THE WIGGINSES AND MAIDENHAIR.
"The happy findEquality of beauty everywhereTo feed on."JEAN INGELOW.
MRS. TREVELYAN carried out her intention, and made abundant use of Giles Cuthbert for the amusing of Jean. Usually he was not amenable to such efforts, having a great objection to needless trouble, but for once, he offered no objection. If he had taken a fancy to the girl, that made all the difference. The laziest people living will take trouble to please themselves.
Giles liked ease; and his life had been such as to foster this inclination. He had been born, not to wealth, but to sufficient means; and he had been brought up from childhood with the notion, that while it was correct and gentlemanly to have some stated occupation, there was no necessity for him to work hard. So he never had worked hard. He had passed schooldays with tolerable credit; he had gone through college with no particular reproach; and he had consented to the law as a profession. There advance was stayed. Some amount of preparatory reading was accomplished; and Giles, finding law by no means to his taste, threw it up. Months of dallying followed, and he began to talk of a career in politics; but an opening had to be waited for, and somebody suggested a lengthy tour on the Continent, by way of preparation. Giles seized on this notion, his indulgent father always consenting; and the tour proved to be a very lengthy one indeed.
At twenty-five, his future mode of life was still uncertain, when the sudden death of that father left him in easy circumstances, unfettered, depending on nobody, while nobody depended on him.
Thenceforward, he drifted away from any definite line of life, simply pleasing his own fancies. He had no lands or tenants to occupy him; nothing beyond a clear fifteen hundred a year, to spend as he would. Since Giles had expensive tastes, he found no difficulty in getting rid of that amount yearly; indeed, at times, he outran it, though not seriously, for debt was a matter which disturbed his peace of mind, and Giles preferred to be comfortable, mentally as well as bodily.
He lived a good deal in Town, travelled a good deal on the Continent, saw a good deal of society, skimmed a good deal of literature, and in a lazy fashion, found a good deal to do. When money ran short, he would betake himself to Mrs. Trevelyan's Cottage for a few weeks, and would "vegetate" there in contented idleness. Mrs. Trevelyan had always been his favourite aunt, and her home was always open to him.
There were capabilities in Giles, which, rightly trained and used, might have resulted in a fine character; but it is through resistance, not compliance, through hardship, not ease, that harmony and beauty of character are evolved. For the bare idea of grandeur, opposition overcome is a necessity.
A boat swept downward by the current may be pretty: but there is nothing "fine" about it. Our higher admiration is reserved for the same boat manfully fighting its way up-stream, overcoming difficulty inch by inch through resolute effort. A tree, reared in a hothouse, with soil, warmth, food, amply provided, may be a most successful specimen of its kind; but it suggests no thought of victory; it is only the pampered darling of scientific care. ᴵ The gnarled and twisted oak, which has fought its way through countless storms, has mastered unnumbered hardships, stands out as a type of the truly great, of the morally grand.
ᴵ I must acknowledge here a debt to Mr. Ruskin.
Giles Cuthbert had fought through few difficulties, had mastered few oppositions. His had been a smooth and leisurely existence; hard duties had not come to him as a necessity; and he had not turned aside to seek them for the sake of others. The consequent growth of character was easy, self-satisfying, pleasant in many respects, but by no means great.
Jean had been surrounded from babyhood by a far more embracing environment, had been compelled habitually to march in the face of her own inclinations, had had to wrestle through countless oppositions. Instead of finding all difficulties cleared away from her path, she had been trained to meet and grapple with them. The resisting vigour of her growth was gradually shaping a woman's character of fine outlines, pure, straightforward, self-denying—such a growth as could never have resulted from a spoilt and cosseted existence.
Perhaps the very contrast between the two drew them together. Jean liked Cuthbert despite his laziness, which was, after all, more mental than bodily. He was ready enough for physical exertion, if an adequate object lay ahead. It was steady work from which he turned with loathing; work which had to be done, whatever his passing mood might be. He was quaint, amusing, and full of fun. Jean had never before laughed to such an extent; indeed, when once it becomes an admitted fact that somebody is funny, very little wit is needed to set people's risible muscles in motion.
She liked Mr. Cuthbert, certainly. Not as she liked Jem; not as she liked Cyril; not with liking to be named beside her love for Oswald; still, she found him a pleasant companion. Of course he was ages older than herself; why, he actually had a grey hair or two visible. Jean set him down loosely in her girlish mind as "somewhere about forty or fifty," which to a girl not yet seventeen, sounds venerable. On the whole, she was inclined to regard him as a species of adopted uncle, much nearer to her father than to herself in standing.
Mrs. Trevelyan, knowing Giles to lack about fifteen years of the fifty, did not view matters in precisely the same light.
"To be sure he is almost twenty years older than Jean," she thought; "and that is a great deal even on the right side. Jean is such a child too. It would be absurd to think of anything at present. But some day, three or four years hence—if Giles is not married then, I don't see why it should be impossible. Such a wife as Jean, might be the making of Giles. If anybody could ever get him to work, it would be some one like Jean—always busy. If not, there is no reason why they should not live comfortably on fifteen hundred a year. It sounds like wealth to me! Only of course, Giles could not get quite so many waist-coats, or have such very expensive cigars. He seems taken with the child; and Jean is friendly with him." Mrs. Trevelyan smiled contentedly over her little castle in the air. "I shall write and tell Stewart how well she is looking. He really must let me keep her six weeks or two months now she is here."
Five weeks at the Cottage! Jean could better have believed in five months. The novel ideas and events of each day in Wufflestone lengthened it out to her mental sensations, while each hour flew with speed.
Everything here was different from home. The little dainty house and garden; the dilettante manner of living; the slow meals; the placid tempers; the abundant leisure; the dearth of needlework; the absence of fault-finding; the supply of new books—all these were unwonted and for the time charming.
Dearly as Jean loved Dulveriford Rectory, and the associations of her childhood, she was of too vivid and malleable a nature not to rejoice in the new knowledge springing from now surroundings. Jean learnt more of ease, of freedom, of frank girlish simplicity in those weeks, than in all her previous life. She learnt to hold her own in good-humoured argument; to stand being laughed at, and sometimes even to make others laugh; to be mistress of herself, not alone in action but also in manner. Rigid reserve was fast thawing, and she allowed herself to be affectionate to Mrs. Trevelyan.
This easy mode of existence did not spoil Jean. The reign of duty in her life was too strong to be so soon disturbed; and while her nature, like all sensitive natures—by "sensitive" I do not mean ill-tempered—was peculiarly open to new impressions, her principles were firm. She had no wish to live always such a life; but there was a wondrous charm in its freshness.
Perhaps the most curious part of these weeks to Jean, was the finding herself so completely cut off from home interests. Neither Mr. Trevelyan nor Madame Collier were good correspondents, and Jean seldom had a line from either; nor did Evelyn write. Mrs. Trevelyan inquired duly at intervals after Jean's home-people; but she knew nothing of Dulveriford, nothing of the Brow, the Gorge, or Dutton, nothing of Miss Devereux, Cyril, Evelyn, or the General.
