Chapter III: If It Were True?

"All pain must be to work some good in the end."
R. BROWNING.

"JEAN, are you getting tired of Rouen?"

"After four days in the place? No—why should I?"

"People don't always wait for a particular reason. It is rather stupid for you here. If I could go about more—"

"Well, yes—if you had a little more strength than a wren! When we get home, I shall put you into Dr. Ingram's hands."

"No use. There are—some things—which a doctor can't touch. What if I don't go home at all at present?"

"Rouen has not done you such an amount of good that you need wish to stay. I don't believe there is anything very wrong—only you are weak, and you want building up. I think you fret about people too much."

"My dear, you always were the personification of wisdom! Now pull the shawl over my feet, and run down to the coffee-room for a change. That nice old Mrs. Newnham is sure to be there. If not, you must come back. You might even arrange for a walk with her daughter. No, I cannot have you wandering about alone. You are not so elderly as you think: and this is not Dulveriford."

Jean arranged the shawl, and vanished. They had a little private sitting-room: though, for Jean's sake, Evelyn had chosen to dine at the table d'hôte, where they had formed a slight acquaintance with one old lady. Jean found her, as Evelyn had expected, but the daughter was already gone out, and Mrs. Newnham was no walker. So she resigned herself to the inevitable, and after a short chat, sat down at a table near one of the windows.

She could there amuse herself with a pile of papers and serials, or study French manners in the quaint street. Intrinsically, a Frenchman is diverse from an Englishman: and he always looks different—even in his mode of getting along a pavement. The gait and air of the one can hardly be mistaken for those of the other. Jean sometimes tried to analyse the difference, and found it difficult. Not even a waxed moustache, a sallow skin, and a pair of mobile shoulders, will turn an Englishman into a Frenchman. The distinction is more subtle in kind.

"And so much the better!" cogitated Jean, who, like most of her countrywomen, are apt to find everything abroad a little inferior to its counterpart at home.

She turned over a pile of newspapers, her mind running on the continued cessation of letters from the absentees, and reverting with a troublesome persistence to the report about Cyril. Jean could not put that story aside. It remained as an ever-present consciousness; not mastering her moods, for she was equably cheerful; but never out of sight.

Lilias Mackenzie! A pretty name: and a pretty girl. Dark-eyed and small, like Emmie Lucas! Well: why not? He might do worse. It was true that she had heard Cyril express a particular admiration for dark eyes—to Jean herself, whose eyes were not dark, but pale brown with spokes of green. He had made the remark at the Academy, when looking at some black-orbed dame on canvas.

Then she recalled her last parting with Cyril: the prolonged pressure of her hand: the expression of his face! More than that, the evening interview not long before, when he had resolutely declared that he never could or would marry anyone but Jean. Would he not? How much were such assertions worth? Time alone could show . . . Jean remembered how he had since devoted himself to the care of her father; how he had nursed the sick man like a daughter; how he had taken Mr. Trevelyan at his own cost for a trip to the South Sea Islands; how he had written to her, constantly and fully, week by week; how he had done or appeared to do all in his power to prove himself worthy of her confidence. And now, at the first break in their correspondence, at the first breath of gossip, Jean's trust threatened to fail.

"But it shall not," she said firmly to herself. "He deserves something better. I will not doubt him, till I have real reason."

The old lady, watching from a distance, wondered what had brought so fair a glow to the girl's singular eyes. She was greatly interested in Jean. Jean, unconscious of being observed, and forgetful of another's presence, drew from her pocket a letter always carried here—the first received from her father, after his long illness in Melbourne. In it, he told briefly what Cyril had been to him through that trying time.

"I have not really known the boy till now," he wrote; "yet I thought I did—after all these months together. Jean herself could hardly have done more. I have never been allowed to want a thing. It was no use to suggest his leaving me more to the nurse, and taking his pleasure. She was no great shakes, certainly, and Cyril did not trust her. He was with me most of the day, and often at night; and if I remonstrated, his answer was, 'For Jean's sake!' Strange to say, he, never seemed overdone. Womanly gentleness is beautiful, but when conjoined with manly strength, it is past praise. He is growing into a fine fellow—a thorough man, body and mind."

