Everything going cranky, you know. And something ought to be done."
"To set the world right?"
"Well, but I mean, of course, our particular world. Dulveriford, don't you know? I'm not talking about all sorts of out of the world Tropics of Capricorns and longitudes and things," said Mrs. Kennedy, with a vague recollection of Dicky's last geography lesson before Christmas.
"Feejee Islanders are all very well—I dare say they'll learn by-and-by quite to shine in society, don't you know?—Now they've left off eating everybody. And as for Madagascar, and Zulu-Land, and that other place—what is the name?—Alaska—I should be as glad as anything, if they could just have all the beads and blankets they want, poor dear things! We have our working party once a fortnight, you know—what Mabel calls 'The Timbuctoo Thimble'—and then, of course, we think about those sort of creatures. At least, we try to, I'm sure, though we do sometimes talk about Mrs. Villiers' last new bonnet, don't you know?"
"And we read reports about them—quite properly! Because my husband doesn't think we ought to read a story. I think it might make folks work a little faster; but you know you never can get a man to see what he doesn't see, when he won't see it!—And he says it isn't suitable. And to be sure we're not working for fictitious savages! But then everybody yawns, and everybody else catches it and yawns too; and nobody can do a nice hem when they're yawning, so we have to stop reading and do a little talk instead . . . Still, you know, all that can't be like home affairs!"
"And though I'm not so very desperately fond of Jean Trevelyan in a general way—She's got a shut-up sort of manner, you know, and all that—! And of course her father and my husband are on different lines. I don't know why they shouldn't be, either—" reflectively—"but I suppose it isn't in man-nature to think that anybody or another line can possibly be right. And so—don't you see?—That's how it is! But Jean really is a nice girl, I'm sure—and all these weeks I've been so awfully sorry for the poor dear! I haven't liked to go and bother her through the worst of the time—but now he's getting a little bit of a scrap better, I thought I would just ask you—privately, don't you know?—If I could be of any sort of use?"
Dr. Ingram's listening face relaxed slightly. Then this was not all pure chatter.
"Of course, Jean has her own friends," pursued Mrs. Kennedy, allowing no space for an answer. "Any number of them. There's Mrs. Trevelyan—only she has been shut-up for a month with influenza. And there's Mrs. Villiers—but I shouldn't think she knew hardly as much about nursing as my Dicky. She always looks as if she was meant to be draperied like a Greek statue, don't you know?—With her hands nicely arranged, so as to show off the wrists. That funny creature, Miss Moggridge, has been backwards and forwards every day, I'm told, but—What did you say? Oh, it doesn't matter what I say to you, Dr. Ingram! You're like Mabel! You never make mischief. And everybody thinks Miss Moggridge queer."
"I'm afraid—" said Dr. Ingram, looking at the clock.
"I can't endure the woman, for my part. She's got such a way of setting herself upon a turret, as if nobody else in the world ever had a kind thought. Every one's narrow, and bitter, and wicked, and disagreeable, except Miss Moggridge. And the way she abuses good people who don't think like her—! Well, of course they're narrow, poor dears—and how can they help it? I suppose they were made so; or at least they've grown into it. Some people are born wide, and some are born narrow. And I don't really see, for my part, that it's a bit prettier or more Christian, for the broad-minded folks to abuse the narrow because they're not broad, don't you know, than it is for the narrow to abuse the broad, because they're not narrow, don't you see? Of course, nobody ever calls themselves narrow. They only say, they're all right, and everybody else is wrong who doesn't think like them. And that's what Miss Moggridge does—so where's the difference? . . . But I didn't mean to get upon Miss Moggridge. I wanted to ask you about Mr. Trevelyan."
Dr. Ingram hated to be questioned about his patients. He immediately stood up.
"You're not going yet, you know," asserted Mrs. Kennedy, keeping her seat. "My mind's all in a scrummage, and I want putting straight. And I want to know first about Jean . . . Of course, it's horrid for her, because she had to do what brought on this illness. At least she thought she had to do it. Yes, of course I've heard all about that—everybody has heard it, and they all say it's just like Jean. Anybody else wouldn't have called him. I wouldn't—not for any mortal man living! Now do tell me—is Mr. Trevelyan going on well, and could I do anything?"
"You can call and ask Jean yourself. She is much over-taxed."
"I should think so—all these weeks of nursing! She won't care to see me, not a scrap! So what's the good of my going? Jean never did like me, and I don't see why she should. It isn't opinions. People can like one another, without thinking just identically the same about every single thing that ever was heard of. But we don't suit somehow! Only if I could be of any use? You can ask her for me. I shan't go unless I'm sent for."
After this positive assertion, nobody at all acquainted with Mrs. Kennedy need have been surprised that within half-an-hour she was on her way to Dulveriford Rectory.
Jean came to see her when summoned. Her father was asleep, she said; and one of the maids would keep watch for a few minutes. Had Mrs. Kennedy come on business? Jean looked pale and thin, with the stress of long nursing and suspense, through her father's complicated and dangerous illness. She had an air of rigid composure, as she rang for tea, and sat down to answer Mrs. Kennedy's questions.
Yes; her father was better; really better, and on the whole out of danger. At least Dr. Ingram hoped so. Recovery would be slow, of course; it could not be otherwise; and great care would be needed. There must be no thought of work at present—probably not for months. Dr. Ingram talked of a year's rest. The strain had been kept up far too long. Nothing was settled yet, but Dr. Ingram wished him very much to go for a voyage—perhaps to the Cape, or perhaps to Australia.
"My dear, I'm most dreadfully sorry! But you would go with him, of course?"
"No; it would cost too much. One has not to think of oneself," said Jean with a forced smile. "If it is necessary for him—Yes; I suppose we shall have to get a locum tenens. He could not start for another three or four weeks; and Mr. Marson, who is helping now, can stay a little longer . . . Oh, there is no difficulty about me. Jem Trevelyan and his mother will take me in . . . Yes, my father knows—and of course he will do what is right. I am only so thankful that he is better. It might have been—!"
Jean counted her own self-command inviolable; but she was not prepared to be taken into a large sympathetic embrace; to have motherly kisses on her cheek; and to hear a motherly voice saying, "You poor dear child! I am, so sorry."
Jean broke into one irresistible sob, and a few hot tears fell in quick succession; but she struggled back to composure, and gently released herself—not without a sense of comfort.
"Thank you very much: you are very good," she said. "But of course I do not mean to be selfish. If he will only come home strong, it will be all right. May I give you a cup of tea? I am afraid I ought to go upstairs soon."
"I never quite knew before what nice feeling there is in Jean," murmured Mrs. Kennedy as she trudged homeward. "Really, she isn't half so stiff and shut-up when one gets to know her; and she does seem so fond of her father. Perhaps even he isn't always so starched as he seems sometimes!—"
At almost the same moment, a somewhat similar thought passed through Jean's mind: "How much pleasanter Mrs. Kennedy is than I have always fancied!"
