Chapter V: Succeeding Calm

"She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd:
She's a woman, and therefore to be won."
SHAKESPEARE.

THE dreaded peril did not develop into fact. Those massive loose floats, made of steel and weighing between two and three tons, though they struck heavily, with a frightful crash, against the framework, did little injury to the side of the vessel. The steamer drew gradually away from the threatening line of breakers; and thenceforward the worst was over. So often the thing which we most fear does not come upon us.

Jem had telegraphed home before starting; and he well knew what his mother's anxiety would be, at this long delay in their arrival; but nothing could be done. Until they should reach port, no word could be sent. They were cut off from communication with the civilised world.

Progress homeward had to be of the most tardy description, since the Captain dared only to use the engines at their slowest rate. It was a matter of snail-like creeping, inch by inch, little more than a mile an hour; and another dreary night had to be lived through by the suffering passengers. Only Evelyn and Jem seemed none the worse—nay, rather, much the better—for their uncomfortable experience.

Jean gazed wonderingly at them both many times in the course of the evening; but she asked no questions, and they would not thrust their new-found joy into her burden of fear and sorrow.

Evelyn could sleep that second night peacefully as a child; but not Jean. She came on deck before breakfast, looking haggard. The wind had changed and gone down; and the sea had grown more still, heaving in sleepy billows, like the tired sighs of a child after a fit of passion.

"How soon do we get in? The engines are stopping again," Jean said, a despairing under-tone audible.

Jem showed a small steamer near at hand. "A tug at last! We shall be all right now. Our little friend will tow us to Newhaven."

"I thought we were to land somewhere else."

"So it was said yesterday; but we go to Newhaven, after all. I am glad for your sake. If a telegram has arrived, it will be sent there to meet us."

"I have had a lesson, at all events, not to be wilful again," said Jean. "If I had not been so bent on getting off—"

"It is nearly over now, I hope. Have you had anything to eat?"

"No. Why won't you let me blame myself?"

"So you shall, if it is a relief. But there is another side to the question. I shall be thankful all my life that we did come."

"By this boat?"

"By this particular boat! If we had not, Evelyn and I might never—"

Jem paused, and Jean repeated—"Evelyn!"

"I may call her so now."

"Then it is that! I almost fancied—and yet—O Jem, I am glad!—Glad somebody is happy! And Cyril would have been so pleased."

"Will be—perhaps. We won't give up hope yet."

"I have not much left. But this—is it real? You mean it!"

"Nothing was ever more real. I don't wonder you ask the question. I keep putting it to myself. All is changed—like a bewildering dream. I didn't know what capacities for happiness I had! . . . Yes, it is real—that she loves me—better than Dutton Park."

"And you will stay in Dutton?"

"I think not. There is no need. We both long for London work; and Evelyn has more of her own than I knew. A legacy of £600 a year was left her lately by the General's brother-in-law. Marriage will not touch that. So we can afford to provide for my mother, if she likes a country home best; and somebody else will be as well fitted as I am to look after the old ladies of Dutton."

Jem could not resist the little flash of fun; but he grew instantly apologetic.

"Forgive me! It must sound so heartless. But if you knew what this is to me—after years of utter hopelessness!"

"I think I do know; and you could never be heartless," Jean answered.

To Evelyn, a little later, she murmured—"So this is what has been the matter with you lately—not poor Miss Moggridge, after all!" and Evelyn offered no protest.

A small tug, with a large steamer in tow, could not be expected to advance rapidly; and the "Bristol" had drifted far out of her course; but the sea being now comparatively smooth, the Captain preferred to make his own port. Passengers, eager to be on land, were disposed to grumble; yet the delay involved was not very great. There was no longer any question of danger; only of patience. People might eat and drink and enjoy themselves, so far as certain physical sensations permitted.

It was growing dusky, when late in the afternoon, they reached the Newhaven harbour. An eager crowd of battered and weather-beaten voyagers pressed across the gangway, anxious to reach firm ground. Evelyn, clinging to Jem's arm, seemed to care little whether she were on deck or on land; and Jem could scarcely turn his mind to aught else beside Evelyn. Still they did not forget Jean, and if she stood apart, she was at once beckoned near.

After crossing the gangway, however, while in the midst of a dense crowd, Jean was forcibly separated from her companions, and hustled backward. She had little spirit to struggle; and though not much liking to find herself alone, she could hardly be called nervous. When able to move forward again, she looked about in vain for Evelyn and Jem. Had they gone on, forgetfully? Jean smiled at the idea; yet a forlorn wave swept over her, not for the first time that day. The contrast between their happiness and what might be in store for herself was almost too painful.

In the growing darkness, and in the throng, she still failed to catch a glimpse of her companions. Jean began to feel uncomfortable.

Then she found somebody by her side—somebody well covered with a large foreign-looking cloak, and wearing a rough-weather cap, pulled low over his eyes. She had a glimpse of a brown-moustached face. And an ungloved hand, well sunburnt, touched her courteously, to draw attention; while an odd gruff voice, not unfamiliar in its intonation, said—

"Pardon me! Miss Trevelyan—? Mr. Trevelyan has gone on, and he desires me to bring you to the hotel."