Jean had been at first glad to escape questioning about late events, yet it seemed singular that Mrs. Trevelyan should not have heard more. Jean knew that Jem liked and admired Evelyn—as who did not?—and she wondered that he had not more fully related to his mother the tragical end of Evelyn's married life.
Mrs. Trevelyan did indeed once allude to—"that poor old gentleman, Jean, who was frozen to death—General What-was-his-name? And you were actually there yourself and saw it all, poor child!"
But Jean's constrained answer drew no further show of interest, and the matter was not again spoken of.
Jem's proposed appearance had been repeatedly deferred, through pressure of work.
"Don't let Jean go home, until I have seen her," he wrote more than once to his mother, and at length a day was fixed early in April.
"The very day of the party at the Hall," said Mrs. Trevelyan, after reading the letter. "Well, that cannot be helped. If Jem arrives in time, he must go with us; but the evening train is more likely, he says."
"What party?" asked Giles.
"Mrs. Wiggins—to afternoon tea. I suppose it is partly in honour of Jean; so of course we must go. She made a great point of my taking Jean; and she wants you too, Giles. I told her I would try: but I was not hopeful. If you could make up your mind once—"
"Thanks, ma'am!"
Giles' tone was sufficient, and Mrs. Trevelyan sank into acquiescence.
Jean would gladly have escaped the ordeal, had freedom of choice been permitted; but Mrs. Trevelyan was so placidly sure of her delight in the treat, that nobody could have the heart to undeceive her. Jean disliked strangers, and was not captivated by Mrs. Wiggins. Still, the thing had to be endured; and she was prepared to endure heroically.
The Wigginses were so excruciatingly correct that they introduced nobody to anybody. This was the rule of the house. Indiscriminate introductions are not "the thing;" but neither is it to be accounted "the thing" to plant an absolute stranger amid a group of people, all mutually acquainted, who will leave her socially out in the cold.
Those who meet under the roof of a common friend ought, no doubt, to be able to exchange ideas without being formally named one to another; and the absence of introductions presupposes this possibility. English people are not yet cured of shyness, however; and even while tabooing introduction, they too often wait rigidly for it.
Jean found this to her cost. She was welcomed cordially, separated from Mrs. Trevelyan, placed among a group of strangers, and there left to her own devices. She had seen a good many Wufflestone people in the last few weeks, but not a single acquaintance happened to be "within hailing distance." Around were grouped ladies, old and young, all ladylike in appearance, and all seemingly well acquainted. They chatted freely together, and most of them used their eyes upon Jean, but none spoke to her.
For nearly an hour she sat thus, wondering how long the condition of things was to last. Tea brought round formed her one diversion. She could not see Mrs. Trevelyan. Mrs. Wiggins once flitted up for a remark, and flitted away again, taking no further trouble.
Internally, Jean grow indignant. It seemed unfair and uncourteous that she should be pressed to come to the house, and that not an effort should be made for her entertainment. She thought with longing of the cosy cottage drawing-room, and of Giles' amusing conversation. Then she wandered to recollections of home and of Evelyn—the gentle and gracious Evelyn, who would never so neglect her guests.
"Not even if she disliked them," thought Jean.
A few yards distant was a closed conservatory door. Jean growing tired of her position, rose at length and made her way thither. The movement drew general attention, for which Jean cared little. She glanced across the room, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Trevelyan on a distant sofa, exchanged a smile with her, then wandered off alone into the deserted conservatory. To close the glass door was her first care, with a sense of satisfaction in shutting off those unsociable people. Then she stole happily from plant to plant, studying the fair make of one, inhaling the sweetness of another, entirely content.
From the long conservatory, a door led into a fernery, where green things clustered in a bower, with ceaseless trickle of water. Jean was charmed. She sat down on a jutting corner of rock-work, opposite a great mass of large-leaved Maidenhair, the delicate new fronds of which were salmon-tinted, shading into green; and there she gave herself up to enjoyment.
Somebody coming in did not at once arouse her. Not till a shadow fell across the salmon gleam of the Maidenhair, did she look up.
"Jem!"
"I managed to get off pretty early. How do you do, Jean? Giles sent me after you both."
"Cousin Chrissie is in the drawing-room."
"I have seen her, and paid my respects to Mrs. Wiggins."
"Was I wrong to come out? I did get so tired of doing nothing; and nobody spoke to me."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Because I am a stranger, I suppose. But should you not have thought that a reason the other way? People ought to be kind. And I am only a girl, so it was hardly my place to begin upon them. I don't mind now. It is delicious among the ferns. Did cousin Chrissie send you to me?"
"She said I might find you here. Shall we go into the garden?"
"May we? Would it be polite?"
"Somebody is going to drive my mother home, and she has undertaken to make your apologies to Mrs. Wiggins. I told her I should carry you off. It is all right. We know Mrs. Wiggins well."
He opened the outer door, and Jean questioned no further. One of their old free talks together would be delightful. She never felt so much at her ease with anybody as with Jem, because never so sure of being understood.
Conversation did not at once flow. Jem led away from the house, through the garden, into a lane beyond, which Jean knew to mean a considerable round, before they could get home. She was ready for any amount of exercise—only, would not his mother want him? And what made Jem so grave? Had he something on his mind?
The lane curved hither and thither, in aimless fashion: having on either side a hedge, with trees at intervals. Slanting rays from the sun lighted up the right hand hedge with a dim glory, and fell upon the patches of dull lichen which decorated an aged elm trunk, smitten into ruggedness by prolonged hardships of wind and weather.
"Things are beautiful everywhere," said Jean. "Even in a flat country like this."
"It is not Dulveriford," responded Jem. And as if this supplied the opening for which he had waited, he went on—
"How is your father? And—" in a lower voice, "Mrs. Villiers?"
Jean had much to tell, for she found that he knew little. Home interests never far distant came on her in a rush, as he listened, drawing out further details by a murmured syllable now and then. After long silence on Dulveriford subjects, it was natural to pour out; and she gave abundant particulars of the evening which had left Mrs. Villiers a widow. Only, about the little boudoir scene between husband and wife, a scene of which she had been an unwilling witness, and which had been rendered by after-events doubly sacred, Jean said not a word.
"It was an ordeal for you," Jem remarked.
"One could not think of oneself at such a time. For Evelyn it was terrible. To be there on the spot, and to see him! But even my father could not keep her back."
"And since then she has been—"
"Very, very sad. I don't think I should have expected—But nobody ever knows beforehand. She seems to feel that everything is gone, and that her life is at an end."
"You would not have expected what?"
"Ought I to say it? One feels some things that one does not like to speak out. Only—to you—may I not? He was so good and kind—but still so very much older, and different in every way. Yet now one might fancy that her life had been perfect; even though one knows how things really were."
