Chapter IX: Brought Home

"Life and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide;
Careless tenants they!"

"All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before."
TENNYSON.

WHETHER he had simply lost his way in the storm, and had wandered to and fro among the marshes, finding himself again and again turned back by intercepting dykes, till so exhausted that when he slipped and fell, he had no strength to rise; or whether some undetected heart-weakness, rendering him unfit to cope with the icy gale, had resulted in sudden failure of the heart's action, who of those present could say? All was over, long before they found him.

He had died, it would seem, a painless death, even though in some measure, a death of suffocation. He had met the great change suddenly, quietly, in pursuit of duty, in an act of unselfish kindness. The look in the dead face was not as of one conquered, but as of one victorious. To such a man as General Villiers, living habitually in the presence of his God, death, however unexpected, could not in effect be sudden, since he was always ready for it.

Jean would never in future years forget those few minutes, when she stood alone beside the lifeless body. She had not, it is true, any very strong liking for the General personally. He had been kind to her in a ceremonious fashion, and she had looked upon him as the inevitable appendage to his wife, whom she passionately loved—not in all respects a satisfactory appendage, viewed with Jean's fastidious eyes, because she privately counted that he did not fully appreciate Evelyn.

Perhaps the parting between husband and wife, witnessed by her that afternoon, had somewhat shaken this aspect of matters. In any case, the General had been a familiar figure in Jean's life; a fine figure always, manly and gentlemanly; and to see him thus was terrible—lying dead on the cold white snow, bathed in the cold white moonlight, with the cold white marshes around—while not another human being was near. There lay the pull. We are so constituted that the mere fact of somebody near, at such a moment, is a help—even though the somebody may be powerless to assist.

Had a mere child stood by, the chill of that icy solitude would not have entered, as it did, into the very depths of Jean's organisation. Her actual grief was, indeed, for Evelyn, not for herself; but nine-tenths of what Jean suffered in life always had been and always would be for others: and the suffering was no whit less keen on that account. Rather, it was more keen, because more pure and noble in kind.

Evelyn's fainting fit did not last long, and when she rallied, the native force of her character at once asserted itself. Instead of giving way to a display of grief, adding to others' difficulties, she stood resolutely up, insisted on walking, and decisively set Mr. Trevelyan free, as well as Walters and Adams—the latter having returned—for the heavy task before them. Ricketts had been sent to the cottage to procure a shutter, and if possible, additional help. To convey such a weight over such ground would be no light matter; and a man lodging there, but seldom back till late, would probably be in by this time. The lad's own lameness rendered him of small avail.

"Jean will give me her arm. I want nothing more," Evelyn said steadily. "Only Jean, please. I shall not faint again. You must not think of me at all. We will go on, and—you will bring him home—quickly, please!" with unutterable entreaty.

Even Mr. Trevelyan's stoicism was not proof against her look.

"If—if anything can be done—" But she did not finish her sentence, for she knew as well as he that it was too late, that nothing whatever could be done.

The Rector's eyes were full, nay, wet all round.

"I cannot thank you!" she said. "I owe you—so much! Come, Jean, dear."

That walk always stood out before Jean in after life, as one of the worst experiences she had ever had to go through. Her most pressing desire was to keep Evelyn well ahead, that she might not see aught of what went on behind. There was to be no delay. Mr. Trevelyan and the two men would start at once with—it—alas! No longer him—hoping soon to meet coming aid, which indeed would be needed.

A whisper from Mr. Trevelyan urged Jean to haste; and Evelyn herself probably felt that she had not strength to endure the sight. She made no effort to hang back, and never cast a glance to rear. Weary she must have been, and the fixed face was white as snow in the moonlight, yet she walked swiftly, unfalteringly, making no hardship of the stiles, scarcely pressing on Jean's arm.

No words passed between the two for the greater part of the way. Even when they encountered young Ricketts and the lodger, bearing the shutter between them, it was Jean, not Evelyn, who begged them to make haste.

Evelyn only shivered silently. Jean bent her whole attention to guiding Evelyn's steps, to giving all possible support: while Evelyn seemed to be hardly conscious where she was or what she did.

Not till the marshes were left behind, not till the large final meadow between marsh and high road were reached, did Jean venture to say—

"If you would only lean upon me more! You must be so tired!"

Evelyn's answer, not an answer in reality, came as if wrung from her: "O Jean, if I had been different! If I had only been different! If I had never given him pain!"

Jean dared not go into that question. She could trust neither herself nor Evelyn, after all they had gone through. She knew by Evelyn's shortened breath and failing steps that tears were streaming; and it was only by a fierce bracing of her own powers that she could force herself to say in everyday accents—

"I think you might make more use of my arm. We shall soon be at home now. Are you very wet?"