But neither could hear the other.
Passing through Dutton, Mrs. Kennedy turned aside near the Post-Office, into a side street, where was a greengrocer's, opposite a red house. Mrs. Kennedy had taken to patronising this greengrocer of late from economical motives. She gave an order for the morrow, and walked out in time to see an active figure run up the steps of the red house, turn the handle of the front door, and enter.
"If that isn't Sir Cyril himself!" ejaculated Mrs. Kennedy under her breath. "And as much at home as if—! Something is in the air—that's certain! Poor dear Miss Devereux."
Of course Mrs. Kennedy knew all about the Lucases, since family secrets were apt to ooze out in Dutton. She wisely kept her own counsel, however, when she went home, and said nothing—even to her husband. Through sheer forgetfulness and absence of mind, he was apt to repeat things which had no business to be repeated; and his wife had learned through dire experience that silence is sometimes the better form of discretion. Whether her reticence would have survived a tête-à-tête with Mabel Ingram may be doubted; but Mabel was from home. So Mrs. Kennedy conjectured, and was mute.
She had made no mistake. It really was Sir Cyril Devereux, who had run up the stone steps, and had entered lightly without ringing.
He had been to the red house very often of late, oftener than he realised. During the short period of convalescence after his accident, he had paid many and lengthy calls on the Lucases. Then came the break of his last term at Oxford. And before Christmas, he returned home "for good," a gentleman at large, with a comfortable property and plenty of interests, but no definite line of work in life.
The property was large enough to require attention, but by no means so extensive as to absorb the whole of a young man's energies. Many beside Lady Lucas had earnestly advised Sybella to provide some definite line for Cyril, during at least the earlier years of his manhood; but she had refused to see the need.
"He could take up anything he liked," she said; "but he would, have plenty of money. For her part, she didn't see why he need slave; and she was sure his health would not stand hard work; and he might just as well live comfortably at home with her! He could find plenty to do in Dulveriford."
Cyril had not opposed this view of the question. He was vaguely desirous to make a "career" for himself somehow; but he had not decided on the manner of that career. He seemed to have no special bent beyond a general love of art, and literature; and since, from a money point of view, there was no hurry, he resolved to wait. Something would turn up, sooner or later.
Meanwhile, his friends found consolation in the fact that at least he was not disposed to idleness. He read a fair amount, studied popular questions, looked into business matters, went in for abundance of pedestrian and equestrian exercise, and contrived on the whole to fill up his time creditably. Sometimes he talked of setting up a hunter, and sometimes he planned writing a book; but he had no great passion either for hunting or penmanship. Sybella's horror of guns had hitherto rather stood in the way of shooting, except when he was away from home. Her horror of cigars was less inconvenient, since, though not much addicted to smoking as a habit, he could always retreat to his den, when desirous to escape from her talk or her temper.
In a general way, Cyril would have spent many a spare hour at Dulveriford Rectory; but on his return before Christmas, he found Jean still so entirely occupied in attendance on her father, as to be rarely visible. As he could not have Jean, he went in for Emmie Lucas.
He did not yet know his own mind about the two girls—though not from any lack of self-watching—and he was drifting fast to a position where he would be likely to act as if he did know it.
Emmie's dark face, small and rosy and sweet, was gaining more and more a hold upon him. She was not aware of the fact herself, being very young, unversed in the ways of the world, and kitten-like in simplicity. She would chat and laugh with Sir Cyril, as easily as if she had been his sister, delighted always to see him, because her father had so few friends. But naturally, Cyril did not ascribe this delight to thoughtfulness for her father—though he still kept up the little fiction of coming perpetually to call upon Captain Lucas. If Captain Lucas were out or busy, it was a matter of course that he should stay for a talk with the ladies.
As already intimated, Cyril did not drift unknowingly. He was too much given to self-analysing not to see whither his barque floated. Sometimes he grew uneasy, and thought he would not call on the Lucases for a few days; which "few days" seldom extended themselves beyond two nights. Sometimes he felt a desperate inclination to break through everything, to get utterly away from Dulveriford for a year or two years.
Why not? He had no binding duties at home; or anywhere else, unfortunately. He had pottered abut a good deal in Swiss and German hotels with Miss Devereux; but a wide world unexplored lay beyond. Why not take a more extended tour—say to the Antipodes—in search of a vocation, or at least to see what the effect of separation might be on himself and others? There was money enough; and "aunt Sybella" could remain in charge at the Brow.
But these were evening and night thoughts chiefly. He said nothing about them in the daytime.
Indeed, he seldom spoke of his friends, the Lucases, before Miss Devereux; and she had as yet not the slightest idea how far things had gone. Cyril had quite made up his mind to do nothing hasty; to be drawn into no rash or ill-considered step. He would see his way, clear as daylight, before he would commit himself. Satisfied with this resolution, he went on calling at the red house.
ON THE ROCKS.
"It is done! I have told her I love her!• • • • •"Some power grown tyrannous holding me fast,Blotting alike the Future and Past."L. MORRIS.
AFTER the evening call, witnessed by Mrs. Kennedy, Cyril did not go again for three whole days. He really was unable, being prevented by a close run of engagements: but none the less he was much gratified with his own self-control in staying away.
Emmie's little face haunted him incessantly, and after three days, he could wait no longer. The Dulveriford world was a wilderness without her smile. Friends came to lunch, and more friends were expected to afternoon tea; and Sybella always liked to air her nephew's manners on these occasions. But Cyril, pleading business, slipped away soon after three o'clock.
"Of course it is business," he told himself laughingly. "Much more business than sitting indoors to talk chit-chat with a lot of old maids. The most important business of life, perhaps."
He had not so plainly allowed the possibility to himself before; but under the pull of three days' starvation of Emmie, it sprang up and took clear shape.
Nobody was in the drawing-room of the red house when he entered, and the fire had sunk into a mere heap of red embers—an unusual state of things there at four o'clock. Cyril wondered what could have happened to banish the three. They walked earlier, as a rule, these wintry days; and engagements out to tea were rare.
Cyril endeavoured to warm his hands before the dull coals, and considered whether he might count himself enough at home to make up the fire, but did not do it. Then he strolled about, criticised one or two of the old pictures, and finally was rewarded by Emmie's appearance.
She did not see him at first. Her eyes were downcast, the dark lashes almost resting on the rounded cheeks, and as she came slowly in with a lagging step, she said, "O dear me!" half aloud.
"How do you do?" asked Cyril.
Emmie's movement might have been the result of an electric shock, and the dark eyes opened wide.