This was not quite the Cyril of Jean's knowledge—the coddled pet of Sybella, ready always to take care of himself.

"But Jem has often said there was more in Cyril than appeared. It is not fair to doubt him, without full proof—and I will not!" she repeated resolutely.

The glow of renewed confidence lent at once a different aspect to life.

Turning over another sheet, she came on a copy of the English "Times."

"Days old! Quite ancient! The very morning we left. I remember—the papers were late that day, and I did not see them before we started."

Jean skimmed column after column, to pass the time: her brain still busy in its back regions with Cyril.

"They will soon reach home now, if they really are off in the 'Spanish Gipsy.' A few weeks, I suppose—six or seven. Not likely that they should change, after once making up their minds; unless that story were true. But I will not believe it, until I know. If we should hear that they have actually started, then I shall be sure it is false. Cyril would never think of such a voyage—without need—if he were just engaged. My father could as well come home alone . . . The only thing is that fancy for Emmie Lucas! Otherwise I could laugh at the tale. Well—Emmie is heart-whole! That is one comfort. No harm done there."

Jean had an abrupt singular consciousness of receiving a blow. It might almost have been an actual physical blow, judged by sensation. Thought was scattered; and a grey haze descended on all around, coming like the fall of dusk. She sat motionless, gazing at the paper; hardly feeling; certainly not reasoning. The heavy blow came first, numbing her faculties, before the actual sense of those terrible words seemed to reach her understanding.

"LOSS OF THE 'SPANISH GIPSY!'"

The haze grew blacker, then partly cleared: and Jean read on:

"LOSS OF THE 'SPANISH GIPSY,' WITH ALL ON BOARD."

Not one saved! So much was clear. Jean's mind refused to grasp any further particulars. She was dazed with the shock, and could only watch fixedly, like a fascinated creature, the convolutions of the neat black letter-press, which took strange forms before her eyes, one shape dissolving into another, after the mode of kaleidoscope figures. Then she was far away from Rouen, out in the open sea; and great waves arose, dashing wildly; and there were men, struggling, sinking—and Cyril's face, a blanched dead face, below the cruel breakers.

"I hope nothing is wrong, Miss Trevelyan! No ill news?"

Mrs. Newnham's question broke into Jean's vision, and with a strong effort she recalled herself, looked up, and answered quietly—

"The loss of the 'Spanish Gipsy.'"

"Ah, yes, to be sure—on the way home from Australia. Very shocking, was it not? Poor things! I hope no friends of yours happened to be on board."

Jean was silent.

"Such a sad event! And I dare say many of them had been out for years. After a bad storm, was it not?"

"I—don't know."

"Yes; that was it. I remember. There have been so many casualties lately; but I remember. Another ship, the 'Shannon,' had been signalled, and was coming to their help, because the 'Spanish Gipsy' had been so much disabled. And all at once, it was seen to capsize and go down. Not a moment's warning, and not a person saved. The 'Shannon' was too far-off to get to the spot in time—though it does seem strange that none of the sailors should have been able to keep afloat. Those things do happen sometimes: but it is really very dreadful—quite terrible."

Jean could not talk of the horror which had fallen upon her. And the pitter-patter of conventional pity, looking blandly on from a comfortable distance, was only a degree less insupportable than the pitter-patter of conventional condolence would be.

She went back to the brief awful paragraph, which might mean so much to her. If they had started in the "Spanish Gipsy!" It all hinged there. One hand was put up to shield her face: and Mrs. Newnham, taking the hint, sank into silence.

Did the others know of this? Was it for this that Evelyn had hurried her away?

"So kindly meant! But what use?" she asked despairingly. "Nothing can undo it! And how can I bear to be here—out of reach? How can Evelyn bear it? If news were to come—But she will not wish to stay now—now I know it."