"I don't know."

To keep Evelyn to her earlier pace was no longer possible. She fell into a slower and slower walk, till Jean began to fear that the sad procession behind must surely overtake them. The high road was left, but the ascending avenue-path through the Park grounds taxed Evelyn to her utmost. It was all she could do to drag one foot after the other, and more than once she came to a complete pause, swaying feebly, as if on the verge of another swoon.

Jean urged her on with touch and voice, and Evelyn responded in renewed efforts; but when the front door was reached, and Evelyn stumbled up the two steps, Jean knew that she could have done no more. Anything more deathlike than her face, as she came into the lighted hall, could hardly have been imagined.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Stowe, stood there, and with her Miss Devereux; the latter, as a matter of course, talking, the former listening. News of the General's disappearance having reached Sybella, she had driven at once to the Park, determined there to remain till the mystery should be cleared up. Jean had seen fresh carriage-marks on the snow outside, leading up to the door and round to the stables.

Evelyn saw nothing. Guided by Jean, she reached the great oaken arm-chair, and dropped into it; her lips white: her eyes closed.

"My dear Evelyn! Then you have come, and it is all right," cried Sybella, starting forward. "And he is found! I said so! I was sure it was nothing! I knew he must have taken shelter somewhere. Such an imprudent thing to go out in the snow! A man of his age! If people will be so foolish—! I shouldn't wonder if he had a bad cold afterwards—and rheumatism, of course. How wet you are, both of you! Really, it is quite madness! I can't think what Mr. Trevelyan was after to let you go! Such folly! If you had just stayed at home quietly! It is too imprudent! Look at the state of your skirts. Is she faint?"—to Jean. "Where is General Villiers? Is he coming? I drove over, in spite of the weather, when I heard—when Pearce brought me word—and the horses are put up here."

The first rush of Sybella's effervescence had always to be endured; it could no more be checked than the rush from a freshly uncorked champagne-bottle; but neither Stowe or Jean was idle. Wine and hot water stood ready on the hall-table, for Stowe had rightly conjectured that they would be needed: and while Jean pulled off Evelyn's wet gloves, and rubbed her icy fingers, Stowe brought a tumbler of steaming liquid.

"Drink it, ma'am—it will do you good," she entreated.

Evelyn was not fainting. She opened her eyes, whispered a low "Thanks," and made the effort; but after a few sips she sank back with the same look of powerlessness.

Sybella talked on, wondering, conjecturing, pitying, blaming.

Evelyn showed no consciousness of her presence.

Jean drew the housekeeper aside.

"We must get her upstairs," she whispered. "They are—coming—with him! They will be here directly. Send for Dr. Ingram, please—and oh! Do get her upstairs! Don't you understand? Oh, don't ask questions, only be quick—only get her upstairs!" implored Jean. "They are coming—with him! He was—found—there—on the marsh!"

Stowe understood now, and was stunned with the shock, unable to act. Before them all, she sat down, shaking visibly; the first time in her well-regulated life that she had ever taken such a liberty. She could only stare at Jean; and Jean knew there was no time to lose.

"Evelyn dear, you must come to your bedroom," she said, quitting Mrs. Stowe, and bending over the carved oak-chair. "Come at once! Yes—now—come with me!"

The violet eyes opened slowly.

"Come, dear! Come, Evelyn! Please come!"

"Nonsense, Jean! What do you mean?" demanded Miss Devereux, nettled by what she counted to be interference. If Jean had proposed to keep Evelyn downstairs, she would have been the first to urge an opposite course. Nothing done by a Trevelyan could possibly be right in Sybella's eyes. "Much best for her to stay here a few minutes, till she gets warmer. Oh, you mean—to change her dress. But she is not fit to walk yet. When General Villiers arrives—"

"O hush!" entreated Jean.

"Really, Jean—"

"Miss Trevelyan says we are to send for Dr. Ingram," whispered the housekeeper's tremulous voice, close to Miss Devereux. The wording of the sentence was unfortunate.

"Send for Dr. Ingram! What for? Mrs. Villiers will be all right in a few minutes. She is just overdone—as anybody of any sense might expect her to be. Really, Jean, I think you a little over-rate your position here," declared Miss Devereux, in aggrieved accents. "Evelyn has been very kind to you, no doubt, giving you the run of the Park and all that, but you are hardly more than a child. I really don't quite see what you have to do with giving orders. Evelyn ought to take some more food before she moves. I never heard of anything so mad, as taking her to the marshes on such a night. If I had been here!—But some people have no common-sense. When General Villiers comes in, he will say—"

Evelyn stood up, her face rigid with anguish. "My own room—" she said distinctly. "Send for Dr. Ingram at once, Stowe—and wait here till—No, only Jean with me!" As Sybella drew near. "Only Jean!"

