Chapter I: Dutton Gossip

"Mrs. Can.—Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know,
Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise
to the most injurious tales."
"School for Scandal."

"ANY of those circulars ready, Jean? No matter if not—but—"

Jean mutely indicated a pile.

"All done! Thanks! You are a helper worth having. Now can you undertake the addresses? I have a list somewhere—in my study."

"My dear Jem!" remonstrated Mrs. Trevelyan. She had her feet on the fender, and an open story-book on her knee.

"I wonder where we are now," murmured Jean.

Jem looked up, and his grey eyes broke into laughter. When absorbed in thought, he had a harassed look, too old for his thirty-five years; but when he smiled, all was transformed; signs of wear and tear vanished; and hollows were mysteriously filled up.

"I forgot! Yes, of course—we adjourned here. All right—I have found the list. Just take the names in order, as they come."

"Jem, you really have no conscience. Jean has been at work for you the whole day," drowsily remarked Mrs. Trevelyan.

"Oh, I like it. Not another word, please, mother. Yes, give me the list."

Jem delayed to scan Jean questioningly, and she met his gaze with a frank smile.

Two years and a quarter in Dutton Rectory had transmuted her into a daughter of the house. Mrs. Trevelyan was no longer "cousin" but "mother"; and Jem was a charming mixture of pastor, master, and brother.

Jean had developed fast in this new environment. She was in fuller correspondence with it than with any previous atmosphere. While not a whit less decisive and practical, she had become softer, gentler, more gracious. That half of her which had been assiduously repressed at Dulveriford Rectory was assiduously cultivated at Dutton Rectory; and Jean's whole being responded to the cultivation, opening out like a flower in warm sunshine, after long exposure to east winds. She was less shy and reserved; her smiles had learnt to come and go freely; and the old habitual gravity was replaced by habitual sunshine. This was the real Jean, never before permitted to expand into her natural outlines. Dearly as she loved her father, much as she felt the long separation from him, hardly anything could have occurred more effectual for the finishing touches needed by her womanly shape, than such a spell of Dutton Rectory life.

A second long and severe illness, several months past, through which Mr. Trevelyan had been nursed by Cyril with a daughter's devotion, had delayed the return of the travellers beyond the time originally fixed; but now they were believed to be actually en route for home, coming, for the sake of the voyage, "by long sea" round the Cape of Good Hope. Cyril's last letter, written from Melbourne, had spoken of immediately securing their passage in the "Spanish Gipsy," expected to start some three weeks or so later.

Since the receipt of this letter, no news had arrived; and such an unwonted gap in the correspondence caused much perplexity. The "Spanish Gipsy" had now been for many weeks on her way. Whether Mr. Trevelyan and Cyril were on board remained an open question, though there seemed to be no substantial reason for doubting the fact.

When they should reach England, Dutton Rectory would have to part with its "daughter;" no agreeable prospect for Jem or his mother. Jean had made herself a necessary of life to them both.

But why needed matters so to end? Gentle Mrs. Trevelyan often put this question to herself, thinking how easily and prettily a wind-up could have been effected in one of her favourite story-books. Dear Jem only had to say, "Will you marry me, Jean?" and Jean only had to say, "Yes, I will, Jem," and then they could all three live together and be happy ever after.

Dear Jem, however, showed not a ghost of an inclination to do anything of the kind. He was fond of Jean, and he sometimes remarked what a fine-looking useful girl she was; while Jean was delighted to be employed, and seemed to have an unlimited veneration for Jem's opinion on all manner of vexed questions. Yet this by no means proved that Jem wanted to marry Jean, or that Jean would have been willing to marry Jem.

A man seldom chooses his wife for her business capabilities; and a woman may have an enormous respect for the mental and spiritual calibre of a man, whom she could on no account accept for a husband. They jogged on famously together as cousins—or as Rector and female Curate—but tokens of an impending love affair, with a distant view of church-bells and orange-blossoms, simply were not. Jean never blushed; Jem never looked conscious.

Two years and a half in Dutton had established Jem there as a leading man; generally popular because of his charm of manner; though not universally approved, because he could not always think what others thought, or do what others would have dictated. He had, of course, opponents and detractors. Colonel Atherstone looked at him askance; and Colonel Atherstone's little clique cast oblique glances in imitation of their leader. Jem was still not enough of a party-man to be swallowed down, views and all, at one gulp, by any particular party in the Church—High or Low, Evangelical or Broad.

But he was the man in Dutton of all others to whom people appealed in perplexity, and to whom they came in sorrow. His wisdom was found to be just and true, his sympathy unbounded, his readiness to take trouble untirable. Above all, his life was seen to be fair and Christ-like; therefore his influence was widespread and deep. In contact with his free and loving spirit, it even came to pass that the narrow sometimes grew a little less narrow, the bumptious a little less bumptious, the condemnatory a little less condemnatory.