Jean passed quickly out of the room, sending no glance towards the old lady, whose very existence she had forgotten, and hastened upstairs. Entering the room, she found herself face to face with—Jem!

Jean showed no surprise, and forgot to shake hands. It seemed perfectly natural that Jem should be there. She came near, without a word, not knowing how altered was her own look. A quick interchange of glances passed between the other two. It was evident to both of them that Jean had some idea of the truth. Evelyn, much distressed, laid her hands on Jean's, which were rigid as iron.

"Mr. Trevelyan has so kindly come, dear," she faltered, "to—to see—if we—"

"No, no! To tell us—" urged Jean hoarsely. "To tell us—"

"Yes: to tell us just a little more. You are right. Dear Jean, we have tried to keep it from you, till we could be sure—and we are not really sure yet. But I am afraid—Have you guessed anything?"

"Not guessed! A paper—downstairs—" Jean had difficulty in saying the words. Her throat seemed to close with the effort; and she waited impatiently for them to speak.

"What did the paper say?" Jem was uncertain still how much she understood. "Something about the 'Spanish Gipsy?'"

"I know! I know! Gone down! And they—they—they—" She turned on him a face of agony.

"Tell her!" begged Evelyn, bursting into tears. "O tell her quickly."

"We cannot be absolutely certain of anything yet," Jem said, in his quietest manner. "I want you to understand this—not to be sure, until we really know. Still, I am afraid things do look bad. I sent a telegram to Melbourne the day you came away, asking whether or no they had started, and the answer has been unaccountably delayed. It ought to have arrived in a few hours, and I did not get it till this morning. But—"

"Yes! Yes! But—!" repeated Jean hoarsely. "Go on!"

"It is very short—only two words, and no particulars given. 'Both off!'—that is all it says. Whether by long sea or by Suez we cannot tell. There is no mention of the 'Spanish Gipsy.' I am disappointed to hear so little, and I have sent a second telegram asking for more information. It ought to come quickly—but meantime I hardly felt that it would be right to delay telling you—or at least Mrs. Villiers—what I had heard. So I came away at once. If only I could have brought something better!"

"Both! Both at once! Oh, it can't be! Not both!"

Evelyn's sobs were distressing: but Jean shed no tears. She looked bewildered.

"Impossible! Not both! Evelyn, don't cry so! What is the good? They will come home. It couldn't be—both of them!" Then to Jem—"We must go back at once. I can't stay here. You will take us—will you not? We could reach Dieppe in time—for the night-boat, I mean. I'll help Anderson. Evelyn needn't touch a thing. Only please not to stay here. Evelyn dear, don't let us."

She wrung her hands together, with a strange forlorn gesture, unlike Jean.

"Don't talk to me—about that, I mean! Don't pity me! We must not stop to think of anything—only just get off—and then—I don't want water, Jem! What is that for? You don't suppose I'm hysterical, do you? But I'll drink some, if you like. It doesn't matter. I only want to get away as fast—as fast as possible. And then—Evelyn, do, do stop crying! I don't know how to bear it. And what is the use? They must come home! It couldn't be—both of them! Don't hold me, please. I want to go."

"One word first! Jean, listen to me. The Mrs. Parkinson who wrote last week about Cyril being engaged, has written again; and now she contradicts that—says it is untrue!"

Jean's face relaxed its rigidity.

"She did mean Lilias Mackenzie—and Lilias Mackenzie is engaged to somebody else. Mrs. Parkinson saw Cyril, and she says he was all impatience to get home—so eager to be off."

"Poor Cyril!" whispered Jean, every feature quivering.

"He was true to you—I am sure he was."

"He—is true!"

Jean disengaged herself, stooped to kiss Evelyn, and was gone.

Half-an-hour later she reappeared, almost her usual self; only with reddened eyes and strained look; still urgently entreating to start immediately. For almost the first time in her life, she forgot to think of others, under the pull of this intense desire. Evelyn made no difficulties; and Jem believed that to be on the move might be best for both of them. As Jean had said, they could reach Dieppe in time for the night-packet, which did not start till after one o'clock in the morning.