Sybella fell back.

Evelyn passed away with Jean, and Stowe vanished to obey the order.

"Well! I really do think—" gasped the astonished lady. "I really do! And I her aunt! And as for Jean Trevelyan! But she always was demented about those Trevelyans! Such a stupid uninteresting girl! And Mr. Trevelyan as stiff as a poker—the most disagreeable man I ever saw! I am sure they are the last people I would ever go to in trouble. But then I am always so sensitive to manner—my feelings are so easily hurt—I really could not stand that sort of thing. It would make me quite ill! And the idea of sending for Dr. Ingram! Evelyn merely wants a good night's rest—and as for the General, I suppose he is just overdone, and can't get along fast. What else is to be expected, if people will be so crazy? And to send for Dr. Ingram, because Jean orders it! Ridiculous! I can't endure Dr. Ingram for my part."

Sybella had developed this dislike gradually: and no doubt, at the foundation of it, lay his relationship to the Trevelyans.

Then, as Mrs. Stowe returned.

"What is all the fuss about, Stowe? And why is the General so long? I suppose he found shelter somewhere, but he ought to be here by this time. And Mr. Trevelyan—how he could allow Mrs. Villiers to take that walk, with only Miss Trevelyan—no proper protection?"

Sybella's flow of remarks was cut short. Mr. Trevelyan's voice was heard outside, speaking in subdued accents; and into the lighted hall was brought a silent presence, before which even Sybella's volubility failed.

For Evelyn was indeed a widow!

Not till midnight, when Dr. Ingram had departed, and when Evelyn was asleep under the influence of a semi-opiate, did Jean venture to leave her, and to steal downstairs. She believed that her father was there; but what might be the next step for either of them, Jean could not so much as conjecture. All she knew was that she herself could do and bear no more.

Mr. Trevelyan stood below, in the hall, as if at that moment expecting her. He had had a little warning from Dr. Ingram to "look after Jean!"

And he had also gone through a small passage-of-arms with Miss Devereux, wherein of course, since he was a gentleman, the lady had had the last word. Sybella felt it to be her duty—her positive duty—to circumvent the machinations of these pushing Trevelyans, and to protect her dear niece from falling hopelessly into their clutches.

She did not exactly say as much to Mr. Trevelyan, but she looked it every inch; and there was no mistaking what she meant, as she professed an eager desire not to be a burden on Mr. Trevelyan's time—he was always so busy—so much to do—and she, of course, a single lady, with so few ties—what more natural than that she should remain at the Park, and devote herself to her poor niece?

Yes, she would stay over the night, of course—oh, certainly—and as many nights as her dear niece might require her. Impossible to leave the young widow alone! Could Mr. Trevelyan think it of her? Oh, quite impossible! Would Mr. Trevelyan and Jean like to make use of her carriage to convey them home? It was so late, and of course they were fatigued. Grimshaw would think nothing—oh, nothing at all—of that little extra round on his way to the Brow. So easily managed! And really, the sooner the house was quiet for her beloved niece—though none of them could ever forget the trouble to which Mr. Trevelyan had put himself—still, at such a time, complete quiet was so very essential—

Mr. Trevelyan bowed assent. He did not wear an attractive expression at the moment. His bow was most gentlemanly, but a sardonic sneer lurked in the corners of his mouth, and his eyes scanned Miss Devereux, as they might have scanned some uncommon specimen of worm or beetle kind, from an ineffably superior intellectual height.

Sybella felt the contempt without understanding it, and she was irritated.

The passage-at-arms ended as she wished. The Trevelyans would go home that night, and would not even use her offered carriage—which in itself was a relief, since she stood greatly in awe of what the stable autocrat, Grimshaw, might say. But although she had her will, although she was to be left in undisturbed possession of the field, Sybella was not satisfied. She could never delude herself into thinking that she had the mastery of Mr. Trevelyan's iron will. He yielded: yet if he had chosen not to yield, she could not have made him.

When he stood waiting in the hall for Jean, he looked precisely as usual: upright, composed, grim. Not a hair was disorganised: not a muscle was disturbed. A close observer might perhaps have noted a slight softening of expression, as he studied his daughter.

"Where's your hat, child?"

"Are we to walk home?" For the first time within Jean's recollection, the two miles to be traversed loomed before her imagination as a gigantic impossibility.

"No," in a suppressed voice. "Ingram undertook to send a fly, and it is here now. If Miss Devereux were not going to stay—" and a pause.