"Oh—I didn't see," she said in an embarrassed voice. "I—I beg your pardon. Won't you sit down? I'll call my mother—if—if she can come—"
"No, no, don't disturb her on any account. Pray don't. I dare say she has lots of things to do."
"She has—she is—rather busy," faltered Emmie, and a look of sorrowful trouble came to the sweet lips. "Oh, it is only—she would come, if—"
"I dare say she will look in presently; but don't call her. I only want to know how you are all getting on. The last three days have been so full, I couldn't find a minute. How is your father?"
"He—" Emmie shivered.
"Will you let me make up the fire? You are cold."
"Oh, no—I—"
Emmie knelt down on the rug, and poked vaguely at the red embers; whereupon Cyril bent over her, took the poker out of her hand which he found to be trembling, arranged the fading coals in a scientific fashion, and placed a few fresh pieces lightly one upon another. A flame sprang up as by magic. Then he laid hold upon those trembling little hands, lifted Emmie up, and placed her in the big arm-chair. She submitted as a child might have done, and sat where he put her, not crying as she would have cried for some minor matter, but with her mouth set in a sorrowful curve, and her eyes gazing into some unknown grief. The colour in her cheeks was much deeper than usual—a rich crimson-velvet tint—and the brow looked whiter, the eyes darker by contrast. Cyril had never seen her thus. His feelings were greatly stirred.
"I'm afraid you have been worried by something," he said sympathizingly.
Emmie gave him a pathetic smile. "I suppose one has to be worried sometimes," she said.
"And it's nothing I can help you in?"
"O no—thanks—"
"I would if I could. I would, really. You believe that—don't you, Emmie?"
This was going on fast, much faster than he had meant to go. The pathos and tender sorrow of her face were too much for him, and wise resolutions were forgotten. He had never called her "Emmie" before; and she scarcely seemed to notice it, she was so full of her trouble. There was the sound of a quivering sigh, and Cyril again took her hand.
"Emmie, don't you think you could let me help you? Couldn't you manage to look on me as something more than a mere friend . . . Yes, I mean it," as she turned wondering eyes upon him; eyes so soft and sad that he was carried away by their glance into a rush of pity and affectionate concern. He had no time to analyse his own feelings, to dissect the make of his sensations. Before he knew what would come next, he was saying with pleading earnestness—
"Emmie, I love you! I love you, darling! Can you love me? Will you promise to be my wife?"
"It is so kind of you," said Emmie wistfully. Then she sat up, and drew her hand away from his with an instinctive movement, yet she repeated, "It is so very kind of you."
"Not 'kind,' Emmie. This is not 'kindness.' It is something so much more. I don't think you understand."
"Yes—O I think I do. But I didn't know what you were going to say. It seems so—so strange! And—my mother—"
"Would your mother object? Would she mind?"
"I don't know. O she couldn't—couldn't mind!" with a gasp. "She would only—She would wish—She likes you so much—"
"And you—you like me just a little too?"
"Yes. I like you—very much indeed," declared Emmie, her face crimson and her breath quick. "Of course I do. Yes—Only—But Miss Devereux—"
"Miss Devereux has no real control over me. It all rests with you! If you can say 'Yes'—"
"Oh, I don't know!" Some fresh thought seemed to come up, and she shivered, though her cheeks were on fire. "I don't know! Oh, I don't know."
Did she not know how much she cared for him?—Or whether she loved him? Was that it? The poor little hands tried to cover the burning face. "I don't know! I don't know!" was all she seemed able to utter.
"You mean—perhaps—Is it because of your own home troubles, Emmie? But if I am willing—? Darling, if I want to give you a happy home—?"
"I must go to my mother!" and Emmie started up. "Please, please don't say any more now. Please let me! . . . Yes, I know—it is so good of you—"
She had almost said childishly, "So good of you to think of it!" but checked herself in time. "Only, please, I must tell my mother. I want to tell her first. Don't ask me to say any more to-day, please!"
"To-morrow—then—"
"The day after to-morrow—please. I'll write."
"You want to get used to the idea!" Cyril smiled down on her, having little doubt how things would end. He knew himself to be an attractive young fellow, good-looking and gentlemanly; and he knew Emmie liked him; and he could not but be aware of the social advantages which he was offering. "Well—just two days! But you will have pity on my suspense."
"Oh—yes!"
Emmie fled; and Cyril stood alone, a consciousness already creeping over him that he had run on faster than he had intended. For some time past, he had seen this lying ahead, not as a thing certain, but as a thing probable. Still, he had not meant to bind himself so soon.
And now the deed was done!
Cyril tried to believe that it was best so—that decisive action was better than hesitancy and delay. After all, he would no doubt have reached the same goal in the end! Why not in the beginning? Now he knew what lay before him. Emmie had not yet accepted his offer, it was true; but who could doubt what her answer would be? Not Cyril at all events. He smiled over the recollection of her face; and then he smiled again to think how happy he would make her at the Brow. Sweet dark-eyed Emmie! Dear little rosy-checked Emmie! She should have a life as free from care as a devoted husband could render it.
There was "aunt Sybella!" But, of course, aunt Sybella would conform to his wishes. Aunt Sybella was not mistress of his house, whatever she might think. When Emmie was mistress, aunt Sybella would have to abdicate. Moreover, he was not going to have his gentle Emmie's life embittered by domestic broils. Aunt Sybella would have to make herself agreeable to Sir Cyril's wife, or she would have to find a home elsewhere.
His Emmie! His wife! It had come to that!
He almost thought Mrs. Lucas would walk in directly, to tell him how delighted she was, and how gladly she would accept him as her son. But she did not; and after waiting a good ten minutes, Cyril decided to leave. After all, Emmie had given him his congé for the moment; and the mother and daughter would want a quiet hour together.
Opening the door, he was arrested by an unexpected sight—a sight no less terrible than unexpected. Captain Lucas, with vacant eyes and deeply-flushed face, was staggering across the hall, swaying heavily from side to side, while his wife, pale as death, endeavoured to hold him up, and to guide his uncertain steps.
Overcome again!
Cyril understood in a moment. He knew now what Emmie's trouble had been; and a throb of anger passed through him. Why had she not told all before he spoke? He did not step forward or show himself. Better to leave the poor wife to manage her hard task alone, than to appear as spectator of her shame.
Happily, the drawing-room door had made no noise as it opened, and Cyril was well in the shade. He stood perfectly still, and the two disappeared within the study—Captain Lucas giving another great lurch, then breaking into a rollicking fragment of song. They did not see Cyril. But the sense of sick disgust which swept over him can hardly be described. That his future father-in-law!
Cyril fled from the house, as Emmie had fled from him. His rapid escape can be told in no other words. He felt that he could not breathe till he was outside in the street. Then, dark and dull and wintry as it was, he started off at a furious pace through Dutton, along the nearest country road, and away to the marshlands, where as a boy he had loved to wander with Jean.