"The manner of her loss must have intensified it. The shock and suddenness—"
"I dare say that had something to do with her feeling. It was all very dreadful. It couldn't help being so. And besides—" Jean hesitated, falling into a slower walk. "I suppose it is sometimes worse to lose anybody, if—Worse in one way, I mean—"
"If there has not been perfect oneness? If there has been friction?"
"Yes, I see you understand. I didn't half like to say it—unless you knew . . . Evelyn seems to feel that she must do every single thing, exactly as he would have wished. She reads all the little books and sermons that he liked. I suppose they helped him; but I don't believe they help her. And she has locked up some of her own books, which do help her, because he didn't like them. And she always goes to St. John's—twice every Sunday—never to our Church. And she tries so hard to like his friends better than her own."
Jem understood. "You see less of her now?"
"Yes—"
"How did it come about?"
"I hardly know. There was a difference from the first. Not in herself! Evelyn could not be fickle. But I suppose people may draw back on principle. She told me plainly that it had to be so. She said it was for his sake—to honour his memory. She will not hear a word said about General Villiers that sounds like blame. Not even about the will."
Jem made a sound of inquiry.
"Have you not heard?"
"I have heard nothing. Your father sent six lines, and nobody else wrote."
"I didn't know how much I ought to say. Everything is left to Evelyn for her lifetime; but only so long as she does not marry again. If she marries, she loses the whole. There would be a little annuity of something under two hundred pounds, and that is all. Doesn't it seem odd? As if General Villiers had wanted to keep her from marrying!—And she so young and so sweet! If he really loved her, would he not want her to be happy?"
"The best of men are not perfect, Jean!"—in muffled under-tone.
"No, not perfect—but—Everybody is talking and wondering. And Evelyn will only say that he was right. She says he has provided for her lifetime, because she could never dream of marrying again. My father smiles about that; but I am sure she means it."
"She may—" and a pause.
"If her husband had not been so old! But I can't understand General Villiers making such a will. No really nice man could ask her to marry him, unless he were rich himself. She would have to give up everything."
Jean had been gazing on the ground as she talked. Now she looked up, and something in Jem's face brought a sense of troubled wonder. Had Jean been a few years older, she would not have seemed to see; but girls of sixteen do not always know exactly when to be silent; and Jean, though in general reserved, was outspoken with Jem. After one moment's blank pause, she said involuntarily—
"I am sorry! I ought not to have told you!"
"Why ought you not?"
"If you mind so much—"
"As well hear through you as anybody else!" Jem spoke shortly, with a forced smile. Then, noting her grieved look: "My dear Jean, you are too observant. You must learn to shut your eyes more."
"But—"
"There is no need to discuss the question. As for General Villiers, neither you nor I have to sit in judgment on him. He probably had reasons which seemed weighty to himself—"
"But, Jem—"
"Whether or no they are weighty to other people. Well?" With a touch of impatience. "You wish to say something."
"Only about what I said just now. I mean, about nobody being able to propose to Evelyn, unless he were rich. I did not think—"
"You said what was perfectly true. No need to qualify it . . . I don't deny that I once had a passing dream—and possibly it has revived lately. But in any case, it could never have come to anything. Don't you see? Our spheres are altogether different. My life-work is among the poor and needy; and she is trained to luxury."
"You think so ill of Evelyn!"—reproachfully.
"Ill of her!" Jem's face changed and whitened. "She has been to me as a vision of an angel!" he said huskily. "You little know—! . . . Come, we must go on, Jean. And mind—all this is strictly for yourself—not to be alluded to again."
Jean only said, "No."
Jem strode fast by her side, regaining his usual look.
"I must tell you that I have had an offer of an East-End living. Not much pay, but plenty of work. Yes, I shall accept it, certainly."
A week later, Jean had her first letter from Evelyn. The opening page or two told nothing. Then came a glimpse of the real writer.
"I want to hear all about yourself, Jean—all you are doing and thinking. I want something fresh—something outside my own life."The Dutton world drags on wearisomely, just the same. I am getting slowly petrified. If I were more like him—but I cannot alter my nature, and the things that did him good, do me harm. The same medicines don't cure all men's bodies, you know; and I never can see why it should not be so with our inner selves as well. One man's spiritual meat may be another man's spiritual poison. I can say this to you, because you will understand—you will not misjudge my words. Mr. Kennedy's soothing sermons are only narcotics to me; and too much of narcotics is not good. I want to be roused and braced, not to be put to sleep . . . I have made up my mind to endure patiently for a few months more, and then I shall go abroad. But this is for yourself alone."
BOOK III.
ACTION AND REACTION.
"But it is much that high things are, to know,That deep things are, to feel."JEAN INGELOW.
A ROUGH DIAMOND.
"O let me be myself! But where, O where,Under this heap of precedent, this moundOf customs, modes and maxims, cumbrance rare,Shall the Myself be found?"JEAN INGELOW.
"JEAN, make haste! I shall be late! Do call your father—find him, wherever he is. If I miss this train, I shall be late for the boat; and cross at night I will not! Nothing shall induce me! I would rather sleep in a bathing-machine! If one has to be drowned, one may as well see how it comes about. Find your father, and tell him I must and will get into the train. It will be off directly!"
"He is coming, aunt Marie. He only went to look at the book-stall."
"Absurd! As if he would not have plenty of time, after I am gone. Well, you can help me to take all these packages nearer. One—two—three. Let me see—there were eleven, besides my two trunks."
"He told us to stay here till he came back."
"That is always the way. He likes to put off till the last moment; and I hate not having plenty of time. There! I knew it! The bell! I shall be left behind. Jean, bring what you can."
To see the true British female, untrammelled by etiquette, one only needs to view her in full career along a platform, charging the wrong train. Restraint at such a moment vanishes, and aristocratic repose is nowhere. Sometimes the true British male condescends to show his undisguised self in a like manner; at least, so far as flurry and flying coat-tails are concerned; but more commonly his rôle is the dignified punctuality, which has not five seconds to spare, yet which never expects anything so preposterous as that he should be left behind.
Jean overtook Madame Collier, close to the train.
"Don't get in, aunt. This is not yours."
"Not for Folkestone! You are sure?" Madame Collier released the door-handle with a gasp of relief. Her short skirts were tucked up, as if for the wading of a Dulveriford marsh; and her poke bonnet was crooked with mental agitation. Jean gently pulled the bonnet straight, and led Madame Collier again to the forsaken heap of packages.
"I almost wish we had arranged to go with you as far as Folkestone."
"What for? Nonsense, Jean? Mere waste of money. I hate travelling, but I know how to manage. I'm not a minikin finikin creature, like Sybella Devereux, afraid to put my nose inside a train without somebody to back me up. That's not my sort!" She certainly did not look minikin or finikin, seated on a small hamper, with her strongly-outlined face and vigorous personality.
"But you don't like going alone."
"Who said I did? Doing a thing doesn't mean liking it, nine times in ten, with people who are worth anything. It only means not being beaten. I don't like going to France at all, if you come to that. People, are not born into the world just to do what they like," declared Madame Collier, mopping her countenance with a handkerchief of large and substantial make. She disdained what she called "those flibbertigibbet squares," patronised by modern ladies. "It's pretty much the other way commonly, if one's got any stuff in one. I hate Paris—great frivolous place—and that's exactly why I have to live there. If I wanted to go, I shouldn't be allowed."
