Chapter IV: A Strife for the Mastery

"Fie, fie! Unknit that threatening unkind brow;
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes."
SHAKESPEARE.

SYBELLA's exercise of authority over Cyril had reached the limit of her tether. The pull had been too strong, inducing a new resistance which, once started, was not likely to die down.

From childhood, the home training of the young baronet had been, in effect, "Do as you like; follow your own inclinations—" with the sole exceptions implied by the care of his health, and the choice of his friends. He was to nurse and coddle his body; he was to like those people whom Sybella liked; which two exceptions might involve the occasional crossing of his inclinations; but in all other respects he was to gratify himself.

Such a mode of training would naturally, would almost of necessity, recoil in time upon the trainer. Arbitrary exceptions to a general rule of self-pleasing are not likely to stand.

Boyish as Cyril looked, he was seventeen, a lad of innate character, of rapidly-developing force and intellect. Some degree of nervous weakness existed still, hampering the capabilities of mind and body, but the weakness was being fast mastered, as the bracing influences of a good school gradually counteracted the enervating influences of home.

Hitherto his natural gentleness of disposition, with a good-natured readiness to yield on small points—a readiness more often masculine than feminine—had prevented struggles; but the state of things could not last thus indefinitely. Sooner or later, as Mrs. Kennedy would have said, the tadpole is sure to part with its tail.

The change was not likely to begin on Miss Devereux's side. A mother is usually far quicker than a father to realise that her children, especially her boys, are growing up; and she more seldom makes the blunder of keeping on childish restrictions too long. But Miss Devereux was not a mother, was not even a woman of natural motherliness. She was only a fidgety and nervous single lady, very ignorant of life, still more ignorant of human nature; and she was quite unable to realise that her spoilt darling was big enough to stand alone. She was just as eager to cosset, to pet, and to control, with the lad of seventeen as she had been with the child of ten. Since the change would not begin on her side, it had to begin on Cyril's side; and this mode too often means an accompanying struggle.

No doubt the change had been long brewing. Things do not come about in this world without previous preparation. When a lightning spark flashes from cloud to cloud, it does so with startling suddenness yet the electrical condition of the clouds has implied a gradual working-up to the point of discharge. When nations burst into open war, a period of grumbling and growling has been gone through previously. What the newspapers describe as "strained relations" between two kingdoms had been for some time the condition of affairs between aunt and nephew; only nobody knew it except themselves, and perhaps not even themselves.

Like many easy-tempered people, who from inborn sweetness and dislike of a "fuss," will yield on a hundred lesser points, Cyril could be aroused to tough resistance on the hundred-and-first point. An occasional fight in his childhood might have warned Sybella; but such fights had been rare, and she had almost found him amenable to petting. On the whole, this factor in his character had not pressed itself on Sybella's notice. He was indeed only now beginning to awake to the dawning possibilities of manhood. Far greater awakenings might come to him in the future; but this at the moment seemed great. It took him by surprise as well as her.

Though he had submitted to the combined pressure of Miss Devereux and Mr. Trevelyan, he could not easily forgive his aunt for the position in which she had placed him before Jean. There was the rub! Had Jean been absent, he would have cared little; he might have felt a touch of good-humoured disgust, still he would have stepped into the carriage, with at most only a laughing protest.

But before Jean!! To have to act the semi-invalid, and be carried off to dry his boots, with Jean standing there, slim and straight and scornful! He knew she was scornful, without looking at her; and his whole frame tingled at the thought. It quashed all recollections of Mr. Trevelyan's advice, which for the moment had carried the day against himself. He could only think of Jean, could only burn at the recollection of her pity.

He would not speak to his aunt all the way home; would not look at her; would not answer when she spoke. His violet eyes grew dark under bent brows, and the handsome lips gathered themselves into a resolute pout. In plain terms, Sir Cyril Devereux sulked. He had never been a sulky boy; and Miss Devereux did not know what to make of this new phase in his nature.

She had not sense to leave him alone to recover himself. A little quiet neglect might have restored the balance, allowing her time to regain his temper: but whatever else Sybella might do, she never failed to talk. She reasoned, argued, coaxed, remonstrated, without a break. When he would not reply, she nearly cried. When he would not look at her, she rambled on about ingratitude. When at length she had him inside the hall-door, she told him it was all the fault of his friends that he should behave so badly.

"If it wasn't for those Trevelyans—!" she lamented. "I'm sure nothing could show more plainly that Jean is no good companion for you. And now, Cyril, about your boots—"

But she had put the finishing stroke. Cyril's unwonted fit of sulks exploded into a no less unwonted outburst of anger.