The marshes were hardly what anybody in his sober senses would have chosen for a January stroll after sundown; but Cyril could scarcely be termed in his sober senses just then. From quiet satisfaction and complacent pleasure in himself and Emmie, he had leaped at one bound, by an instantaneous transition, into a very tumult of disordered feeling and tempestuous thought.
He had done it now!—And done it himself! Nobody else had brought him into this coil. Nobody could get him out of it!
Why needed he to be so startled by the sight? Had he not known the whole before? Had he not pitied the man's weakness, heartily sympathising with the wife and child? Had not his first wish been, in asking Emmie, to save her from the pressure of that family sorrow? All the while, he had known that this might happen again—that any day Captain Lucas might be vanquished.
He had known, but he had not realised. Kind friendliness and sympathy from him to them had been pleasant to give. But—he, Sir Cyril Devereux, to have for father-in-law a man who might at any time drown his senses in drink from sheer infirmity of purpose! His father-in-law to be seen perhaps rolling helplessly through Dutton, the finger of scorn pointed at him from every side! Cyril's benevolence snapped under the pull of this test.
If he loved Emmie—there lay the balancing-pull. Like a half drowned man catching at a straw, as he strode over the muddy marshland, Cyril turned to the thought of Emmie's little face, soft and dark, rosy and childlike, as it had haunted him of late.
Strange! He could not so much as see it! Emmie's face refused to rise at his bidding. Instead, Jean's pale and even features came between, the calm eyes looking at him reproachfully.
Cyril stopped short in his wild walk. The soft ground yielded under his boots, and the wet fog wrapped him round in a damp embrace; but he heeded neither. That moment was to him as a "soul's awakening;" an awakening full of pain, and into darkness. For he knew that it had come too late.
He had proposed to Emmie Lucas. Emmie would accept him. He had cut himself off for life from Jean.
For life!
Like a stab from a spear this thought came, rending away all disguises, showing him his own state, his own true self . . . Emmie Lucas! What was Emmie Lucas to him compared with Jean . . . A dear little girl; sweet and charming! . . . But Jean!—He had grown-up into a close union with Jean. His whole being was twined in and out with Jean's being. To be cut off from Jean! How could he endure it?
Had he been mad? Was his seeming love for Emmie all a delusion? It wavered, flickered, went out, this hour, in the rush of his old passionate devotion to Jean. He felt that he could live for Jean, could die for Jean, could wait any number of years for Jean—if only he might hope to win her in the end. But to be cut off from her utterly—! And by his own action—!
And all these weeks past he had honestly counted himself in love with Emmie Lucas.
"Emmie!" he laughed aloud, out on the dreary marshland. "O Jean! What an utter fool I have been!"
He could not yet turn homeward. To meet Miss Devereux's shallow curiosity and shallower solicitude, at the dinner-table, would be insupportable. He knew that he had not control of his own face. She would guess something to have happened out of the common, and would pester him with looks and questions. So he went on and on, thinking hard while trying not to think, going over the past, reckoning up the innumerable points at which his life had been interlaced with Jean's, finding out how necessary to him she always had been, always would be!
And to have discovered this, just too late!
If only he had not spoken that day! But then, would the awakening love have come?
He tried again and again to think of Emmie, to picture her confiding ways, to imagine the sweet little face at the head of his table, always by his side! In vain! Every fresh effort was a failure. Jean's face persistently rose instead, blotting out Emmie's.
Without any clear aim before his mind's eye—which indeed was fully occupied—he presently turned aside from the marshes, and made his way towards Dulveriford Rectory. He had no idea of going in or of speaking to Jean. He only went because he could not help it.
The drawing-room blinds were not drawn when he entered the garden; and he stole near, cautiously as a thief might have stolen. He was veiled in the outside darkness; while a lamp and a bright fire burnt within. Jean stood by the table, reading a letter—pale and quiet. She looked up carelessly towards the window, little thinking that Cyril was so near. Then she read a few more lines, and again looked up, as if with an uneasy consciousness of being watched. She might well feel the intense gaze which Cyril brought to bear upon her. He was conscious of power to make her feel it; and the consciousness caused a gleam of delight.
Jean stepped forward, and drew down the blind. That was at an end; and Cyril's momentary delight faded into wretchedness.
He dared not go in. He could not trust himself. She would see his trouble in his face; and there was no knowing what he might be drawn on to say. Cyril had force of will to resist the loadstone pulling, and to walk away.
Miss Devereux was offended that her nephew had not come home in time for dinner; and when he did appear, she greeted him with reproaches. It was of no consequence, of course—at least, of course she was of no consequence—but she thought he might have the civility to tell her beforehand when he meant to stay away—even though he was master of the Brow, and poor she was nobody—still she did think she had a right to be treated with at least a little proper respect.
When a man is stretched on the rack, an additional turn of the screws becomes sometimes just too much for endurance. He may have borne in silence thus far; but there is a point where silence breaks down. Cyril was on the rack, and his powers of endurance had reached their limit. One turn more became too much.
This evening's experience had changed him greatly, working in him such a revolution of thought and feeling as years are commonly needed to work. He had gone out after three o'clock, a pleasant boyish young fellow, drifting easily on life's current, well content with himself and the world in general. He had come back at eight o'clock a full-grown man; a sufferer through his own blundering haste; sharply awakened from placid satisfaction to a new knowledge of himself, a fresh understanding of life.
Had Miss Devereux been on the look-out, she must have noticed the change in his face, the tense misery of every feature; but as usual she was occupied with herself. The falling of a thunderbolt could hardly have startled her more than did his rough reply, putting down her querulous complaints with a disdain which he had never shown to her yet. She stared, protested, then collapsed into tears; and Cyril flung himself into an easy-chair.
"There! I didn't mean to put you out," he said moodily. "But what's the use of bothering one?"
"You'll take—take—some din—dinner?" sobbed Sybella.
"No, thanks. I only want a glass of wine and some biscuits . . . And I am tired, so I shall go to bed early—after a cigar."
"I'm sure somebody must have done something, or else you are in some dreadful scrape and won't confess it," wept Sybella. "You are not in the least like yourself."
Cyril made his escape. He could stand no questioning. The night which followed was one long torture of waking and sleeping dreams—Jean's face always prominent.
TAKING COUNSEL.
"It was not her time to love; besideHer life had many a hope and aim."R. BROWNING.
CAPTAIN LUCAS was in the depths of despair next morning. It was always thus, after these disappointing failures; but never more thus than now. The breakdown had been so unexpected. After a year and more of continuous victory, he had felt himself secure; it seemed almost absurd to fear that he ever could be overcome again. And in a moment, the shock of temptation had come—the opportunity, the craving, the powerlessness to resist.