After this long digression—!

"Sure you have not done too much?" asked Jem.

"Not an atom! Though I know who has!"—sotto voce.

Jem ignored the last remark. "Well, but don't go on too long. I'm apt to be hard on my helpers."

"I shouldn't have thought you were ever hard on anybody."

"You think not?"

Jean failed to decipher the look which crept over his face—a tired self-questioning look—a look which she had always associated, and always would associate, with Evelyn Villiers. Jean could never slay this association of ideas. It had begun vaguely in her childhood, had taken definite shape in her girlhood; had survived until now. She no longer counted Jem to be in love with Evelyn. Observation and judgment both told her that he had or must have overcome the old romantic fancy—"if it had only been a fancy!" And the idea of Jem marrying, seldom occurred to her mind.

Still she was conscious of a certain power possessed by Evelyn over Jem's spirits—like the power of greater or less air-pressure on the mercury of a thermometer. Evelyn herself did not know it; but her touch in a moment sent his mercury up or down. When this particular look came, a look of strain and weariness, with indented hollows in cheek and brow, Jean never could resist an instinctive recurrence of thought to Evelyn. Had Evelyn said or done something to worry him?

Aloud Jean said nothing, and Jem went back to his writing, but the effort of work was manifest. Twice there was a renewed break; and she saw his hand steal over the thick hair, already streaked with grey.

"I wish you would give in, and take an hour's rest," she murmured.

"Too much to do! I am behind-hand as it is."

"Jean, dear, I do so like the way you do your hair now," interposed Mrs. Trevelyan, who had been sleepily speculating about "dear Jem's" possible future, and why a particular arrangement might not come to pass.

"Don't you, Jem?"

Jem laughed, and said, "Very neat."

"It shows the shape of her head so nicely. Jean has such a well-shaped head. The bumps are all in good proportion."

Jean's pen went vigorously.

"She has such an amount of veneration. I can't endure a flat head. It always means a small poor conceited nature. Jean's head at the top is like—"

"Like a cupola," suggested Jem.

"Now, my dear Jem!"

"Or an apple-dumpling," said Jean.

"No, indeed! You have veneration—and decision—and perseverance—"

"And a whole lot of quarrelsomeness in the bumps behind my ears."

"Combativeness," corrected Jem.

"I don't see the difference. Oh!—here's an interruption! Come in!"

"Miss Atherstone, sir."

"Jean, you'll undertake the good lady."

"Miss Atherstone asked for you, sir."

"Never mind! I'll go," quoth Jean. "Some stupid meeting, I dare say—or soup-tickets. If you are really wanted, I'll call you. Mother looks half asleep."

Miss Atherstone disapproved of Jem's views, real or supposed, on Church questions; therefore she never called at the Rectory except on business. She met Jean with a solemn air, and received dubiously the excuse of Jem's over-full time.

"Yes—he is a busy man we all know," she assented, looking at the rubbed knuckles of her second-best kid gloves, which she had counted quite good enough for the Rectory.

She wore a puce-coloured silk dress, relegated from long evening wear, a good deal frayed, and not exactly suited to a very cold May day; and her brown bonnet was trimmed with blue cornflowers interspersed among nodding ears of corn, more appropriate for autumn than for spring. Every time she moved her head, those ears bobbed stiffly; and Jean found a fascination in watching for the next bob, distantly akin to the interest with which one watches for the next wave-splash on a sea-beach.

"A very busy person!"—with an accent of pity, as if to imply, "Busy, alas, about what?"

For the Colonel still counted Jem a dangerous young man! And his sister dutifully followed suit.

"Perhaps you could give me a message for him," suggested Jean.

"Thank you—but really—no, it is of no consequence," hesitated Miss Atherstone. "Merely a—merely an idea—Another time, perhaps."

"He will come in a moment, if you wish."

No, Miss Atherstone would not have him called. O no, certainly not. She fidgeted with her twirled glove-ends, always too long for the fat short fingers. And Mrs. Trevelyan was resting in the study—not very strong, she believed. How very useful Miss Trevelyan must be in the house—like an adopted daughter! So delightful to have a home among relations, during her father's absence. And Mr. Trevelyan was quite recovered from his second illness? Dear! How trying that must have been! And he had been for a voyage since to the South Sea Islands, had he not? And he was coming home round the Cape, was he not? Dear! How nice! What a travelled man he would be! They were expected home very soon, she was told—Mr. Trevelyan—and—and—Sir Cyril Devereux with him!

