The morning-room which she occupied was better fitted for summer than winter uses. Indian matting covered the floor; Indian drapery clothed the walls; light cane chairs of foreign make were scattered among tables no less fragile. This being June, a fringe of Gloire de Dijon roses peered in at the open French window. Had it been December, the morning-room would have been forsaken.

Sybella Devereux had taken one of the slight chairs, beside one of the flimsy tables. A writing-case was open, and two or three letters were outspread.

Few would have guessed her at first sight to be within a few months of forty. She had lived the sheltered life of many English daughters in easy circumstances—a life of moderate occupation, of small trouble or responsibility. Sybella had taken life as she found it. She was not a woman to carve out a career for herself in the face of circumstances. She counted herself delicate, and liked to be comfortable. If any latent force of character had existed in her originally, circumstances had tended to smother rather than to draw it out.

From babyhood she had been thought of, guarded, cared for, directed, never left to decide for herself. As an arm or leg will wither if tied up and not used, so the power of mental decision had withered in her from lack of exercise.

Years had trickled past in monotonous ease, and her girlhood had lingered long after the lawful stage, "dying hard." It was ample time for Sybella to be settling down into old maidhood; at least according to all laws of fiction. She did not, however, yet count herself to be an old maid.

There were no lines of grey in her hair; and if the cheeks were rather thin, rumpling into suspicious ridges when she smiled, that was only because she had always been "so delicate, you know!" She wore slight mourning for a sister-in-law, the wife of her only brother, who was expected home shortly from India; otherwise she would not have hesitated to sport a white dress with blue ribbons, as suited to the season.

That which marked Sybella as apart from the young ladyhood of the day was not so much any definite look of middle-age; it was rather a certain sentimentality, a self-conscious bashfulness, belonging entirely to a past generation. Girls of sixteen and eighteen growing up around Sybella were twenty times as practical, as independent, as much at their ease, as was she.

Sybella's father, Sir John Devereux, a kind-hearted and placid old gentleman, who, like his daughter, took life much as he found it, had died two years earlier. He left his small property of Ripley Brow, with the Baronetcy, to his son Theodore, a successful Indian civilian, stipulating only that his widowed sister, Mrs. Willoughby, for thirty-five years his companion and stay, should live there during the rest of her life. Theodore offered no objections to this proviso. Until the loss of his own wife broke him down, and destroyed the charm of India, he much preferred to stay there, leaving Ripley Brow to the management of his aunt and sister.

Or, rather, of his aunt. Sybella was the managed, not the manager. The loss of her father made little difference in this respect. She was still hedged round with care. She could still go on with her mild circle of occupations—her attentions to pet plants, her scraps of useless fancy work, her chit-chat calls upon neighbours, her epistolary gushes to bosom friends. The circle of occupations included also futile attempts at painting, fitful readings and copyings of poetry, dilettante dippings into social questions beyond her depth, and through all an unswerving devotion to her own health.

The controlling spirit of the household had ever been that of the stately and fascinating old lady, whose forceful nature was in marked contrast with the indeterminate outlines of Sybella's character. Mrs. Willoughby, far from accepting life as she found it, expected everything to bend to her will. Circumstances, in the shape of yielding parents, an indulgent husband, a devoted and easy brother, a submissive niece, ample means, and hosts of admiring friends, had fostered to excess a naturally wilful tendency. At the age of seventy-eight, Mrs. Willoughby could brook no contradiction. Yet she knew how to make herself ineffably charming.

Sybella was always "the child" to Mrs. Willoughby. Nothing had ever been left in her hands. She had never so much as dreamt of assuming her rightful position in her father's house. Mrs. Willoughby had managed everything. At thirty-nine, Sybella knew as much about housekeeping as an infant. She had never chosen a dress for herself unadvised. She had never written a cheque. She had never glanced into household accounts.

Now, without warning, the vigorous old lady, to whom illness was a thing unknown, had been smitten down by paralysis. The reins of government slid from her firm grasp into the helpless hands of Sybella.

She looked most helpless, seated beside the rickety table of wickerwork. Knowing nothing of real illness, though much used to cosseting of small ailments in her own person, the state of Mrs. Willoughby weighed upon her less than the immediate need for decision upon a hundred minor matters. In a few weeks, no doubt, her aunt would be up and about again. Dr. Ingram had not exactly said so, it is true; but Sybella hardly thought of any other possibility. The pressing question was—how the world could run its course meantime, without Mrs. Willoughby to direct it?