"Is one never allowed to do what one wishes?" asked Jean.
The doctrine was not new to her, but it sounded dismal.
"Well—some people sometimes—perhaps. Soft folks need a lot of bolstering up, and hard ones take a lot of knocking down. I've had most of the knocking down work. Not much of feather-beds or dainty pillows. And I've needed it, of course, or I shouldn't have had it. People aren't bothered without reason. My corners had to be scraped off, I suppose; and they're not all off yet," added the good lady, showing unusual self-knowledge. "That's why this has come, just when I thought I was settled for life. Nobody ought ever to think that, I do believe; for there's never any knowing what will come next. The Trevelyans haven't much softness about them; and you are a Trevelyan. You won't be tucked up on a feather-bed all your life. There's more to be got out of you than that."
"I hope so!"
"Anyhow, I'd sooner be the one to do things for other people, than be one of the logs that make things for others to do," said Madame Collier. "Till I'm old and ill, I mean. There's the whistle."
"Only for this train."
"And I believe it is mine, after all. Look at the clock. Well—too late now," resignedly. Then, reverting to a former remark, "No, I don't want you all the way down to Folkestone. What's the good? I've no notion of dragging out good-byes. When a leg has to be cut off, the sooner it's done, the better! There's one thing I want to say to you, Jean. About your father—"
"Yes."
"He isn't so young as he was. Only sixty, and that's not old. At least, it needn't be. A man with your father's constitution, who has lived as he has lived, needn't be old at seventy. But he ought to have common-sense, and not expect to do everything the same as he did at thirty. You needn't fancy things are wrong—only keep watch, and be reasonable for him, if he won't be reasonable for himself."
One of the inevitable changes, which come sooner or later to us all as life rolls on, had come to Jean Trevelyan, after years of a steady jog-trot in one groove.
Madame Collier had received an unexpected call to a new sphere of work. Her husband's only brother, M. Arnaud Collier, died suddenly, leaving a semi-invalid wife and nine children, with small means. The widow was weak and incapable, and the older children were boys, none over sixteen in age. An appeal for help, made to Madame Collier, met with a prompt response.
Why not? She was no longer a necessity at Dulveriford Rectory; her work there might be looked upon as accomplished. Not a doubt could exist as to where lay the greater need. Jean at twenty was fully competent to manage her father's small household: the widow was not competent; and Madame Collier, at fifty-five, was a strong woman still.
Feelings and wishes existed, of course. Madame Collier would be grieved to bid farewell to her home of many years. She hated travelling, as she said to Jean; detested children; and loathed change.
Moreover, Mr. Trevelyan and Jean would suffer at parting; for with all her ruggedness, Madame Collier had been a tried friend to them both. Sincere affection existed on either side, beneath a shell of reserve. What of all this? Nay, what of the fact that the loss of her personal income would entail some measure of straitness upon the Rectory household? The question, as it came before their minds, was not at all what any of them might like or wish, but simply, what was the right thing to do? If Madame Collier and her money were needed in France, then she had no business at Dulveriford. The stern Trevelyan sense of duty rose in its might, and settled the question without delay.
In one week, Madame Collier had wound up her English affairs, had packed her personal effects, and was on the road.
Mr. Trevelyan and Jean accompanied her to London. Mr. Trevelyan had business in Town, and he counted it a good opportunity to give Jean a little change.
"There it is! There's the bell! Jean, I can't wait any longer. My train will be off, I know. We are on the wrong platform. Tell your father—"
"Here he comes!"
"Stewart, I am losing my train."
Mr. Trevelyan seemed to be chewing the cud of meditation. He surveyed his sister and her regiment of parcels, with a gaze which found utterance in the query—
"Why did you not bring another trunk?"
"They charge so for luggage abroad. You saw what I had before, so there's no need to bother. If my train is off, I declare I will not cross at night. I'm quite determined. If I have to be drowned, I'll be drowned in daylight."
Mr. Trevelyan signed to a porter to come near.
"Folkestone train?" he said.
"Just coming in, sir."
"Bring these packages."
"Well, you are right for once, but I hate putting off till the last moment; it's such a risk. Make the man bring everything. Eleven altogether—a roll of shawls, two bandboxes, two hampers, two bags, two brown-paper parcels—"
"Come along!" quoth Mr. Trevelyan.
"I mean to have all these with me. Not in the van."
"Come, Marie."
Madame Collier obeyed, then broke loose, and rushed ahead, peering into one carriage window after another, as the train backed into position.
"Not a smoking carriage. I can't stand smoking! It ought to be put down by Act of Parliament. I declare there's nothing but smoking carriages. Bah!" with ineffable disgust in the twist of her nose and mouth. "No, not there, Stewart! I won't be close behind a smoking carriage. And not too much in front. If there's a collision, people in front are sure to be killed. Not too far behind. If the train should be run into by an express—No, I must have a corner seat, close to a window, going forward."
It was not easy to meet all these requirements, but at length Madame Collier was placed, and the porter disposed of her belongings. Madame Collier counted and recounted, lost and found each packet in succession, fee'd her porter, and woke up to the consciousness of few minutes remaining. A frizzly-haired young woman on the opposite seat was bidding farewell to a frizzly-haired young woman on the platform, their heads filling the open window, while their shrill voices ran fast. Madame Collier, finding herself thus debarred from her own relatives, proceeded to clear a way with scant ceremony:
"Now, young woman! It's my turn, if you please."
"What an old fogey!" murmured audibly the aggrieved individual outside.
Madame Collier disdained to notice the utterance.
"Things are all right now, I do believe," she said, breathing hard with her exertions. "Mind, Jean—I shall want to hear all about everybody. Don't forget to tell me if any more comes out about that man Barclay. And mind you don't go alone to his cottage. Give my love to Evelyn Villiers, when you see her. I wish she had come home before I left. She always was a favourite of mine, though you mayn't think it. Why, there's Jem!"
Jean and her father turned: and Jem Trevelyan came swiftly up.
"Just in time!" he said. "What a crowd! I was afraid I might miss you all. Well—" and his hand grasped Madame Collier's, "so you really are off?"
"Yes; I'm off!" Madame Collier's rugged features worked, and a tiny pool of water stood outside each eye, like a minute tarn upon a mountain height. "I'm off!" she repeated huskily. "It isn't what I should have chosen—of course. People are not allowed to choose for themselves—commonly! So much the better, perhaps."
"When they are, they often make a mess of it."
"You're right there! But this isn't choosing. It just—has to be!" She was obliged to haul out the big pocket-handkerchief, since those two little tarns were growing bigger, and threatened to give birth to rivulets. "Leaving Jean, you know—and all! But there! What has to be, has to be. Rose Collier is no more good than an infant. Can't think what business such people have to marry! I've got to go, though—of course."