"Rather curious!" Jean thought; but the manner was unmistakably that of a gentleman, and Jean submitted. "A friend of Jem's!" she conjectured.

"You have had an unpleasant voyage."

"Very," Jean said, with sufficient brevity, as she walked by his side.

"Mr. Trevelyan asked me to inform you that news has come from abroad—good news."

"A telegram!"

"That—and more!"

"My father—and—"

"They did not go in the unfortunate 'Spanish Gipsy.' There was a change of plans just at last. Both are safe and well . . . I think you had better take my arm."

For a moment, Jean was rather near loss of consciousness. Long suspense and want of sleep had told upon her; but with a determined effort she rallied, after her father's fashion.

"Thanks—no need. You are sure—quite sure?"

"Perfectly. There can be no mistake. They did take their passage in the 'Spanish Gipsy;' but soon afterwards, they managed to get off—at some little sacrifice of money. The fact is, Sir Cyril had not patience. He was anxious to get home; and the long voyage meant too much delay. They would not write word of this change, thinking that it would make a pleasant surprise; and they have come straight by Suez."

"Have come! Then they are now—"

"In Newhaven! Waiting for your arrival. Mr. Trevelyan is at the hotel—and Sir Cyril—is—"

The stranger hesitated: paused near a lamp; pushed higher his penthouse of a cap; and said in a different voice—

"Jean, am I so changed?"

"Cyril!!!"

"And so, Mabel, everything is settled, and they are all going to be married as fast as possible, don't you know?" stated Mrs. Kennedy, a few days later, to her usual confidante.

Mabel, having been absent from home, required instruction on the recent course of events.

"I don't know, I'm sure, why they should wait. Sir Cyril has plenty of money; and now that funny Mme. Collier is coming to live again at Dulveriford Rectory, why, nobody can say Jean can't be spared."

"She'll make a splendid Lady Devereux—as nice as any one could wish. As for poor Miss Devereux, why, she must just make up her mind to it. But they say she was as nice as anything when Sir Cyril came home, and cried in his arms, like I don't know what—having been so frightened about him, and all, don't you see? That does soften people sometimes. And, after all, she isn't hard—she's only just Miss Devereux. And she's to have a sweet little house built, and everything done to make her comfortable. So she can't complain."

"Not that we shall have so very much of Sir Cyril and Jean in Dutton. I can see that! They're all agog for London, and East-End work, and no end of philanthropicalness."

"It's wonderful how Sir Cyril is altered. I wouldn't have believed it—after less than two years and a half. Why, he looks positively ten years older, I do declare, Mabel; and he's bigger, and stouter, and regularly burnt brown, and he's grown a moustache, and his voice is deeper too. He's nothing like as pretty as he was. I always did say he was the prettiest boy, with the loveliest manner—but then, of course, he can't be a boy always, don't you know, and he's got nice manners still. You can fancy how he's changed, for Jean herself didn't know him when she first saw him in the dark. But if Jean likes him better so, it's all right; and she says she does."

"As for Mr. Trevelyan, he looks quite young and strong again, and he goes striding about like a great long-legged emu!"

"And we're to lose Mr. James Trevelyan! That seems a shame, and I'm desperately sorry—though to be sure the Colonel does say he's not at all a safe young man, and poor dear Thomas shakes his head. But some people always shake their heads over everybody, don't you know; and there's nobody I'd rather hear preach; only, of course, you mustn't tell Thomas! But it does give one a sort of lift—up out of the mud, you know."

"Mrs. Trevelyan? Oh, she's to spend half the year in London with them—and half the year at the Brow. That's the plan, I'm told. She says she's so glad for 'dear Jem' she always calls him 'Dear Jem,' you know—that she can't think of herself. And Mr. James Trevelyan is all beaming, and Mrs. Villiers looks as young and lovely as she did at sixteen.

"Poor dear creatures! They all think everything is to keep straight after marriage. A sort of comfortable wind-up, don't you see, and nothing ever to go wrong again! Of course, it won't—I mean, of course it will—at least you know what I mean. Things will get crooked just as much as ever, and perhaps a lot more. Why, if nothing else happens, there's a husband to look after, and everybody knows what that means! If they don't, they soon will."

"Of course, they'll be awfully happy, dear, and it all fits in beautifully, and it's just exactly what one wishes. I always did say Mr. James Trevelyan was the right person for Mrs. Villiers; and Sir Cyril has been crazy after Jean ever since he wore knickerbockers. But, all the same, I suppose they'll have their needles and pins, like other folks. Married life isn't just nothing but plum-cake, you know."

Mrs. Kennedy's metaphors were apt to get mixed, but she smiled on in placid unconsciousness of the incongruity.

"Miss Moggridge says it's so wonderful how one event grows out of another; and I suppose it is; only it would be more wonderful still if they didn't. She's a queer sort of woman, Mabel—intellectual and all that!—but she's quite too much for me, don't you know? And she's going to live at Rome."

"So it's all settled; and now there's nothing to be done but to publish the banns, and to get the frocks and veils!"

THE END.

The Gresham Press UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED WOKING AND LONDON