"If only I had some one to tell me what to do!" sighed Sybella. "Just now especially—such an awkward time! A month later it would not have been so bad. Dear Theodore will be at home, and men always know about everything. Till he comes, I really have nobody to turn to. And so many things ought to be arranged."

She drew another plaintive breath, looked towards the bookcase, and felt tempted to solace herself with Mrs. Heman's "Songs of the Affections."

"I suppose I ought not. These letters have to be answered; and I don't in the least know what to say. If there were some one whom I could consult. I am so at a loss where to turn. Mr. Kennedy—I am sure he would do anything in his power. But then he is not exactly businesslike. Dear aunt always says that he is not. Only last week she was so vexed because he forgot to acknowledge that subscription. And yet he is such a good man; and he does preach such beautiful comforting sermons! Still I am afraid he might not know what to advise about the lawyer's letter, and that is what I need most. Besides, dear aunt never quite likes Mrs. Kennedy. I am sure she would be vexed if any of our private affairs came before her. And Mr. Kennedy is so forgetful, poor dear man! He might repeat things to his wife—men so often do. That is the worst of being married."

Sybella twiddled her ivory pen-handle in an aimless way, as she reviewed the situation.

"Then there is Mr. Trevelyan. If only he were a different sort of man! It would seem so natural to turn to him—living in his Parish. Quite impossible, of course—dear aunt disapproving of his views as she does. And if there is one man I do dislike more than any other, it is Mr. Trevelyan! That manner is so unbearable. Of course, not going to his Church, one could not very well ask his help, even if dear aunt would approve. We have kept well aloof from the Trevelyans till now—happily. Besides, even if there were no other objections, he is a widower."

A blush mantled in Miss Devereux' cheeks.

"One has to be careful, especially in a place like Dulveriford. Everything is so talked about. People might say—but, of course, Mr. Trevelyan is out of the question . . . Then there is Dr. Ingram. He will come in presently, and I might get his advice—perhaps—but I am not sure. He is such a new acquaintance—and then he is so shy! If only our dear old Dr. Symonds were here, he would do anything in the world for me. Dr. Ingram is different. They say he is much cleverer than Dr. Symonds; but I can't quite make him out. One does not feel at one's ease with him, somehow. I should think he could be sarcastic. Besides, he is a widower too. So, of course, I have to be careful. It is extraordinary, the number of widowers in this neighbourhood—and rather tiresome! I do think clergymen and doctors ought not to be unmarried, for the sake of other people. It makes things so uncomfortable."

Sybella, leant her cheek pensively on her hand. She was given to attitudinising in a mild fashion. A tap, twice repeated, was unheard; and the door opened.

"If you please, Miss—"

"Pearce! Yes; do you want anything?"

"General Villiers desires to see you, Miss."

Sybella started up in a flutter.

"General Villiers! Not from India! My brother's friend! Impossible! It must be somebody else. General Villiers would never have left Sir Theodore to come by an earlier mail; unless, indeed, they have come together. Sir Theodore there too? No! But you are sure it is General Villiers, of Dutton Park?"

Pearce signified that there could be no mistake. He was an old retainer. General Villiers was well known to him, not only as Sir Theodore's intimate friend, but as the present owner of Dutton Park, a neighbouring property. The estate had been left to General Villiers some two years earlier by an aged relative, and he had not yet been home to inspect it. He was expected to arrive three weeks later, with Sir Theodore and little Cyril.

"I don't understand. It is so strange," Sybella went on excitedly. "If my dear aunt—" and there was an unhappy recollection that she must act for herself. "Perhaps I had better see him in here," she said uncertainly.

"Yes, Miss!" and Pearce vanished.

A soldierly man entered, tall, upright as a dart, and slender still, despite his more than fifty-five summers. He had bronzed handsome features, and his hair was variegated with gray. Close behind walked a small boy, white-faced and pretty.

Miss Devereux had not seen the General for fifteen years. She came forward in a hesitating manner, to be met by a courtly bow and warm hand-clasp.

"I am grieved to hear of Mrs. Willoughby's illness. Pardon my intrusion at such a time. Unhappily there is reason," the General said in a deep, moved voice.

"Yes; oh, pray take a chair." Miss Devereux glanced round in search of a support not too ethereal for six feet two of human length. The General relieved her anxiety by depositing himself with care upon a fragile construction of cane. Fortunately he was not stout.