"If it hadn't been for Mr. Trevelyan, I wouldn't have come back at all," he declared wrathfully, and he dashed headlong upstairs, three steps at a time.

Sybella hesitated, debated with herself as to what dignity might demand, and followed the fugitive. She found Cyril's door open, Cyril's room empty; and from the window she caught one glimpse of a boyish figure cutting at full speed across a distant lawn.

"He must have gone down the back staircase! And without changing his boots! How wrong! How deceitful!" bewailed the distressed lady; though deceitful was scarcely the correct term.

Cyril's rush upstairs had been instinctive, his rush downstairs unpremeditated. He had merely escaped by the easiest method.

"I shall have to take stronger measures. He has never shown such a rebellious spirit before. So strange and unlike him—it really is most sad. Standing alone, as I do—with no one to appeal to—except of course General Villiers, and he is entirely managed by his wife."

Sybella did not show profound knowledge here, but she would have maintained the statement through thick and thin.

"I really am quite at a loss what to do. Of course one can see whose influence has been at work. Yes—come in."

"Lady Lucas is downstairs, ma'am."

Sybella had to smooth her ruffled plumage, and to hasten to the drawing-room, where Lady Lucas sat on the chief sofa—a large woman, plump and round, and clothed in black brocaded silk, almost stiff enough to stand on end. In youth she had been pretty, but her features had expanded with her frame into a rotund shapelessness, and the distinguishing characteristic of her countenance was its extent of cheek. There was also a superfluity of chin, though not of forehead, and her eyes were surrounded by cushions, which left only two slim crevices when she smiled.

She was the very picture of dignified geniality greeting Sybella with effusive affection; and the effect of her effusiveness was to call forth the gush always latent in Sybella, albeit trampled under feet by an irresponsive world. Sybella aught sigh, and clasp her hands, and gaze with appreciative eyes, to any extent, in Lady Lucas' presence.

Tea came in, and Sybella poured it out in a vague and poetical manner. She forgot the sugar, and then the cake; and she blushed and sighed over her own mistakes, pleading absorption of mind.

Lady Lucas had no objection to absorbed minds in the abstract. Indeed she thought it rather interesting to see Sybella go off into a mild dream, with clasped hands, and eyes riveted on the top-point of the banner-screen; but she was too old fashioned not to like sugar.

"No innovations for me, my dear!" she said magisterially, when Sybella offered the sugar-basin, and she helped herself to three big lumps. "Tea was meant to be taken with sugar. Leaving it off is all a fad of the present day."

The saccharine question disposed of, they reverted to topics of local interest, and divers affairs pertaining to other people were settled by the two ladies. Sybella had not meant to say anything about the perversity of her nephew, being well aware that what was told to Lady Lucas was told to Dutton. But her mind was full of the subject, and the outlets from Sybella's mind were always badly corked. A very moderate amount of steam-pressure within would at any time get rid of the corks.

So presently the whole story came out, not to say more than the whole. A story told by any one is pretty sure to take its colouring from the condition of the teller's feelings, and Sybella's feelings were not calm.

Lady Lucas listened, questioned, sympathised.

"There is nothing for it but firmness," she maintained, removing a crumb from her brocaded silk. "You must hold your own, my dear. It is a question of now or never. I know what young men are in the present day. If you yield now, you will never have the upper hand again."

"So difficult!" sighed Sybella pensively.

"Not at all. Not in the least difficult if you set to work in the right way. To begin with, I should certainly check that intimacy, if I were you. No end of mischief comes from boy and girl intimacies, where there is no relationship. I would check it at any cost."

"But how is one to check it? I should be glad enough if I could," persisted Sybella. "Of course it is most undesirable! Still, I don't know what to do. If I were to forbid him the Rectory, I am rather afraid—and it would give offence too—"

"If you were to forbid him the Rectory, you would settle the matter at once, my dear. Nothing in life but the Trevelyans would be of the slightest importance," said Lady Lucas, with considerable wisdom. "No, things have gone much too far for that. You can't stamp it out—now! You can only try to draw him in some other direction."

"How?" Sybella begged to know, for once with brevity.

"Don't leave him time for the Trevelyans. Keep your eye upon him, and have all possible engagements apart from them. Mrs. Villiers would surely help you. No? I should have thought, the General's wife—Well, if no other means are successful, I would take the boy elsewhere for his holidays. I would not have him at Dulveriford more than I could possibly help, till his fancy for Jean has died out. For Mr. Trevelyan! Oh, my dear, I know better! I know what boys are. It is Jean he is crazy after, not Mr. Trevelyan. You really are very innocent still of the ways of the world!"—playfully.

Sybella bridled and blushed anew at the compliment.