Scarcely an hour before Sir Cyril's call, he had been helped, staggering, home by a policeman; and thereafter, Mrs. Lucas would not leave his side. Emmie had no chance of a talk with her that evening; and next morning was no better. It was well that she had not promised an immediate reply.
Captain Lucas was himself again after a night's sleep; but in an abyss of conscious degradation and hopelessness, ready to weep like a child. Nothing was of any use, he moaned. No good to try any longer. It could not be overcome. He had better give in, once for all, and let things go. He would get away somewhere out of everybody's reach. He was only spoiling their lives—his wife's and Emmie's—and the sooner they parted the better.
His wife smiled faintly. She might have told him that her life was pretty well spoilt already, viewed from the ordinary standpoint—but that she loved her husband, and had the great joy to look forward to, of having helped to save him from his terrible foe. So she only spoke helpful and bracing words. He had kept on so bravely the past year, never once yielding. Was not that an encouragement for the future? He would not falter now, after so long a battle. Impossible that he should do aught so cowardly. He had to retrieve his honour, to cheer up, to fight all the harder because of his fall. More prayer and firmer trust were needed; and victory in the end was sure. God would help him, she knew—would bring him safely through. No man ever needed to be beaten.
All the morning this went on, and much of the afternoon. Emmie could be of little use. In his brighter moods, her sunny sweetness was invaluable, but in his despair, he needed a more practised hand.
Mrs. Lucas was not without help, however. The sad tale reached Jem's ears by mid-day; and he came at once, to be a tower of strength to the sorrowful wife, and to put fresh courage into the heart of the broken-down man. He promised to look in again next day; and he spoke kind words to Emmie, who had wandered about the house, wondering what she really felt, and whether such an upheaval were actually to take place in her life, as would be implied by her engagement to Sir Cyril Devereux.
"He is so very nice," sighed Emmie again and again. "But I wish—I wish—if only I were a little older!"
In the afternoon, towards tea-time, Captain Lucas fell sound asleep in the study, worn out with remorse. He had been plied with coffee at intervals, and would not need tea. For the first time, Emmie saw her opportunity. She know that the sleep might probably last some time; so she coaxed her mother into a comfortable chair by the drawing-room fire, ordered up the tea-tray earlier than usual, and waited on her assiduously, unaware how closely she was herself watched, for she hardly dared to lift her dropped eyelids.
There came presently a soft, "My poor little Emmie!"
"O mother!"
Emmie knelt down on the rug with an arm round Mrs. Lucas.
"I have always feared it might happen again, some day . . . It is so like a disease. One can hardly expect no recurrence . . . Yet some would tell me that is a want of trust. And I know he can be kept from it! . . . Still—time after time—this has come."
"Mr. Trevelyan was so nice, wasn't he?"
"I think he will be an immense help. He promises me to well look after your father. He is just the man for it—kind and thoughtful, and a thorough gentleman. And so very good."
"Mother—"
Something in the voice made Mrs. Lucas look into her daughter's face.
"Mother—Sir Cyril came yesterday—when you were busy, you know. And—"
"He did not see your father?"
"No. I knew you were both in the morning-room. I did offer to call you, but he said there was no need. And I knew you could not well come. But, mother—he—"
The crimsoning face drooped, and Mrs. Lucas' heart beat fast. She drew Emmie closer.
"Yes. He—?"
"He said—something. Something that I must tell you . . . I always tell you everything . . . He asked—He wants me—to be his wife."
Mrs. Lucas could hardly control her thrill of astonishment. She had feared some trembling avowal of Emmie's feelings towards Sir Cyril; but she had not looked for this. It had been a settled matter in her imagination that Sir Cyril was in love with Jean Trevelyan.
"Tell me all, darling."
"I didn't know it was coming—of course. I couldn't think what he meant at first—and I was so full of—that, you know—but I found he was really in earnest. He says—says—he loves me!"—in a whisper. "And he wants me to marry him."
"And you said—?"
"I couldn't answer him at once. How could I—before I had spoken to you? I didn't know what to say; and it seemed so funny. Why, I'm only a child. I asked him to let me have till to-morrow; and he said he supposed I wanted to get used to the idea. And he told me to pity his suspense. But it does seem odd that he should care for me—for little Emmie Lucas! He is so clever and handsome, and everybody likes him."
"Including Emmie?"
"Yes. O yes—I like him." Emmie looked frankly up. "He is so nice and kind to poor father. I don't see how I could help liking him. I like him very much indeed. I should hate to do anything to give him pain."
"Sometimes to give a passing pain is the truest kindness. Emmie, the question really is not whether you like Sir Cyril, but whether you love him."
Emmie's face flushed all over again.
"But—"
"But what?"
"People don't always begin with that, do they? I mean—doesn't it come after they are married, sometimes?"
"Sometimes; but the risk is serious."
Emmie sighed.
"He is so nice," she said, "so very very nice and pleasant. And I do look up to him really, because he is so clever. I like him—oh, ever so much. It's almost a little like loving. Not like the sort of love I have for you, of course; because I don't think anything ever could be the same as that—but still—I do like to see him come in, and it would be very dull if he never came. Don't you think it would?"
"The question is not what I think, my dear."
"Well—I think it would—really. Do you know, mother, he didn't seem afraid about my answer!"
"No? He did not seem very eager or anxious, you mean?"
"No—not exactly—only so kind and pleasant. He saw I was in trouble, mother. And I do think it grieved him. And if he cares so much for me—And if I like him so much—"
"No true man could be satisfied with no more."
"Couldn't he?" with a look of childish sweetness. "But—" tears filling her eyes—"I'm afraid it does look rather tempting. Everything would be so different. Different for you and father. You would have plenty of friends."
"No, my darling; don't deceive yourself. Lady Lucas might give up Sir Cyril for marrying you. She would not accept us because you married Sir Cyril."
"Wouldn't she? I thought—perhaps—"
"Don't think of us at all. Or, if you do, think what it would be to us to lose our one sunbeam. That should not stand in your way, if it were a question of your real happiness. But—"
"Oh!" in a startled tone. "You could not get on without me, of course. I never thought of that. There would be nobody to walk with my father. You can't go any distance—and fancy him wandering about alone . . . But then I should be so near! I could run in every day, and look after him almost the same as now."
"If you were Sir Cyril's wife, your duty would be to him, not to us. He is a man of leisure, and his wife will have her time well filled. Dear Emmie, you must put the thought of us quite aside, and think only of yourself and him. Only you and him! Could you promise to love him all your life—first and best? To love him?"
"Not so much as I love you, of course, mother! How could I possibly?"—with a look of infantine sweetness. "And I should be miserable if I couldn't see you every day, and tell you every single thing as I do now. But I don't like to make him unhappy."
"You must do what is right, and leave his unhappiness to take care of itself. I am not sure that it will be very deep. There may be a touch of self-deception in this sudden fancy . . . Did it never occur to you that he thinks a great deal of Jean Trevelyan?"