"If my dear aunt were here, she would—" Miss Devereux began, and paused. "Yes, she is ill. I hope and trust she will soon be better. Dr. Ingram seems to think—"

Another break. Sybella's lack of decision often showed itself in unfinished sentences. Her words ran ahead of her ideas, and had to be pulled up.

"Not Dr. Symonds?"

"No. Dr. Symonds retired lately. He has left Dulveriford. Everybody was so sorry to lose him. Dr. Ingram is a very clever man. They say he is too clever for the country, and he only came on account of his wife's health; and, poor thing, she died soon after. But we don't know him well yet. And perhaps—"

Ideas failing anew, her eyes fell upon the boy, standing shyly close to the General's knee.

"Is that a nephew of yours?"

"I have no nephews. He has been in my charge." The General spoke solemnly, an underground rumble echoing in his deep-toned voice. There is always something impressive in a voice of that description; and it is particularly well adapted for the carrying of bad news.

"I see. How kind! But you bring me news of my brother? Dearest Theodore!" she ejaculated, clasping her hands. Sybella could not help an occasional air of sentimentality. It was natural to her; or, if acquired, it had become second nature.

"Yes—"

"He is—I suppose we are to expect him by the date he named. How unfortunate that you had to come first!"

No reply.

"I am so looking forward to his arrival. More than words can express! Dear Theodore!" sighed Miss Devereux. "Ten long years since I saw him last! Will he be much changed?"

The General muttered something incoherent under his moustache.

Miss Devereux unclasped her hands, and clasped them anew.

"If only dear Theodore could have resolved to come home a year or two earlier! I never could think why he would not. Keeping that poor little Cyril out all this time—it really has been reckless. Nearly ten years old! Enough to ruin the child's constitution."

"Particularly healthy station," murmured General Villiers.

"Yes, but the native surroundings—I have always heard that the evil was so great—"

"It has been guarded against."

The boy pressed closer to the General's knee, his tiny hand stealing into the veteran's brown fingers.

"They would do all they could, of course. But since poor Olave's death, how could Theodore have time?—A busy civilian, you know. I am afraid it has been a mistake. And dear Evelyn all these years at school, never seeing her parents or brother! Ten years' separation! It cannot be right! Yes, she spent her holidays here—at first, always. She has had a great many invitations of late from schoolfellows, which she seemed to prefer. My dear aunt has been pained, but Evelyn asked her father's consent. I have not seen the dear girl now for eighteen months. Last summer, she went abroad with friends, and last Christmas she had German measles, so my dear aunt was afraid of the infection for me."

This had no ludicrous sound for Sybella's ears. Though close upon forty, she was so used still to being cared for as if she were a maiden in her teens, so used to have her health counted a prime consideration, that the statement came as a matter of course.

If the General had been less sad, he might have found it hard to restrain a smile.

"It will be all right now, however—now that our dear Theodore is coming home, I shall be so glad to have his advice and help. My dear aunt has always seen to everything, and I am so inexperienced."

"Could I help you?" asked the General. He had something to say which he did not know how to say. With the moral cowardice of many a physically brave man, he was willing to put off the evil moment.

"Would you not mind?" Sybella hesitated, recollecting that here was another widower. But he had come to her; she would not have to go to him; and he was an old family friend.

"Would you really not mind? There is a letter from my brother's lawyer which I cannot understand. Something about investments. He uses such odd phrases. And a cheque has come, which I sent to the Bank, and they would not change it. They said it was not endorsed. Pearce says that means writing one's name at the back. I have had to do it before, but I never can remember if I ought to write across or lengthways, and at which end."

General Villiers solved this knotty point, and glanced at the lawyer's letter.

"Nothing of importance," he said. "I will explain it by-and-by. I must not delay longer—speaking. I have brought you sad news."

Sybella looked inquiring. General Villiers drew the child forward.

"Can you see no likeness?"

The boy turned his face towards her—a fragile colourless face, with violet eyes so dark as to be almost black, and a mass of brown hair curling thickly over the little head.

"Sweet child!" murmured Sybella. Then, with a start, "Yes, I do see! Surely! He is like poor Olave—strangely like. Hers was such uncommon beauty. Dear little boy. He must be a nephew—but Olave had no brothers or sisters. You don't mean—it can't be that he—"

"Cyril, kiss your aunt."

Cyril crossed the short space between, and flung his arms around Miss Devereux with a short sob, as if his heart were full.