"She doesn't want us. But poor Evelyn!"

"Mrs. Villiers will send when she wants you. We can't force ourselves, even for her sake. Where's your ulster? To be sure—it went to be dried."

A touch of the bell brought Walters, carrying the ulster. "I did hope you'd both have stayed over the night, sir," he murmured, as he helped Jean to put it on.

"No—I think not. Miss Trevelyan has done enough. She will look round in the morning."

"Mrs. Villiers is asleep now," Jean said kindly to the man.

Mr. Trevelyan stopped to fasten some of Jean's buttons; then drew her hand within his arm. "Come, we must be off," he said. "Mind, Walters—anything we can do for Mrs. Villiers—"

"Yes, sir—I understand—thank you, sir."

The drive home was altogether silent. Jean could not trust herself to speak. She had eaten almost nothing since one o'clock, and the long strain was making itself felt.

"I sent word to your aunt that, if we came at all, we should be late—that she must not stay up, but might leave a good fire in the study," remarked Mr. Trevelyan, as they stopped at the Rectory. "And—tea. I thought you would rather have something here than at the Park. Walters would have got anything that I wished—but—jump out!"

Jean was past jumping. She descended somehow, and made her way to the study, where indeed a cheery fire blazed, and tea-things were outspread. Madame Collier's voice over the stairs kept Mr. Trevelyan back; and Jean could hear an exchange of low-voiced communications.

There was an exclamation or two in Madame Collier's voice, and then—

"On the marshes!—In the snow!—Too late!—All over!"—at intervals from her father.

Jean stood over the fire, feeling strangely. It had been such a terrible day. Only ten hours since she had quitted the Rectory, light-hearted and joyous—and all this to have come since! She felt as if ten weeks might have passed over her head. A vision rose before Jean of the General's tall figure and kind face, as he had come into his wife's boudoir; and then of the same, lying stark and cold in the white snow; and then of Evelyn's desolate misery; and a suffocating lump rose in her throat.

"Aunt Marie will see you presently, but I can't have talk to-night. You must go to bed as soon as you have had something to eat," said Mr. Trevelyan, entering.

He poked the fire carefully, arranged a bed of hot coals with deft fingers, and placed the kettle thereon.

"It will boil directly. Sandwiches—that's right. Sit down, Jean."

He pushed a chair towards her, and she obeyed, with a despairing sense of having come to the end of everything. Thus far she had kept up with marvellous courage for a girl of sixteen; but some measure of reaction was almost inevitable.

"Jean, my dear," said Mr. Trevelyan, looking at her. Then—

"Poor little girl!" came in a tone which she had never heard from him before.

He had been strongly stirred, and the underlying tenderness of the man for once pushed its way to the surface.

To Jean's utter amazement, she found herself sobbing, with her face on his shoulder, and one of his arms round her. Not only so, but as the paroxysm continued, he held her more tightly, and she heard him say—

"Never mind; don't be ashamed. You have done splendidly!—Like my own Jean!"

"O father!—If I could help it—"

"You can't just yet. Never mind. You won't be the worse for this."

Presently after a judicious pause—

"Now! Have you cried enough? I must make the tea."

Jean struggled manfully, and chained down the rising sobs; but she clung to him still, drawing long breaths of mingled pain and comfort. To her renewed amazement, his lips touched her brow with a light kiss.

"That's right. I am proud of my girl. Now sit up, and be brave. No, don't stand. I'll be tea-maker for once. You want something to eat."

"Oh, I can't!"

"You must. It will do nobody any particular good for you to starve yourself."

The essential common-sense of the remark was so like what she herself might have said to another, that Jean almost smiled. She was placed by Mr. Trevelyan in his deep arm-chair, made to lean back, and supplied with necessaries—nay, finding how she trembled, he even held the full cup to her lips. Though the first few mouthfuls threatened to choke her, a different state of things speedily followed. The inward shuddering grew less; and she was at length able to say with some degree of composure—

"Father, you don't think Evelyn will miss me when she wakes?"

"I don't know, my dear," he answered, too truthful to deny the possibility. "I only know that no choice was left to us. Miss Devereux has the rights of kinship; and we have only the rights of friendship. After all, the matter is in Mrs. Villiers' own hands. If she chooses, she can dismiss Miss Devereux and send for you."

"And if she does—"

"Then she shall have you."

Jean went to bed, more satisfied. Sleep seemed impossible, but she was young and healthy, and she had gone through severe exertion. Strange to say, the last impression on her mind, as she passed into dreamland, was not of the ghastly scene upon the marshes, but of her father's arm around her.

"O, I do love him!" she half unconsciously murmured.