Emmie laughed. "Yes, indeed he does. He is always talking of her. It is the funniest thing—but whatever we happen to be speaking about, he always twists the subject round, so as to bring in her name. I really do think it is that, that has kept me from seeing how much he cared for me . . . It's funny, mother . . . And, of course, a man can't care for two girls at once—in that way, I mean . . . And, of course, if he did care for her, he wouldn't ask me to marry him."
"If he knew that he cared for her most. People do not always fully know their own minds. It has been a life-long affection, and perhaps he does not measure the strength of it. His perpetual reference to her ideas and opinions has a suspicious look. No doubt he has been captivated for the moment by this dear little face—" kissing it. "But suppose there were a mistake—and suppose he found out by-and-by—"
"Yes: I see! And you think I had better say 'No' at once?"
"I think you must decide for yourself; but I am very much afraid of a hasty 'Yes,'—for your sake, and for his. I am afraid you might both regret it."
"Yes; I understand. O no; it wouldn't do! Mother, I really am glad. Perhaps I'm a little sorry too, because the Brow and everything would be so nice—except Miss Devereux and Lady Lucas! I should like it so much for you and my father . . . But, of course, that isn't enough. I mean it wouldn't be right to marry him for the sake of anybody else! . . . And somehow, I can't think of Sir Cyril as—as—a husband!"—blushing furiously. "I like him very much indeed, just coming in and out. But I almost think—I'm afraid I should get just a little tired of him, if it were always and always going on."
"And suppose poor Sir Cyril—after losing friends and offending relatives by marrying—suppose he should find the wife, for whom he had given up so much, getting only a little tired of him? Only a little bored with his talk—and impatient of his companionship—and careless about pleasing him—perhaps even pettish and fractious, in return for—?"
"Mother, you needn't go on! I see now quite quite plainly! I didn't understand before. It would be horrid and cruel of me to marry him, feeling as I do. O no—because I don't really love him, and I don't believe I ever could! I'll write a note this minute; and don't you think we might send it—not keep him another whole night in suspense? I suppose he is in a little suspense just now, you know—though I dare say he will get over it soon."
It had indeed been a day of suspense for Cyril, though not precisely that fashion of suspense which Emmeline innocently pictured to herself. How to live through the dragging hours was a problem not easily solved. Most young men in his condition would at least have had the help of enforced occupation, but Cyril had abundant leisure to suffer his worst.
Sybella's was not a soothing companionship. She fretted him with questions and surmises, was annoyed when he told her nothing, and defended herself with her usual verbosity from charges which nobody had made, turning everything into an argument.
To escape from home-friction, Cyril walked from breakfast until lunch, after which he vanished into his smoking-den for an hour, and then went off for a four hours' ride, barely returning in time for dinner, which indeed had to wait ten minutes while he dressed.
"You never used to be unpunctual, Cyril!"
"I dare say not," Cyril answered.
"It is a very bad habit. It grows upon people."
"It will grow upon me, of course."
"My dear aunt always trained me to be scrupulously punctual. She never allowed slipshod ways. But your dear father was different. He never could be in time for things. I hope you do not mean to take after him."
"Might do worse!" muttered the chafed Cyril. He had tender recollections of his father, and could ill endure to hear him discussed by Sybella.
"What do you say? I really cannot hear when you mumble so, Cyril . . . Is there anything wrong with the soup? You are not taking any . . . Lady Lucas has been here to-day, calling. And she told me a most dreadful thing. About that miserable nephew of hers—"
"Lady Lucas is an awful old gossip."
"Really, Cyril—"
"There's no need, at all events, to retail her scandal in public."
Something in the suppressed voice warned even Sybella to desist for a while.
When dessert was on the table, and the man had vanished, she began anew—
"I must tell you now! It is not a matter of choice, but of duty—a positive necessity, for your own sake. As for Pearce hearing—everybody will know, so I do not see that it makes much difference. That wretched man, Captain Lucas—No, I cannot be interrupted, Cyril! I really must for once speak out! That wretched man, Captain Lucas, was actually—absolutely—carried home yesterday evening by two policemen—dead drunk! Yes, it is a fact! There can be no possible mistake. It is a most fearful disgrace. Everybody is talking about it, and pitying Lady Lucas. He was seen reeling about in the streets, like any common creature out of a public-house."
"I don't see how he could manage to reel about, if he were dead drunk!"
"Really, Cyril! To take it in such a way! To make a joke of it, almost! And such a dreadful thing! . . . And you can actually stoop to call that man your friend! Captain Lucas—a drunkard—the friend of Sir Cyril Devereux!" Sybella spoke with more force of expression than she usually had at command.
The arrow went home: only Cyril's brain substituted the word "father-in-law" for "friend." He had grown white, and his brows were drawn sternly together. He cracked half-a-dozen nuts in quick succession, tossing each aside, and asked only—
"Have you done?"
"I suppose you don't believe me, but it is true. Perfectly true. As you will find to your cost. Some day," asserted Sybella, with agitated breaks.
"The main fact is true. Lady Lucas has only improved upon it a little—not more than one might reasonably expect! He was not 'dead drunk,' and he did not require to be carried, I believe—but unhappily, he did take too much."
"As he does constantly—every other day."
"You are misinformed. He has not failed once in the last year and more—till now."
"My dear Cyril! If I did not know it on the best authority—"
Cyril's mutter was unintelligible.
"I assure you, I know it for a fact. He is constantly in that state. Of course, nobody sees him so, because his wife generally contrives to hush it up, and not to let him go out. I suppose, he escaped for once from her control . . . If you were only not so easily imposed upon, my dear Cyril! . . . Lady Lucas tells me his wife is a most designing person. She says there can be no doubt whatever that they are hoping to make a catch of you! That the young lady is deliberately setting her cap—to use an expression which—"
Cyril could endure no more. He was in a sick tumult of wrath and wretchedness—of wrath with himself, and of wretchedness about his own action, far more than with or about Sybella. She was only the gadfly, adding to his misery; but when one is already strung to intense endurance, a gadfly in addition becomes unbearable.
He stood up abruptly. "Aunt, will you excuse me, please. We need not discuss the question."
"Is anything the matter? Are you ill?" startled by his look. "I will send for Dr. Ingram."
"If you would be so good as to attend to your own business, and not to mine, that is all I ask!" Cyril hardly knew what he said.
The tension had become too great, and the whole room went round dizzily. He could not have stood alone, or walked slowly, but he was able to dash across the hall and into the study, where he flung himself on the sofa, in an overpowering whirl of brain and mind, physical giddiness predominating for the moment over all else.