"My dear boy! You sweet child!" exclaimed Sybella, embracing him with effusion. "Then this is our precious Cyril, and Theodore has come home. Why has he stayed behind? Is he not well? Tired with travelling? Cyril, my pet, don't cry. Oh, pray don't. Is he hungry? What can I get for him? Some seed-cake? Dear little boy! Why, Cyril, who would ever guess you to be more than seven years old? Such a tiny mite!"

The child pressed his face into her shoulder, and General Villiers spoke slowly—

"Your brother was breaking down fast. The doctors said our only hope was to get him away at once. It made no difference to me, for I was waiting to come with him. He would not let me telegraph word of our changed plans, for his wish was to surprise you."

"And—" Sybella said.

"For a day or two on board, he seemed to rally, but it did not last."

"And—" repeated Sybella.

The General bent his head.

"This is now Sir Cyril Devereux!" he said.

[CHAPTER II.]

TAKING SHAPE.

"Follow light and do the right—for man can half control his doom—
Till you find the deathless angel, seated in the vacant tomb."
TENNYSON.

JEAN TREVELYAN stood at the gate of the Rectory kitchen-garden, gazing down the lane.

She was an only child, about nine years old, of tall and slim make, with a straight back and a well-balanced head. The face was oval, but too thin for prettiness; indeed, nobody called Jean pretty. She had a pale complexion, light hair cut short like a boy's, and odd greenish-brown eyes, in sunshine yellowish like a topaz, and capable of expression to any degree. Jean wore a loose brown holland frock, and held in one hand a brown hat, round the crown of which a brown ribbon was tied. Simplicity could not further go.

"Oswald!" she cried.

No answer came.

Jean waited patiently for some seconds, a hungry look in her eyes. Then she called again:

"Oswald! Os-wald! I'm here!"

A figure emerged from the gooseberry bushes, where it had been stooping out of sight.

"What are you making that noise for, Jean?"

"I want Oswald, aunt Marie."

"Well, you must have patience. He will come in good time."

The tone was not unkind; it was only indifferent. Mrs. or Madame Collier was not a person to enter into a child's desires.

Jean had no mother. She could barely remember her mother. Mrs. Collier, the widowed sister of Mr. Trevelyan, had lived there almost as far back as Jean's memory could reach, keeping house for her brother, precisely as old Mrs. Willoughby had lived with old Sir John Devereux, keeping house for him since Sybella's infancy. Sybella's complaints of many widowers in the neighbourhood was not without foundation.

Mrs. Collier's real name was Maria. Having married a Frenchman—in virtue of which she was still known as Madame Collier—and having spent her married life abroad, she preferred to be called 'Marie.' She was perhaps some five years older than Sybella, with the air of twenty years' seniority. She was angular in make, with high cheek-bones, marked feature, iron-grey hair, and permanent sunburn. Moreover, she wore caps indoors and old fashioned bonnets out of doors. She could occasionally appear en grande tenue; yet her usual attire was a very embodiment of plainness. At this moment, she had on a rusty black alpaca, frayed at the edges; a big crochet shawl, secured in front by a skewer-like pin; and an enormous garden hat of untrimmed straw, reminiscence of foreign life.

Marie Collier had been tossed early upon her own feet, and forced to stand alone, if she would stand at all. This was bracing, to begin with! Probably she could never, under any conditions, have been turned into a helpless young (?) lady of thirty-nine, unable to endorse a cheque, but no doubt a somewhat different creature might under differing influences have emerged from the chrysalis stage of existence.

The Trevelyan nature was one which needed softening, since it stiffened easily; and softening influences had not in her case been abundant. Both her early life and her married life had been to a great extent hardening.

In some measure the same conditions surrounded the little Jean. There were barriers of repression, of non-comprehension, of outward coldness, fencing her in. But Jean was an Ingram as well as a Trevelyan. She had inherited from the two families a jumble of opposite characteristics. There was all the Trevelyan pride, with any amount of Ingram tenderness. There was the Trevelyan reserve, with the Ingram craving for sympathy. There was the Trevelyan hauteur, with the Ingram shyness. There was the Trevelyan disdain, with the Ingram susceptibility. There was all the force of the Trevelyan will, and with that there were odd touches of the Ingram readiness to yield.

Here was the rough ore of the nature, out of which the future character had to be formed. The main question was—which of the opposing elements would be fostered, which would be crushed or starved out of existence? A child of nine has begun to take shape, but the materials are soft, and malleable by a touch.