"Paris is no distance off in these days. You'll soon be running over to see us all again. And we will take care of Jean."
"Yes, do!"
Jean was quiet and rather white. Laying a gloved hand on her aunt's, she was amazed to have it carried to Madame Collier's lips.
"Aunt Marie! Don't!"
"You'll be a good girl, I know, to your father!" jerked out Madame Collier, thrusting away the hand, as if ashamed of her own emotion, while her chest heaved. "I'm sure to have left—something—behind me! Eleven packages—and—But I'm glad to have seen you again, Jem. Oswald was to have been here. Didn't come, of course, just at last. And they said you were—out of Town."
"Till late last night," said Jem, touched by Madame Collier's manful struggles. He had not known before the strength of feeling which underlay her rugged shell. He bent forward, with a glance of apology towards Jean, and murmured something into Madame Collier's ear.
"I can't hear. Say it again. No—really? I am glad! Things do come about queerly. Mind you don't change your mind. Oh, keep off—there's the whistle. Don't get knocked down and killed, whatever you do. I wouldn't have that on my conscience! Good-bye, Stewart. Good-bye, Jean. Keep off—trains are so dangerous. I am glad, Jem! Bah, what a whiff of tobacco! Good-bye."
The poke bonnet continued to waggle till out of sight.
Jem turned to look at Jean.
"Excuse my whisper," he said. "I'll tell you by-and-by what I said."
"It's all right. I am glad you could say anything to please her."
Jean looked rather forlorn, not disposed to tears, but as if something had gone out of her existence, leaving a gap, and as if she did not know what to do next.
Mr. Trevelyan's "Come along!" was a relief. Nobody ever saw Mr. Trevelyan in doubt as to his next step.
"Where are you staying?" Jem asked, as they moved out of the station.
"Two streets off," Jean told him.
In some rooms, recommended by a friend. Jean herself would have liked the novelty of an hotel; but expense had to be considered: and daily table d'hôte was not in Madame Collier's line. She believed they would stay three more nights. Oswald was to have spent this day with them, and to have taken Jean after lunch to the Academy; but thus far he had failed to appear.
"I don't know how to manage, if he does not turn up," said Mr. Trevelyan. "I shall be engaged all the afternoon."
Jem offered himself promptly. If Oswald came not, he would be entirely at Jean's disposal.
"Thanks! Pity she should waste a whole afternoon indoors," said Mr. Trevelyan, after a moment's weighing of proprieties. "Yes—you are one of us—and a cousin too. I don't see why not."
"It is only carrying out my promise to Madame Collier. What shall we do, Jean? The Academy? No, you would rather keep that for Oswald. What do you say to a trip on the river—up to Richmond by steamboat?"
OLD FATHER THAMES.
"I'm a woman, sir,—I use the woman's figures naturally.. . . So I wish you well,I'm simply sorry for the griefs you've had."E. B. BROWNING.
OSWALD had not turned up when they reached the lodgings. A note was there, apologising for his failure, which of course "could not be helped," and promising to appear next day—a great relief to Jean. His defection had troubled her sorely, and she was thankful to know—or at least to be assured—that he was not blameable. Jean believed in Oswald as of old, loving him with the warmest love she had at command. No human being had ever yet been dearer to her than Oswald, and nothing else could equal that delight of her heart, a day with Oswald. As of old, she lavished pure gold, to receive brass in exchange.
Still, an afternoon with Jem brought pleasure. She had always looked up to Jem, rested on Jem's judgment, given Jem cousinly affection. There was a placid satisfaction in the certainty that Jem never misunderstood her, which she could not feel in Oswald's companionship.
The two had not met for more than a year, and Jem studied Jean carefully through lunch.
She had altered, even during those months, and much more during the years since General Villiers' death.
Jean had reposeful manners, old for her age. She was tall and slender; and her features had worked their way to regularity of outline. A slight droop in the eyelids gave shade, the month had gained in mobility and sweetness, the paleness was not sallow in kind. Moreover, the eyebrows seemed to have grown darker, the lips were redder, and the hair, for years clipped short, had expanded into a goodly mass of gamboge-brown.
Of course she had not yet come to her full development. Who has, at twenty? Unless it be a mushroom specimen of human nature. But strength and gentleness were there already, in balanced combination. Jean had not grown like a crooked apple-tree, all to one side.
Simplicity of dress remained, characteristic in kind. Boots and gloves were irreproachable. Superfluous trimmings were non-existent. The severe folds of her skirt gained grace from the figure they clothed, and the neat cap, thrown aside during lunch, was almost boy-like in its plainness; only nothing could look boy-like over that pure womanly face.
It was the face of one to be not only loved, but leant upon. You might be sure, so leaning, that Jean would not give way beneath the strain. Giving way is commonly far more a matter of weak will, than of weak muscle, bodily or mental. Jean might break, but she would not bend. It is the feeble natures that bend. The strong hold out, and rather die than yield.
Jean studied Jem in return; not quite able to make him out. A certain burden pressed upon him, which he failed to hide. The grey eyes were troubled beneath their pleasant sparkle, and a weight on the forehead drew the brows often together. Jean had seen him burdened before, and she always had a theory ready to account for it. True, the weight to-day was something new, since for years past his life had seemed to be full of sunshine, yet she reverted at once to her old explanation. Was it Evelyn again?—Evelyn Villiers, disturbing his peace? Had he somehow heard that after nearly four years abroad, she was returning to Dutton Park?—Nay, that she might already be in London?
"I shall leave you to amuse one another," Mr. Trevelyan said, rising. "Don't expect me till seven. You will dine with us, of course, Jem."
Then he was gone, and they made their way river-wards; Jean with her old sense of repose under Jem's protection, and her old trust that he was sure always to do right. It was a confidence soon to have a rude shake.
"I'm perfectly happy, left to myself. There's no need to talk to me."
Jem looked round, smiling. They had secured good stern-seats, near the wheel, and apart from other people.
"Some occult meaning underlies that assertion. I don't fathom it."
"I only thought you might feel bound to amuse me; and I am not one of the people who need to be amused."
"Profoundly true. But how if I want to hear Dulveriford news?"
"Evelyn!" flashed anew through Jean's mind.
"I don't know where to begin; and there is not much going on. Of course you have heard that Canon Meyers is going away. He will be a great loss, dear old man. Nobody is appointed yet in his stead . . . Mr. Kennedy has a curate—that is something new. A very hardworking young man, I believe—and rather given to arguments. Miss Devereux thinks him delightful . . . She talks of spending part of Cyril's vacation at the Brow this autumn, and at Christmas, he will have done with Oxford. Isn't it odd how she has kept him away from home? He and I have not once met for fifteen months."
"I am told that he is a good-looking young fellow."
"Mrs. Kennedy calls him a 'lovely youth!'"
"H'm!"
"And Miss Devereux says he has such a sweetly aristocratic air."
"And Jean—?"