Jean could not in the least have told what it was in the utterance which made her colour deepen. She was not given to blushing; and till this moment she had firmly believed that no human being beyond their two selves knew of the state of affairs between herself and Cyril. Jean had never breathed a word on the subject; and she had no idea of what Cyril had impulsively said to Miss Devereux.

Sybella, being—from her point of view, wisely—desirous to keep the notion a dead secret, had only let it slip to Lady Lucas, and Lady Lucas had only told a dozen other people, always under a strict pledge of secrecy. The tale thus weighted had travelled slowly: still, it had travelled.

A faint whisper of it even reached Jem, and in that direction went no farther. Gossip was apt to fall back, innocuous, from the shield of Mrs. Trevelyan's gentle density; and if the story as expressed in airy undulations, ever pattered on the drums of her ears, it had failed to reach her brain. Nobody had mentioned it to Jean; for people were a little afraid of Jean, unless they knew her well; and the few who did know her well, were the last who would have said anything.

So until now she had been able to speak of Cyril easily and without a blush, because she never supposed anybody to suspect how matters lay. Indeed, Jean herself was by no means sure how things did or would lie. Cyril wrote her constantly and freely; but they always had corresponded from childhood; and Cyril did not use lover-like terms. He had attempted it at first, and Jean had made no response, being determined to leave him free; so he had dropped the attempt. That was now over two years ago; and two years are a long time under the age of twenty-four.

Whatever amount of questioning had gone on below the surface with Jean, she had till this instant shown no consciousness in connection with Cyril. And now, all in a moment, without warning, at the sound of his name, uttered in a tone of peculiar meaning, her cheeks flamed.

Miss Atherstone's sharp little eyes ran all over Jean. "Yes?" she said, and waited, as if most willing to act feminine confessor. "Yes? It has been a long separation!"

"Very long," Jean replied, looking her caller straight in the face, though unable to control her own colouring. "But if my father comes home strong again, I shall not regret the parting."

Miss Atherstone sighed lugubriously—quite à la Sybella.

"And one may hope—" she said. "One may hope—! Travel does improve the mind! At least, people say so. Sir Cyril was so young—painfully young, poor boy, before he went out! One cannot but hope, at least, that his most unfortunate attachment to that little Miss Lucas—a merely passing fancy, no doubt—"

Another wave of colour swept into the first, and Jean was wroth with herself. She sat resolutely upright, her eyes shining with an angry gleam. Was that tale known too? Could nothing ever be hidden in Dutton? But she only said, "Miss Lucas?"

"Oh, I thought you were sure to have heard! And, after all, it might be a mistake. Some have said that he was engaged all the time—elsewhere!" significantly. "Pray do not be annoyed, Miss Trevelyan. I sincerely hope it may be untrue. No one could wish such a connection for Sir Cyril! So very objectionable! I merely allude to what everybody remarked—the way he haunted that house for weeks. But probably, poor youth, he became aware of his danger, and wisely fled from it. If only it has not been an exchange for something worse!"

Had Miss Atherstone an object in saying all this? Was she seeking to discover the state of Jean's feelings towards Cyril? Had she been sent by Miss Devereux? Was she stupid or was she wicked? Jean put these questions silently, in girlish indignation, while saying aloud, "I think 'everybody' would be better occupied in attending to their own concerns. One gets out of patience with Dutton gossip."

It was Miss Atherstone's turn to be angry, and the ears of corn oscillated as if stirred by a gale.

"I am not accustomed, I must say, to having a friendly interest in others' welfare called by so harsh a name," she said, caressing again her untidy finger-tips.

"But, after all, it is of no consequence! One must submit, in this world, to be misunderstood! It is one of the trials of life! . . . As you imply, Sir Cyril's movements do not concern us! He is quite at liberty to get himself engaged out there, if he chooses—to a squatter's daughter! Or a bushman's! It really concerns nobody—except his poor excellent worthy aunt! And I am sure Miss Devereux had had little enough of comfort in her nephew! Such devotion to him—and such a poor return! Such ingratitude! She has had a succession of troubles. If she were not so truly good as she is, she must have sunk beneath them . . . And this will be only one trial more. One burden added! She will be resigned. Dear Miss Devereux is always so sweetly resigned. As I tell her, it is quite a lesson . . . But to have to make way for, such a successor! A mere Colonial young lady! Oh, I believe the family is not bad. Not bushrangers!—" with a solemn attempt at a joke.

"And the girl herself is pretty. In the style of Miss Lucas—small, and dark eyes! Still—a Colonial family! One does not expect that, for Sir Cyril Devereux! And his beloved aunt allowed no choice—no opinion—after her years of devotion to him!"

Jean's colour did not deepen further; nor did it fade too fast.