"Now you think over my advice. At Christmas you may have to be at home—it may be unavoidable—but Christmas holidays are shorter, and people can't rove about in the fields all day. Summer is the time to have him away. Take him abroad or anywhere—only not here. He will be at College, I suppose, in a year; and think of the length of his summer vacation then. You must keep him out of Jean Trevelyan's way for two or three years; and see what the effect will be. Don't fan the fancy by fighting, but fill his mind with other interests."

Sybella did not dislike the notion. It would take a little time to work its way into her brain, but she by no means rejected the scheme. A few difficulties occurred to mind, all of which her companion overruled or smoothed away.

By the time Lady Lucas said good-bye, Sybella was much more than half convinced.

Tea grew cold, and Cyril did not come in. Sybella began to wax nervous. What if she really had gone too far, had driven the boy to desperation? Worse ideas than wet boots began to assail her—such as maimed limbs, and drowned bodies. Why Cyril should be maimed or drowned, in consequence of what had passed, she could hardly have explained; but whoever expected sequence of thought from Sybella?

She put on her garden hat at length, took a shawl, and meandered about the grounds for half-an-hour; in vain. Cyril was not to be found. Then she confided her anxiety to Pearce, and sent him forth to search. Pearce did not agree with her as to the necessity, but he did what he was told; and after an hour's walk, he returned, having seen nothing of Sir Cyril.

Dinner-time drew near. Did Cyril mean to fail for dinner? That would indeed be a startlingly new departure. Sybella melted into tears at the prospect, then she grew pettishly angry, and then she cried again. It was impossible to settle to anything. She wandered from room to room, looking out of windows, wondering what could be done next.

A click at the front door sounded, and Cyril came in suddenly. Sybella was passing through the hall, and she stopped short, with an exclamation, half relieved, half reproachful.

Cyril stood facing her, white and resolute, yet shamefaced. He had never treated her in this fashion before, and he did not know what to make of himself any more than Sybella knew what to make of him; but all promptings to softer feeling were checked again and again by the remembrance of how she had abashed him before Jean. He was stiff as steel on that point, worked up to rigidity by hours of brooding. Still, a touch of shame was visible.

"Cyril!! At last!!" she said, any number of notes of admiration in her voice. "Where have you been?"

"Walking!" curtly.

"Not all this time! And your boots! You did not change your boots!"

"No, aunt."

"Cyril, this is very wrong. This really is most, reprehensible. I could not have thought it of you."

Unyielding silence answered the reproach, and Sybella's voice began to shake.

"I could not have believed in such behaviour. It is too bad—too ungrateful! But of course, I understand what makes you so unlike yourself. I quite understand. It is all the fault of those Trevelyans! The effect of being thrown too much with Jean! I am sure if I had thought—But I have been too kind—too indulgent! One finds one's mistakes—I shall have to take measures—strict measures! Lady Lucas is right! The thing cannot go on."

Be it remarked, Sybella had studiously resolved to say nothing of all this, to make no allusion to the Trevelyans; above all, to utter no hint respecting Lady Lucas' advice. She did not wish to warn her nephew, or to annoy him afresh. Sybella's resolutions were, however, apt to fail when the moment came for carrying them out.

"It is all the fault of those Trevelyans," she went on in her usual style of aimless repetition. "I suppose they have been setting you against me. And Jean—Have you been there again?"

"No!"

Little though Sybella knew it, a kind and grieved word on his first entrance—such a word as a mother might have spoken—would have softened him at once into his ordinary self. He was dead-beat with hours of vehement walking and indignation, just in the state to be melted by any touch of tenderness. His pale lips might have told their tale to Sybella, but she was far too full of her own annoyance to be observant. The above utterances, the contemptuous expression "those Trevelyans," the unjust accusations levelled against his friends, hardened him afresh. Sybella was losing an opportunity, not likely to return.

"Then where did you go?"

"Through the marshes."

Sybella lifted horror-struck hands.

"You are soaking wet—up to your knees. Almost up to your knees."

"Yes."

Sybella burst into tears, overcome by this new masterfulness of spirit in her coddled darling. "I'm sure I can't think what has come over you, Cyril. You are not a bit like yourself. Jean Trevelyan—"

"I shall get ready for dinner," Cyril broke in coldly, and he walked out of the room, cutting short the renewed accusation.

Dinner was an uncomfortable meal for both. Cyril was far too chilled and too much fatigued to have any appetite; and Sybella was too greatly offended to speak on any subject except that of his misdemeanours, which could hardly be discussed in Pearce's presence.

She had meant to carry on her lecture during dessert, but Cyril declined all dainties, and Sybella resolved to make haste to the drawing-room, where interruptions were not likely.