"Oh, I like him, of course; we always have been friends. He is too much 'one of England's curled darlings' for my taste; but when you have a friend, you don't give him up for his looks. I wish he were not quite so dainty. But I'm speaking of more than a year ago. He may have changed any amount."
Jem seemed to be thinking of something else.
"So you have not yet heard who is to be the Canon's successor! What would you say if it were I?"
Jean laughed as at a joke.
"But seriously! I have had the offer."
"You don't think of accepting it!"
"Yes." Jem was smiling.
Jean showed no pleasure. She asked abruptly, "Do you mean it?"
"Why not? The one living is nearly seven hundred a year; the other is not two hundred. What do you think?"
"It doesn't matter what people think . . . I would rather not give any opinion. One person can't judge for another . . . It is not my business;" as he waited still. "Everybody will like to have you at Dutton—of course; How soon do we get to Richmond?"
"Suppose you answer my question first?"
"I can't. There's nothing to answer. What a horrible jangle!" as two or three discordant instruments struck up on deck. "No use to talk against such a noise."
Jem acquiesced, and they sank into silence; Jean turning away a troubled face. Jem had suddenly dropped from a high pedestal in her imagination; and how high the pedestal had been, whereon he was wont to sit, Jean had never known till now. She was vexed at the strength of her own pain and displeasure. That Jem should so fail—! Anybody else except Jem!
Oswald always pleased himself by following the easy path of what he liked; and nobody ever expected Oswald to do anything else; but Jem—why, she had always looked upon him as the living embodiment of self-denial; and here was he, just like any commonplace man, snatching at personal advantage the moment it offered itself, forsaking the post of toil and difficulty, for which he had seemed especially fitted, and for which he had professed an ardent love. Jean wrung her gloved fingers together, and could almost have wept in girlish disappointment at this dethroning of her hero—if she had been alone.
No more words were spoken till they reached Richmond. Jem was in no haste to justify himself. Jean mutely followed his lead off the steamer, across the landing-place, and through the town to the Park gates. Then Jem paused to ask—Should they lounge under the trees, or walk to the White Lodge?
"Walk, please!" Jean answered promptly.
Jem smiled to himself, reading her wish to evade further questions. He did not mean to let her off; but there was no harm in delay; and for the next hour or more they discussed literature, eschewing personal matters.
"Jean, we have been at it a good while now! Do you ever cry 'Enough'?"
"Enough walking? No, I am not tired. But perhaps you are."
"There's a little snuggery under the trees yonder—pretty view, and nobody at hand. You don't feel the least wish to sit down."
"I could go on any amount, but most people can't," said Jean, with reluctant acquiescence.
Jem was content. He led the way to the "snuggery," spread Jean's light cloak for her to sit on, and threw himself down, as if not sorry to rest. Some measure of fatigue might be excusable on so hot a day for two such rapid walkers. They had not only viewed the White Lodge, but had taken a wide détour on their return, getting within twenty minutes of the Park entrance before Jem proposed a halt. Jean looked fresh and cool, as if she had just started.
"We must allow ourselves time to get a cup of tea on our way to the steamer," Jem remarked, pulling out his watch. "No, of course—not necessary. You are above bodily needs! But they exist in other people."
Then he replaced the watch, and asked, "Desperately disappointed in me, Jean?"
"I can't see why we need go into the question. Everybody has a right to his own opinion."
"I wish all the world could see the truth of that axiom. But perhaps some people also have a right to ask the opinions of some others."
"Not mine!"
"My dear Jean! When I have known you from babyhood!"
"But if I can't say what you would like—"
"Then say what I shall not like."
Another break.
"After all, there's no need. I can understand your view of the matter. For years I have counted myself definitely called to East-End work, and dedicated to it, so far as I might choose, for the best years of my life. And you have felt with me. Yes, I have been sure of your sympathy . . . But one is not always allowed to do what one likes best! . . . What if I am now definitely called away to other work?"
"It must be difficult to feel sure."
"Indications are pretty clear sometimes . . . The oddest part of the matter is that I shall be looked upon as choosing the easy and luxurious path—as giving up hardship for the sake of comfort."
"It will be easier."
"Will it? I am not so sure. But in your place, no doubt I should think the same. Perhaps—" with a curious smile, "I had expected Jean to see a little deeper than other people. Hardly reasonable, was it? When I have not given you the clue. My mother has lost all her money—literally the whole! Apart from me, she will not have a shilling that she can call her own. I have to make a home for her—and I could not do so comfortably on my present income. Nor could I take her to the East-End. She is elderly and delicate, and used to pretty surroundings."
He turned a stirred face towards Jean.
"Now do you see?"
"O Jem, I am so sorry."
She was sorry for his trouble, and still more for her own hasty judgment. Why had she not at least waited to hear his reasons? Compunction for some seconds was sharp; and then a recollection of Evelyn came. Did Jem know her plans? If not, he ought to be told.
"I am so sorry," she repeated. "Yes of course—you could not possibly do anything else. Her comfort must be your first care. Unless—Mr. Cuthbert—"
"Giles never has enough for his own needs; and I cannot shift my responsibility on another."
"And a living somewhere else—"
"Would not be the same to my mother. Next to Wufflestone, she would rather live at Dutton than in any place. Besides, no other living half so good is likely to be offered to me; and for her sake, I must think of the money. Why should I hesitate?"
Jean spoke with downcast eyes. "Have you thought of one thing? If Evelyn were at home—"
"Ah, you are remembering my old fancy," said Jem cheerfully. "At present, most unlikely that she should."
"But she is coming!"
"For a month?"
"No: to settle down. She is tired of travelling; and she has found a friend to live with her. It is not to be talked of till just before she arrives; because she dislikes Dutton gossip."
"No surer way to be talked about than to have a secret afloat."
"It is safe with you. I thought I ought to mention this before you decide about the living."
"That is decided. No other course lies open to me. I do not see how Mrs. Villiers' plans can effect mine."
Jean wondered how much or how little this meant. He went into particulars as to the loss of Mrs. Trevelyan's income, through the failure in quick succession of two companies, wherein her all was invested.
"I blame myself for not having looked into matters more thoroughly," he said. "I have trusted too much to others; and she has been ill-advised. The least I can do now is, at any cost, to provide for her."
"You could not possibly do anything else," repeated Jean.
"Time for us to be going," Jem remarked presently, and he found his way to his feet; then stood for some seconds deep in thought. "One word! About what you were saying just now. Remember, that is a thing of the past."
Jean assented with a monosyllable.
"You were right to mention Mrs. Villiers' plans; but they can make no difference . . . Mrs. Villiers is nothing to me, nor I to her, beyond a pleasant acquaintanceship. Nothing further is possible—if I wished it! Her husband's will is an insuperable barrier for any poor man . . . You once found out what you were not meant to know: and now you have to forget. You must not allow yourself even to think it! That fancy is dead! Do you see? . . . Jean, may I depend upon you absolutely—never to make allusion, by word or look—?"
Jean lifted her steadfast eyes, and answered, "Yes."
Jem smiled; for such an assurance from Jean was worth many vehement declarations from ordinary people.