He had not had a touch of the sensation for years. It brought back vividly, by the more force of association, his earliest meeting with Jean. He saw again the square block-like stones, the rushing water, the swirl of the whole landscape, the little crouching boy; then he heard Jean's clear voice and light footsteps, and felt her small resolute hand clasping his. He had loved Jean from that day onward.
Another scene mixed itself up with the last; again a stepping-stone scene; only this time Jem, not Jean, came to the rescue.
Cyril heard his own infantine voice asserting positively, "I mean to marry Jean some day!"
And Jem's manlier tones advising delay—advising him to become a man before he spoke; for Jean would never marry one to whom she could not look up.
"Ten years! Twenty years!" groaned Cyril. "And to have cut myself off from her—by—this!"
BOULEVERSEMENT.
"She's bonny, blooming, straight and tall,And lang has had my heart in thrall;And aye it charms my very saul,The kind love that's in her e'e."R. BURNS.
CYRIL had not remembered to lock the door, and he became speedily aware of his mistake. It opened, and a head was inserted.
"Cyril—?"
No answer; so Miss Devereux walked in, and stood looking down on the prone figure: some real solicitude mingling with her dissatisfaction.
"Shall I send for Dr. Ingram?"
"No, thanks. I only wish to be left in peace."
"But, Cyril—! Something must be wrong! If you are not ill, something must have happened. I can't imagine what has come over you to-day . . . I daresay, after all, it has to do with those Trevelyans . . . I almost always find, if you are out of temper, that Jean is at the bottom of it . . . Of course, it can't really be that you care so much about that odious man—Captain Lucas, I mean. Impossible, you know . . . After all, I really do believe, it is only that something has disagreed with you. If you will take such violent exercise, and eat such unwholesome food, what can one expect? Why, that stew yesterday—my digestion would not stand it for a moment! I shall tell cook never to send it up again."
Cyril lay motionless on his face through this harangue.
"If you go on so, you are sure to end by having some attack. People always do. And as for the Lucases, I only hope you will take warning, and keep clear of them in the future! It ought to be a lesson to you. An artful, designing girl, like Miss Lucas—"
Cyril spoke without stirring. "Will you stop that, if you please! I wish to be alone."
"Well, I must say, I do think you are a very ungrateful nephew," sighed Sybella, with a different species of pathos from the pathos of little Emmie.
"I must say, I do think—! When you have always been so much to me! And, I am sure, the care and thought I have given—And now, just because—Yes, I am going. I haven't the least desire to stay where I am not wanted. Not the very least! I only came to bring you a note. It has been left at the door—Pearce doesn't know, or else he won't say, by whom. And I can't imagine who the note can be from. It is a lady's hand, at least a girl's. It might be a child's. Would you like me to open and see for you, if you are not well?"
"A note!" Cyril's confused brain had not at once taken in the sense of the word. It dawned upon him in a flash; and with a leap he was on his feet, demanding, "Where? Give it to me!"
The astonished Sybella fell back two paces; curiosity strongly awakened. She could not but be aware that something unusual was afloat.
"Where is the note?" he repeated, and Sybella's reluctant fingers yielded it.
"That is not Jean Trevelyan's handwriting, Cyril. Who can it be from? You don't correspond with any other young ladies, I hope!" Her manner implying that Jean was enough and too much!
The words put Cyril on his guard. One glance revealed to him that the childish unformed writing was indeed Emmie's. Within this little Silurian-grey envelope, crookedly directed, lay his fate—the question of his future life-happiness or life-misery, once for all decided! So it seemed to Cyril at the moment, though such apparent decisions do not always turn out to be permanently decisive. Yet, while feeling thus, he had the self-control to turn carelessly away, to toss the note on a side-table, and to walk to the mantelpiece.
"Who is it from, Cyril?"
No answer.
"You know, of course. I see you know. Is anything really the matter? Anything really wrong? One would think it was a bill—from your face!" suggested Sybella, recalling stories of extravagant young men and distressed guardians.
She was not Cyril's guardian now, but her mind was unable to acquiesce in the change wrought by his coming of age.
"A bad bill perhaps!" she went on—without the slightest idea what is meant technically by a "bad bill."
She had heard the term, and it recurred conveniently.
"My dear boy, you had much better make a clean breast of it all. Much better! Far better!" She came near, and laid a hand on his wrist, with an air of advice and interest. "You know I would so gladly help."
"Thanks!" Cyril withdrew his arm from her touch—rather pettishly, it must be confessed, but how could he help it?
He stood upright, holding the mantelpiece; his face colourless, while a surging like the sound of waves filled his ears. Nevertheless, he forced his lips into a smile.
"I have no bad bills; and I have plenty of money. My tastes are not so very extravagant. Much obliged to you all the same. If you have nothing more to say, perhaps you would be so kind as to leave me to myself for half-an-hour. I have—things to do—"
"And I am to understand that you have a secret—and that I am not to be told!"
"You may understand anything that you choose. It is a matter of indifference. Only, be so good as to leave me alone."
Cyril walked across the room, and opened the door.
Sybella had no choice but to go. She complained and protested; but still she went.
Cyril locked and double-locked the door in her rear. Then he returned to his former station, close beside the fire.
He stood there, fidgeting a little box of wax matches, striking one after another with delicate accurate fingers. Not one was bent or broken. He watched each in turn, burning itself out, as if his whole soul were intent on the process of combustion.
Why should he read Emmie's note at once? There was no hurry. Suspense might be bad; but certainty would, in all likelihood, be worse. He had a gleam of hope now; and that little childish note might slay all hope in him for evermore. He could think of Jean now as not impossibly to be his some day; but after reading Emmie's answer, he might be debarred from any such dream.
In a few minutes, all would probably be over—all hope of Jean! All free thought of Jean!
"I mean to marry Jean some day," he had said at ten years old and had meant it ever since—till the doubts and hesitations of the last few months. And now, by a hasty boyish impulse, he had flung that hope out of his own reach—perhaps! There was a "perhaps" still, though a very faint one.
Why should Emmie refuse him? He knew himself to be liked by her; and doubtless her parents would appreciate the advantages, which she might be too young to weigh . . . And if Emmie said "Yes," he would be bound. He would have in honour to go on. In her position, especially, having once sought her, how could he ever cast her off? Nay, if he could, what use? Jean would never have him afterwards.
The rushing sound of waves came back, and Cyril's brain was in a whirl. He bore it for a few seconds; then suddenly, he could endure no longer. Waiting became intolerable; and a burst of impatience drove him to the side-table, where lay the little note. He would know the worst at once.
As he came to the lamp, opened and read, the surging died away into stillness, and every trace of dizziness passed away. Cyril glanced round, with an odd feeling that he had never seen the chairs and tables so motionless. Then he read the note again.
He could hardly believe his own eyes. At first, he almost thought his brain must be playing him false.
Refused—after all!