On the way, however, she was delayed by a note from Mrs. Kennedy, requiring a verbal answer, and when she reached the drawing-room, Cyril was dead-asleep on a low couch—not lying down, but dropped in a careless heap. He looked so young, and withal so sweet, with the long even lashes lying on his cheeks, and the half childish lips parted, that Sybella's mood softened. She sat and watched him till coffee came in, and then, after rousing him to take a cup, her lecture resolved itself into—

"Cyril, you ought to go to bed."

"I don't mind if I do," Cyril said, with unlooked-for submission; and after a good-night kiss, he vanished.

But the kiss was a cold one. Sybella's accusation of Jean could not be easily forgotten.

Sybella was in her element next day; and all her foreboding cares were rewarded; for Cyril had a cold. She could indulge herself to any extent in that most ardent delight of a small mind—the reiteration of the formula, "I told you so!"

Had she not warned Cyril? Had she not prophesied results? Had she not begged, implored, insisted? And had he not refused to hear? Now the consequences had arrived—just as she had known, just as she had expected, just as she had declared would be the case!

"I told you how it would be!" she said again and again, with her grating self-satisfaction.

There could be no mistake about the matter. Cyril came down to breakfast, hoarse as a raven, sneezing, heavy-eyed, feverish and listless. He did his best to talk in a natural voice, but the effort was a failure.

And every time he coughed, Sybella said "Ah!" 'expressively.

She was so gratified with her own sagacity, as quite to have recovered her good-humour.

All breakfast-time, she plied Cyril with questions. Had he a pain here, a feeling of tightness there, a kind of oppression within, a sort of chilliness everywhere? Had he—

"Ah! There!" as Cyril sneezed.

Poor dear boy! Well, he would have to stay indoors, of course, and take care of himself. Nothing like nipping a cold in the bud, especially in summer when of course there are draughts everywhere. A little prudence earlier would have prevented all this; but now—yes, the best plan would be to stay quietly in the study, with the window shut, and a nice little story to read. And he must have broth and toast for lunch; and a horrible camomile compound such as "my dear aunt always gave me when I had a cold;" and then if he did not get better by the evening, "I must just send for Dr. Ingram."

Cyril stoutly rebelled. He had begun to feel his power. He had had the bit between his teeth yesterday evening, and he began to champ it again now. It was impossible to forget so soon his aunt's contemptuous utterance of the Trevelyan name. He knew also that Jean might expect him to look in and inquire after the robin.

He did not mention Jean, but his lips took an obstinate curve, as he answered, "I'm not going to be boxed up indoors all day."

Sybella declined to hear the protest. She talked on through breakfast; she reiterated warnings past, causes present, results future. She discussed Cyril into the Study; she shut and bolted the window; she gave him a pretty story-book; she pitied his hoarseness; she fidgeted to and fro; she went verbally through a list of remedies; she threatened Dr. Ingram anew.

Finally she disappeared to attend to household duties; and when, half-an-hour later, she came back, carrying for her invalid a hot treacle posset, which after much circumlocution of ideas she had decided upon as superior to even the camomile compound—lo and behold, the bird was flown.

"Yea, ma'am, Sir Cyril is gone out," Pearce said, when Sybella had poured upon him a small cascade of questions and sentiments. "He didn't mean to be long, he said."

"He will get a fresh chill. He will be laid by with inflammation of the lungs! Another attack of congestion!" gasped Sybella. "So wrong—so thoughtless!"

"It's an uncommon hot day, ma'am," averred Pearce, with a glance at the August sky.

"But damp—quite damp. The air is full of damp," declared Sybella. "See what an amount of dew on the grass. Dew always means damp in the air," she went on scientifically.

Like most unlearned people, Sybella was positive in proportion to her ignorance.

"Where else could the damp come from? And damp is the worst thing possible for a chill. If only you had told me sooner, Pearce!"

"Sir Cyril didn't give me no time, ma'am. He just said he was going to get a breath of air, and then he was off like a shot."

"Imprudent boy! Those Trevelyans again!" sighed Sybella, too much agitated to be circumspect.

Cyril had to pay for his wilfulness—not in the coin of ill-health, but in that of endurance. Sybella made known her views to him very fully on the enormity of his conduct; and a lecture from Sybella was apt to be, not loud perhaps, but long.

He did not get inflammation of the lungs, as she had foretold, and in a few days the cold vanished. Yet consequences even more momentous flowed from the doings of those two days. Thenceforward there were changed relations between the aunt and nephew. A slowly-widening chasm appeared, separating the two. Unquestioning submission on the part of Cyril ceased; and a struggle for authority on the part of Sybella began.