"That will do," he said.
"I must do what I have promised, of course—and not let myself even think of him and Evelyn together," Jean observed to herself on the steamer. "But it is one thing to say that love is dead, and another thing to make it dead. Jem seems very sure of himself. How will it be when he sees Evelyn again? . . . He calls it 'a fancy.' Was it ever only that?"
AMATEUR CRITICISM.
"Those busy subtle pronouns, I and Me,Unsought and unexpected they appear;No barriers heed they, and no laws revere;But wind and penetrate, with dexterous force,Through all the cracks and crannies of discourse."JANE TAYLOR.
JEAN, in her neat grey dress, and grey hat with grey ostrich feathers, sat near the window of the dull sitting-room, looking into the dull street. She was waiting for Oswald; waiting, not impatiently, but with a certain forlorn wistfulness. When she and Oswald made an appointment, a tacit understanding was always included that he would keep the appointment, should nothing more agreeable intervene, but that she would keep it in the face of all obstacles. So he could always be sure of Jean, and she could never be sure of Oswald.
All the same, Jean trusted him through thick and thin. She trusted him because she loved him. Trust founded on love is but a rickety structure, compared with that more solid erection, love founded on trust.
Mr. Trevelyan had again an engagement which could not be set aside, and he went, in displeasure at Oswald's non-appearance.
"It is too bad," he said. "Mind, Jean—if Jem or anybody looks in, and offers to take you anywhere, don't refuse."
But of course, she would refuse. She would have sat till Domesday, looking for Oswald, sooner than have risked being absent when he did come.
This brother and sister, springing from the same stock, growing out of the same ground, surrounded by the same influences, had shot their branches in very different directions. In Oswald, self reigned supreme, and principle bowed before self-pleasing. He had indeed a certain Trevelyan hardihood and recklessness of danger; and in battle he would have rushed to the forefront without a thought of peril. But in everyday life, his personal comfort was a prime consideration; he liked an easy-chair existence, except during the intervals when amusement demanded exertion; and he spent a good deal of thought upon the pleasures of the palate.
Training can do much, but it cannot do everything. It is a mighty force for good or for evil; yet it has no power to change the actual texture of the substance on which it works. It can shape, subdue and modify, to almost any extent; but it cannot transform lead into gold, canvas into cambric.
A gardener has extraordinary power over plant-life, power to check or encourage growth; power to shape and modify. He can bring to splendour one attribute or another; he can let this or that part of a flower die out or become an abortion. But with all his cunning, he can never change a sunflower into a rose, or a cabbage into an oak. Each plant keeps untouched to the end its individuality.
Practically, no two persons, even of one family, ever can have precisely the same training, since variations are inevitable. In this case, not only had Jean always stayed at home, while Oswald went to school; but also Jean had been the worshipper, Oswald the worshipped; Jean had always yielded her will, Oswald had always gained his.
In any case, no training in the world could ever have made Jean into Oswald, nor Oswald into Jean, though it might have made something different of either.
His strong large figure, soldierly yet already inclining to stoutness, and his sunburnt self-satisfied visage were not more unlike Jean's slender form and refined outlines, than his whole inner being was unlike hers. So clear was the family perception of this fact, that the same was not expected from him as from Jean. That which in her would have been a heinous sin, was unhappily in him only what they had to expect. Deep in Mr. Trevelyan's heart lay a sore sense of disappointment about this only son; but he never spoke of it, even to Jean.
Past three o'clock! They had lunched at one, and Jean was beginning to feel rather hopeless. If he did not come, it would be a disappointment indeed. She had not seen him for months. Yet she waited quietly, with a book open on her knee, which she forced herself to read.
A ring at the front door.
"Oswald!" she said aloud, and a glow came to her cheeks.
"Sir Cyril Devereux!" was announced in stumbling accents by the awkward little maid.
"Jean! That's right! I was awfully afraid I shouldn't find you in! Jean, you do look handsome," exclaimed Cyril, greatly gratified, for the flush and radiance with which she had risen to welcome Oswald seemed to belong to himself. "I never saw you so handsome before. What is it? That dress! You never ought to put on anything but French grey for the rest of your life. But you haven't any flowers. You'll wear these—" and he placed in her hand two or three exquisite rose-buds, half open, creamy and pink-tipped, with a softening spray of maidenhair.
"I had a hunt to find what I wanted; and then I was afraid I should be too late. Dear Jean, you do look nice," he went on with boyish eagerness, yet not so boyish as a year earlier.
His hair was more closely cut, his manner was more decisive, his complexion was more sunburnt. Nothing could lessen the prettiness of the violet eyes, yet even they had gained a spice of independence.
"You do look nice: I never saw you look better," he repeated, though by this time colour and shining were gone, and Jean was her quiet self, with difficulty veiling keen disappointment. "You don't mind my saying so, do you? And you are glad to see me, Jean?—just a little! The one thing I cared for in coming to Town was to get a sight of you. Everything else is so idiotically stupid."
"Cyril, don't be absurd."
"I'm not. It's other folk that are absurd. What are you going to do with yourself this afternoon? You ought to be seen."
"As if anybody in London cared for my looks! Do talk sensibly."
"I'll try." Cyril sat down in an easy attitude, facing Jean. "You haven't told me yet—are you pleased to see me again? After such an age! I told aunt Sybella that go home I would this summer; and if she chose to stay away, I should go alone. So she cried and gave in. Crying doesn't mean much with her. Just a little ebullition of feeling. Such rot! Tearing over the Continent for nothing. I've seen ruined castles enough to last for twenty years. Well, you haven't told me yet—are you pleased?"
"You don't allow one a chance to say anything. Cyril, I do believe you never will grow up."
"Grow up! I'm five foot ten and three-quarters, and not narrow in proportion. How many extra yards do you want? Jem is no more; and Oswald is only five foot eleven and a half."
"Oswald would make two of you!" with a disdainful glance.
"Can't help not being corpulent. Is that what you want? I've tried no end of processes, and they don't answer. People are not all made alike, you know."
"I suppose not," Jean answered, dimly aware that her quondam slave was no longer absolutely subservient as of old. It had not been his wont to jest over any expression of opinion from her. "Where is Evelyn now?"
"Didn't you know? Staying at the Métropole; and she wants you to meet her at the Academy this afternoon. I'm to take you there. It's all right—Evelyn has settled things. Didn't you know she was in Town?"
"I was not sure as to dates. Hush—is that Oswald? No, I'm afraid I can't come, thanks. Oswald will be here, and he has promised to take me."
"To the Academy? That's right. We'll all go together; and I shall have you to myself. How jolly!"
By no means jolly in Jean's eyes! Her hopes of a long afternoon with Oswald were dying out. Yet, what could she say? To meet Evelyn would be a delight; only nicer in private, and this Jean suggested.
"Couldn't be a more private place than the Exhibition. Everybody is lost in a crowd. So you haven't seen Evelyn yet—or her new crony?"
"Miss Moggridge?"