Jean did not call again, after her aunt's rebuke. She stood and watched with craving eyes, into which a look of loneliness had crept. Jean was always lonely when not with her brother Oswald. She loved Oswald with an absorbing devotion.

He had rushed away, "promising faithfully" to return in five minutes for a game of bowls. The five minutes were long past, and he had not come. Lesson-time was drawing near. In forty minutes Madame Collier, with inexorable punctuality, would summon Jean to the dingy schoolroom, where she daily spent five hours of misery. These were the first days of Oswald's midsummer holidays—old style, meaning real midsummer;—but Jean, learning at home, was not supposed to need holidays.

"Marie!" another voice called: a man's voice now.

"Yes," Madame Collier answered. She straightened herself a second time, and looked towards the house, flushed with stooping.

A gentleman came down the path with vigorous strides. He was of medium height and muscular in build, having strongly marked features. Permanent indentations stamped the brow, and the wide mouth closed habitually into a straight line; while the manner was prompt and resolute. His dress was severely clerical; the coat long.

"Marie, I want a word with you." He did not observe the motionless figure of his little daughter, and Jean was wrapped up in her patient watch. "Bad news from The Brow."

Dulveriford commonly spoke of Sybella's home as "The Brow" rather than by its full name of "Ripley Brow." The curtailment saved trouble.

Madame Collier forgot Jean, or she would have sent the child out of hearing. It was a principle with that excellent lady that children should never hear aught beyond what directly concerns themselves.

"Bad news!" she repeated, grasping with both hands her basket of gooseberries. "Mrs. Willoughby worse?"

"Not materially. I suppose it to be merely a question of weeks with her; but I do not know that she is worse to-day than yesterday. The news is from abroad. Sir Theodore is dead!"

"You don't say so! Dear me!" Madame Collier adjusted the big white skewer in her shawl, thereby showing that her feelings were not deeply stirred. "Dear, how unfortunate! But I never liked the accounts of his state."

"General Villiers arrived yesterday, bringing the boy."

"Well—!" in a tone of consent to what could not be helped. "I suppose the General will be the children's guardian."

"No. That is the strange part of the matter—General Villiers is one of the trustees. Miss Devereux is sole guardian—"

Madame Collier's eyes grew round. She set her gooseberry basket down and held up two hands, as if speech failed her.

"Sole guardian to both children. I believe her brother expressed a wish, when dying, that she would appeal to General Villiers for advice."

"She will need advice from somebody! Of all incompetent women—! Well—! I should as soon have expected—!"

"Sir Theodore has always been fond of his sister. He used to say there was plenty of natural capacity, if only it had opportunity to develop."

"Too late now! When a woman is going on for fifty, she can't be remade."

"Miss Devereux is a good way off from fifty."

"O, I know!" with a shrug of her angular shoulders. "Juvenile bonnets and ribbons can't throw dust in my eyes! You men are so easily taken in."

Madame Collier's glance fell on Jean, with a twinge of vexation at having said so much, and of consequent displeasure at Jean's presence.

"What are you doing there, Jean? Wasting your time!"

"I'm waiting for Oswald."

"Where is Oswald?" demanded Mr. Trevelyan.

"I don't know, father."

"Then why wait?" Mr. Trevelyan's manner was not stern; it was only repressed and repressing. His eyes surveyed her gravely. He might be a most affectionate father—anybody may be anything below the surface!—but the affection was not allowed to appear.

"He said he would come for a game of bowls—presently." Jean carefully abstained from saying "in five minutes," for that would have meant blame to Oswald.

"Go and find him. Don't dawdle about doing nothing."

Jean made an effort at resistance. "I don't know where he is."

"Go and see."

Jean obeyed with a heavy heart. Whichever way she went, Oswald was as likely as not to have taken the opposite road; and while she was absent, he would return to the gate. The one chance of seeing him was to wait there, and that chance was denied her. It was a small disappointment, yet a very real trouble to Jean.

Mr. Trevelyan's word was law, however. Nobody ever thought of evading it; and Jean dared not explain her trouble, for fear of an inquiry into the strict terms of their arrangement.

"I do wonder where Oswald can be," she said sorrowfully.

Jean was too honest, as well as too obedient, to linger about within view of the gate while out of her father's sight. After walking down the lane, however, she climbed a grass bank, whence she could obtain a glimpse of the spot where her hopes were centred. No signs of Oswald!