"How soon are they going to be married?" she asked.

"I am not sure that the date is settled," said Miss Atherstone, her eyes running over Jean again. "In fact, the engagement is still something of a secret."

"A Dutton secret, I suppose!"

The satire was lost upon Miss Atherstone. "Not Dutton," she said. "A friend of mine has a sister out in Melbourne."

"I see. So it is on the very best authority. And you came to tell us the news as soon as you heard. How kind!"

"Sir Cyril will no doubt make the matter known when he reaches England."

"No doubt. But I don't see why he should not wait to marry her, and bring her home."

"If he has started—"

"We do not know that he has. The last letter spoke of probably taking their passage—and since then there has been a gap in our correspondence. We have been rather puzzled; but this explains all," said Jean, with the utmost composure. "Sir Cyril has most likely settled at the last moment to stay behind and be married. And in that case my father would, I fancy, come home by Suez. Why, he might arrive any day!"

"Well, I can see that you will not omit to give a welcome to the bride of your old playfellow," said Miss Atherstone, with a touch of something like spite, because she was conscious of failure. She found her feet awkwardly, as she spoke.

"No, indeed! We shall have to make a big arch of welcome at the Brow entrance."

Jean rang the bell, tranquilly shook hands, and smiled Miss Atherstone out of the room. Then she stood still—to think.

"It may be true!" she pronounced slowly, half aloud. "Not sure! But not impossible. How can one tell? Why should he not? We are perfectly free—both of us! I have taken care of that. And I have always said I would not blame him—if—"

She did not finish the sentence, but pulled herself together, and went to the study.

"Nothing important?" asked Jem. "Why, Jean!—I could almost think you had been in a passion. Pardon the idea."

"I think I have. She didn't come on business, really—only to talk gossip. I can't imagine how she had the face to ask for you; but, of course, she would have made some excuse for doing it, if you had appeared. Mother asleep, I see."

Jean fell fiercely to work over the addresses, trying to smother thought in action. There was a sore consciousness, deep down, that if this tale proved to be true, life would look very blank. She had thought herself prepared for anything—but somehow—That "somehow" meant a good deal.

For a while only the soft scratching of rival pens could be heard. Then Jem asked—

"Can you go to the Park to-day?"

"This afternoon? Does Evelyn want me?"

"She would like a call after tea. I met her before lunch."

"Miss Moggridge will be out then, I suppose. I would rather have got all this done. But if I ought—"

"I should like you to go."

"Nothing wrong with Evelyn?"

A pause; and then, in hushed tones—

"She does not look well, or happy. This is for yourself only. You might be some help."

"I don't see how. Why doesn't she go to you for advice?"

The question had no answer.

"I'll do as you wish, of course. But it will only be 'Miss Moggridge' again. She doesn't suit Evelyn; and nothing can make them suit . . . After all, if they were apart, would Evelyn be happier? Evelyn has always had her pet worry ever since I can remember. First it was Miss Devereux; and then the General; and then losing him; and now Miss Moggridge. If it were not Miss Moggridge, I suppose it would be something or somebody else . . . Jem, you do look tired this afternoon! What is the reason? Has Evelyn said anything to worry you?"

Jem's "Nonsense!" had an unwontedly brusque sound.

Jean was off her balance, or she would not have made the suggestion.

"I should not be surprised! I don't mean anything unkind. Nobody loves Evelyn more than I do—but that is the very reason! I mean, when she looks so sweet and sad, and those great eyes are just like a wounded collie's begging for pity—Oh, I'm every inch as absurd as anybody can be. I forget all she has in life to make her happy; and it gives me a heartache for hours after. I believe it gives you the same—or a headache," added Jean prudently, wondering why she had said so much. "I wish Evelyn had to be busy; not so much time to sit and dream."

"If you go after tea, I will call an hour later to walk home with you."

"Yes, do. That will be nice. I hear the tea going into the drawing-room. Oh—another interruption!"

This time Captain Lucas was shown into the study. He had become a frequent visitor there, and Jem's strengthening uplifting influence had worked wonders with the man. Not only had he fought through more than two years without another breakdown; but the very fight had become easier, the craving less keen and more controllable. Jem kept him employed in many ways, found him new interests and pleasures, and exercised, busy as he was, a constant watchfulness, which gave invaluable help to the wife and daughter.

Jean was often at the red house, Emmie often at the Rectory; and something of a friendship had sprung up between the two girls, affectionate on the part of Jean, unlimited in admiration on the part of Emmie.

Captain Lucas looked serious and troubled. "I want a word with you, presently," he said to Jem; but he consented to take tea first with the ladies.

Then the two gentlemen retired to the study, and Jean sped away to the Park.