"Hideous specimen of womankind!"
"Evelyn wrote from Milan where they first met, and said she was plain but charming."
"'Plain' is not the word. It's bald ugliness. No eyes or nose worth mentioning; thick lips; liver-coloured complexion; tow-coloured hair. I always counted Evelyn too sensible a woman to go in for gush; but one never knows. She's infatuated now, and no mistake. Imagine setting up house with such a companion! However, Miss Moggridge won't be at the Academy to-day. Seedy, I believe; or writing a pamphlet. Just the sort of person to pour out pamphlets by the dozen . . . I say, Jean, you won't wait much longer, if Oswald does not come. Evelyn is expecting us."
Jean was spared the need of reply; for another ring sounded, and Oswald strolled in, with his old confident air. No longer a dusty and begrimed school-boy, but a well-dressed and well-drilled young officer of Her Majesty's Service, he seemed superlatively content with himself, and not unwilling to patronise less favoured mortals. As Jean had said, he was considerably bigger than Cyril, who looked very boyish by his side. Oswald's movements were large as well as his frame, taking up a good deal of room; and the superiority of air sat rather oddly upon only three-and-twenty years. Aristocratic traditions reigned in Oswald's breast, as in Jean's: but to outward appearance he was rather military than aristocratic; and the chivalrous spirit, which ought, as a matter of noblesse oblige, always to accompany such traditions, was reserved for outsiders, thereby proving its non-genuine nature. Jean at least received no benefit from it.
Though able to make himself tolerably agreeable in society, he seldom exerted himself to be agreeable to his home-circle. The joyous beaming of Jean's face had no particular response; and if Jean did not notice the omission, perhaps because she was used to it, Cyril did, and was indignant.
"Couldn't get here sooner," was Oswald's sole apology for the long delay. He would have been profuse enough, had any lady except his sister been the one concerned. "I knew you'd wait for me. Ready? Come along!"
Jean pulled on her gloves, with a nervous trepidation, which Oswald alone had power to raise in her.
"I am going too. My sister will be there," Cyril said decisively, not asking leave.
Evelyn could not be immediately found in the crowds which thronged the Academy. She had appointed a meeting-place in the fourth room, if they should fail to see one another sooner.
Oswald was bent on taking each picture, big or little, in solemn succession; and Jean seemed in no haste. Merely to be by Oswald's side was happiness, though he bestowed his attention on the walls, and his remarks on Cyril. As already stated, he was not chivalrous, and Jean was merely his sister. Without any particular partiality for Cyril, he appreciated Sir Cyril Devereux' social standing, and he liked a listener. After the fashion of most self-confident people, entirely ignorant of art, he had a slap-dash opinion ready on all occasions, where art was under review.
"No. 56—'A Waterfall.' Frightful! Out of all proportion. No. 57—'A Highland Ferry.' Never saw such clouds: and I don't believe anybody else ever did either. No. 58— 'A Portrait.' Might as well say whose! What a daub! Really—how they can admit such rubbish! No. 59—'Two Children.' Another daub! Ridiculous simper on that girl's face; and such dresses! No. 60—Ah, a military piece! Now, that's not bad!" complacently screwing up his eyes, and putting on the air of a gratified connoisseur.
"Not at all bad considering. Foremost figure very well placed—very well placed indeed. No. 61—'Pasturage.' Miserably drawn."
"Jean, look at the foreshortening of those carthorses! Masterly," murmured Cyril, with reference to the same.
The examination of every picture in the Academy takes time, but Oswald's method of proceeding consumed as little as was possible under the circumstances. He went on at a steady jog-trot, apportioning his minutes with impartial regularity, ten or twenty seconds to each painting, quite irrespective of its merits. He had to "do" the Exhibition, and he was bent on "doing" it thoroughly, on securing, in fact, the full worth of his shilling. He had paid to see the pictures; and see them he would.
As for opinions, he wanted none but his own. Why should he? Any adverse suggestion from Cyril was quashed at once; and Jean's ideas were met with supreme disdain. She knew far more of art than did Oswald; but neither he nor she would have admitted the fact; and Cyril, whose cultivated taste was scandalised at every step, was far too wise to get up an argument with Oswald.
"What a bear it is!" he said to himself voicelessly once or twice; but he said little openly.
"No. 151—a lion! Ridiculous. Nobody ever saw a lion in that attitude, I'll be bound."
Conceivably, the artist had tried to produce an attitude from life; and Oswald's opportunities of observation had been limited to "the Zoo;" but second-class criticism jumps lightly over such small obstacles.
"No. 152—what's that? A long quotation. Some Eastern bosh or other. No. 153—worse still. A wretched symbolical affair. Mere clap-trap. No. 154—"
"O Oswald, wait a moment. Let me look. That colouring is grand. And the other—yes, I do like it. Don't you, Cyril—look—No. 153! It is wonderful!" Her artistic sense for once proving stronger than her subservience to Oswald. "So much underlying. And that woman's face—"
"Rubbish! Not worth a glance, I tell you. A mere farrago of notions, tossed together. No. 154—"
"Wait! Let her look in peace," interposed Cyril. "Your instinct is right, Jean. It is one of the best this season, not one that makes a great noise, but thought well of by good judges. But you won't get at the full beauty of conception without study."
"I could spend hours over that one face."
"Bosh!" repeated Oswald. "If one man says a picture is good, all the world runs mooning after him to say the same. I've no patience with such humbug. Who ever saw anything like that in real life? The artist must be crazy. Why, I can't make head or tail of the thing—" with an accent on the pronoun which plainly implied—If I can't, who can?
"No. 155—Now, there's something like art, for you! 'In the Chimney-Corner.' No high-flown rubbish, but real everyday life. Just see how the firelight falls on the tongs. And the rug-pattern is perfect—why, it might have been photographed? And the old lady's cap ribbons—positively transparent. And the bunch of flowers on the table—why, you might pick them up. And here's another—No. 156—'Portrait of the Hon. Amelia Jenkinson'—every inch as good. The spots in her veil stand out as if they were genuine."
"Best Brussels net, at one-and-elevenpence-halfpenny per yard," muttered Cyril, stealing a glance full of mischief at Jean.
For one moment Jean's lips quivered a response; then she drew up her head, offended. In anybody else such self-complacent trifling would have aroused her scorn: but Oswald might say or do what he willed: and that Cyril should laugh at Oswald was intolerable. Jean looked severe; and Cyril assumed an air of apology, not nearly so abject as it would have been fifteen months earlier.
"The true test of painting! Of art!" declaimed Oswald, not listening to other people's remarks. "Must be true to life. Creatures in impossible attitudes, wearing impossible dresses, doing impossible things—that's not art, you know. It's bosh. Something true to life is the thing. Flowers you want to pick up! A curtain you try to pull aside! A veil you'd like to lift! That's art! . . . No. 157. Now, here's something worth looking at again. No symbolical clap-trap, but the real thing. 'A landscape!' Now, these flowers on the bank—positively, one can count their leaves."