The most likely place would be down by the river. Devotion to water, indigenous in the English boy, was a marked characteristic of Oswald.

Jean made her way thither by the shortest route, which meant at the last a steep descent. Somewhat higher up, the stream flowed between rocky and overhanging strata, but here the banks were wide apart, leaving space for the water to spread itself out, rippling in a shallow flow over a floor of golden sand.

Evenly placed lay the stepping-stones, square and large, reaching to the other side. Except in occasional flood-times, an easy mode of crossing was provided thereby. Jean thought so little of running over, that she would have done it in the dark, if required, without a moment's hesitation.

A glimpse of the narrowing banks above could be obtained from the stepping-stone level. This Ripley Gorge, locally known as "The V-Gorge," was counted worth seeing by many who were conversant with Swiss scenery. One arm of the V began not far from the stepping-stones; and near the point of the V was the heaved-up rock promontory—like a coast-headland, only no sea washed its base—popularly called "The Brow."

The small Devereux property, bounded on one side by this precipice, had from it and The Gorge combined the title of "Ripley Brow;" and village colloquialism had rendered "Up at the Brow" no less descriptive of the house than of the actual promontory.

Jean raced down the slippery grass at a reckless pace, which yet was not reckless, since she was sure-footed as a goat. To follow the zigzag would have been in her eyes a dire waste of time.

Nearing the bottom, she found to her supreme delight an open penknife lying on the ground—Oswald's! Then he had come this way, and she would find him. Jean's heart leaped as she secured the knife. In that moment she heard a plaintive utterance—

"Oh! O please! Please!—O please! O come!"

Not Oswald's voice! Jean dashed downward faster still. Child as she was, she already had the instinct of helping others, more or less the gift of all purer natures.

"O please! O come!" wailed the frightened tones.

Jean reached the level belt beside the river, where a ghost of a path might be found amid coarse grass and weeds. A rough but easy descent led thence to the stepping-stones. On one of the stones, near the middle of the stream, sat a small boy, lifting up a thin and high-pitched voice of dire tribulation.

"Why, what's the matter?" cried Jean.

The sobbing lessened, but the boy did not move. Jean cleared the lower bank at a run, and tripped over the stones till she reached him.

"What's the matter?" she repeated.

"I can't get on. I'm afraid," moaned the depressed little mortal.

"There's nothing to hurt. If you fell in, you couldn't hurt. Afraid! You—a boy!" said Jean, with infinite disdain.

She had been trained to look with contempt upon cowardice, especially a boy's cowardice. Oswald never showed fear; and Oswald was her hero.

But the tender and pitying side of her nature asserted itself, when she looked at the little fellow's white cheeks; not pale only, but dead-white, as with abject terror; and at the small shaking hands.

"Come!" she said gently. "I'll take care of you. I won't let you slip. Stand up, and hold me tight. I'll take you across."

She put a protecting arm round him, and guided his steps with a mother-like care, droll yet pretty in one so young. Jean had all the instincts of womanhood, though her recollections of a mother's love were dim.

"There!" she said, as they reached the bank on the Rectory side.

His face having been turned that way, Jean had taken it for granted that he wished to cross.

"Now you are all right. You see how easy the stones are, so you won't be frightened again. Boys never ought to be afraid. Oswald isn't!" proudly, with a gleam in her greenish-brown eyes. "But you are such a mite! Where do you want to go?"

"I want to go home," came plaintively in answer.

Jean stood looking at him. He was a lovely little boy, but Jean had hardly reached an age appreciative of mere beauty. The sweet wistful eyes and delicate outlines were lost upon her. Jean's notion of a boy was of something reckless, dashing, untidy, headlong, noisy—of Oswald, in fact. This dainty small creature, with lace collar and spotless hands, by no means answered to the description.

"Where is your home?"

"Over there."

"Where? What—'The Brow!' Why, what's your name?"

"I'm Cyril John Devereux."

A pause of astonishment.

"And I'm Jean Trevelyan. But you're not—Cyril!" said Jean. "Aunt Marie said Cyril was ten years old."

"I'm ten next August."

"Ten! Stand up—straight."

Cyril obeyed.

Jean placed herself beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

"I'm ever so much the tallest—and only nine last month."

"Ah, but I shall grow," said Cyril confidently. "I'm going to be a man."