Emmie "liked him very much, but she was afraid she could not say she loved him." And so "it would not be right." She "was very sorry to give him pain," but "it would be best in the end." The utterances were childishly direct and simple; no manner of hesitation or incertitude about them. She was grateful to Cyril, but she would not have him.
"Emmie! You're a brick!" spoke Cyril aloud.
A man does not like to be refused; and notwithstanding Cyril's relief, notwithstanding the weight lifted from him, there came for one moment a touch of the "wet-blanket" sensation. He had not expected himself or his belongings to be so lightly valued; and self-satisfaction sustained a wound.
But pride, either wounded or unwounded, could claim only a small share of his attention. As he read and re-read the brief sentences, hardly able to credit the fact that he was free, a great wave of joy swept over him. Jean's face rose once more, quiet, smiling, no longer sad, no longer reproachful . . . Cyril had something of the boy in him yet; not so very surprising at twenty-one. He put his face down on the high mantelpiece, with a sound not far removed from a sob—
"My own dear dear dear Jean! Never, never any one but you!"
Then an unreasoning impulse seized him to rush off there and then to the Rectory; just to look in upon Jean with his bodily eyes, now that he knew they were not parted for life by an ever-widening river . . . Yet could he trust himself? Would he be betrayed into saying too much? To propose to one lady within an hour after being refused by another would be too supremely absurd. Cyril laughed at the idea and resolved not to go.
He could not rest or stand still, but walked to and fro, unquiet with very joyousness, as he pictured Jean at the Brow—Jean at his table—Jean in this study. Emmie's little face never rose between to blot out Jean's. He only felt intensely grateful to Emmie, as he realized his escape from a terrible thraldom, possibly life-long.
He would have to be careful, he knew. If Jean suspected his late fancy for Emmie—and Cyril was pretty sure she did suspect it—she would not readily put faith in his present frame of mind.
The best plan, undoubtedly, for himself and for all parties concerned, would be to make a thorough break—to get away from Dulveriford entirely. If he only had had something definite to go for! Staying on at the Brow would be awkward in many respects. To cut himself suddenly off from the Lucases would cause remark; yet to go in and out as before would be impossible. To begin at once openly seeking Jean might cause misunderstandings; yet how could he be in the place and not seek her?
Cyril gave the matter full twenty minutes of serious thought. Then he unlocked his door, and with feeling of compunction for Miss Devereux, went to the drawing-room.
Sybella was deeply aggrieved, and in cue for a sulk; but the sight of her nephew's cheerful face and alert air surprised her into speech:
"Why! But, Cyril—! Then it couldn't have been bad news?"
"It!"
"I mean your note?"
"My note! No; why should it?—" with perfect sang-froid. "I came to speak about something very different. I am thinking of a week or two in Town."
"What for?"
"Picture-galleries—"
"Nonsense, Cyril! You can't impose on people like that!"
"And everything else that's going!"
"If you don't choose to tell me the real reason, you needn't at least pretend—"
"I shall start to-morrow morning—early express."
"Such an extraordinary thing to decide all in a moment—and not a word to me—"
"Couldn't publish the fact before I knew it myself. Aunt, you've not heard, I suppose, whether anything is settled about Mr. Trevelyan?"
"I thought you were there all yesterday afternoon."
Cyril's joyous indifference was more amazing to Sybella than his previous irritability.
"At the Rectory! I've not seen Jean for days—not spoken to her, I mean. Nothing settled yet?"
"Mr. Trevelyan is ordered to Australia. Dr. Ingram wants him to stay away two years. I believe he starts in a fortnight."
"And Jean—?"
"Jean will be at Dutton Rectory. He can't afford to take her too. I call it a wild scheme. As likely as not, he will die out there, all alone—not a soul near—and Jean will never see him again. But, of course, it is no concern of ours. I only wish one could hope that the locum tenens would be the sort of man I could approve of, but of course his views—"
Cyril heard no more, though he was dimly conscious that Miss Devereux continued talking. She was apt to continue talking indefinitely so long as anybody was present to listen. A sudden idea had come to him, of so startling and brilliant a nature, that it nearly took away his breath. He had desired something definite to do; and here it was. Something for Jean too!—There was the charm of the notion. True, it would mean a long separation. But if all the while, he were acting for Jean, living for Jean—what then, though his waiting should grow to the Patriarch's fourteen years? Cyril felt that they would seem short, for the love that he bore to Jean. He stood in the centre of the room, lost in thought, his eyes sparkling with so remarkable a scintillation that Sybella stared.
"I can't imagine what has come over you to-day," she said. "You look—"
"Never mind my looks. Aunt, don't stay up for me. I am going out."
"Again! You have been out the whole day."
"I must see Jean."
"What for? Really, Cyril, it is too absurd. There is something underneath all this. Something you have not told me. To go after Jean Trevelyan to-night—Just look at the clock—! And when you have not been well! I know you were not well, by the way you left the dining-room after dinner! Something has disagreed with you, I am quite sure. And if you get a chill upon that, from the night air—! It is perfectly crazy! Perfectly mad! As if you could alter things! Dr. Ingram says Mr. Trevelyan must go; so, of course, he must. He says it is as much as his life is worth to stay through another winter in England. Nobody will care for your opinion . . . But perhaps that note was from Jean, after all—though I don't see why you should make such a mystery of it. I dare say she got somebody else to write the address, so that I should not know the handwriting."
"About the last thing Jean would ever stoop to do! But I have no note from Jean."
"Well, I don't see, really, what concern we have with their plans. Why should we interfere? I don't attempt to stand between you and your friends; but certainly they are not people who—My dear aunt always highly disapproved of them . . . Cyril, you have tried me very much this evening—you really have!—And I am sure I have been most patient! But there are limits even to—I really do think—I really have a right—In fact, I positively insist upon knowing what is the meaning of this extraordinary behaviour."
Cyril looked down on Miss Devereux's agitated features and twirling hands.
"Very well," he answered, speaking without the least unkindness; "if you insist, you shall know. As well now as later. It means—that I am tired of home, tired of Dulveriford, tired of doing nothing. It means—that if Jean does not object, I shall go out in the same ship with Mr. Trevelyan, and take care of him. It means—that when I come back, if Jean will have me, I shall make her my wife."
For once, Sybella had no words. She could only gaze blankly, her lips and jaws dropping apart.
Cyril walked to the door, paused, came back, and stooped to give her a kiss.
"Good-night," he said pleasantly. "Don't be vexed, aunt. If I have spoken out, it is by your wish. Of course, that about Jean is in confidence. She may or may not be willing . . . Meantime you'll have two years' swing at the Brow, to do as you like—and I'll take care that you have enough money to carry you on. After that, we must make some other arrangement. I should like to build you a jolly little house, outside Dutton—near to St. John's, you know. But there's plenty of time to think things over. Good-night."