"A man!" Jean looked him all over again, disdainful and compassionate. "What a pity you weren't made a girl!"

"Father liked me best to be a boy," asserted Cyril.

Jean suddenly remembered his father's death, and as suddenly she recalled the game of bowls.

"Oh, I can't wait. I'm forgetting," she cried. "I must find Oswald."

"Aunt Sybella said there was a boy called Oswald."

"He's my brother!" proudly again.

"Is he nice? Is he like you?" The violet eyes were fixed upon Jean with unspeakable admiration.

"Nice! There never was such a boy as Oswald in all the world—never!" declared the little sister, her soul shining in her face. "No, he isn't like me. Oh, of course not! I'm ugly; and he is—Oh, you don't know Oswald yet! Wait till you do! He is—he is—just Oswald!" cried Jean rapturously, as if the name implied everything.

"You're not ugly."

"Yes, I am. Everybody says so. It doesn't matter. I've got Oswald."

"Shall I like him?"

"I shouldn't like you, if you didn't."

Cyril looked thoughtful.

Jean was longing to be off; but a sense of this little fellow's helplessness restrained her.

"Where do you mean to go?" she asked.

"I don't know the way back."

"Why, over the stones, of course—as you came."

"Oh, I can't. I couldn't go across again—it frightened me."

"But you're a boy. You ought not to be frightened. Oswald never is."

Cyril glanced at the river and shivered, tears filling his eyes. "I can't," he said.

A whoop rang out, and Jean's contemplative face changed to one of delight.

"Oswald!" passed her lips, as a boy came rushing along the grass-grown path beside the river.

A genuine boy this time—strong and vigorous, hot and muddy, round-faced and rosy, nearly twice the size of the little baronet, though only two years or so his senior. His complexion was sunburnt, his hands were soiled, the cap was slipping off his tumbled hair, the trousers were torn at his knees.

"Hallo, Jean! Did you think I was lost? I say—what shrimp have you fished up there?"

Jean sprang to meet her brother.

"It's Cyril Devereux," she whispered energetically. "He's come home, and his father is dead, and he's afraid of the stepping-stones."

"Whew!" Oswald contented himself with this brief commentary. "Well, come along; just time for a game of bowls."

Jean was nearly torn in half, between the pulling of her own desires on the one hand, and the pulling of duty on the other hand. Her whole soul was bent upon the promised game with the brother whom her little heart worshipped. But this poor small baronet, with his dread of the river, how could he ever find his way home?

It was one of those everyday occasions, when the child's decision one way or the other, does much towards the formation of that child's character. Either the bent towards right, the devotion to duty—the Pflichttreue—is strengthened, and the passion of self-pleasing is weakened; or vice versa.

Jean was sorely tempted; but her home training from babyhood had aimed to teach her one thing—always to do the Right, irrespective of cost to self. Such early training is an untold power for after-good. Every time the will conquers, it gains strength; every time it is overcome, it loses strength. Mere habit, one way or the other, has the compelling force of iron bands in later life. These bands were already in process of formation; and Jean did not hesitate long.

"I can't," she said; "he doesn't know the way round by the bridge. I must show him."

"Rubbish! A boy not able to find his way!"

"He isn't like most boys. He is so—funny!" Jean said, lowering her voice. "So little!"

"Little goose! Time he should learn to be like other boys."

Jean was silent.

"Well, you needn't ask me to come back for a game with you another day! That's all."

Jean's heart was ready to break under his displeasure, yet she stood to her duty.

"I'll make haste," she tried to say.

"Make haste to lessons, you mean! Stuff! Well—will you come?"

"I can't," she murmured.

"Then you're an ass! I shan't play with you again."

Oswald dashed off in a huff, and Jean's eyes were full.

She turned to the other child:

"Come," she said huskily, "we've got to make haste."

"Was that boy cross with you?" demanded Cyril, as they set off. He clenched his tiny hand, and the blue eyes sparkled. "If anybody is cross with you, I'd like—I'd like to fight him."

"No, you wouldn't! He is my brother. You are never to fight Oswald."

"But I will, if he is cross to you."

"It doesn't matter. He is only sorry I can't play. And so am I," added Jean, her chest heaving. "You must learn to get over those stones, you know. Boys never ought to be cowards."

Cyril looked up gravely.

"No, I won't," he said. "Father wouldn't like me to be a coward. I'll try to get over the stones all alone—some day."

[CHAPTER III.]

"DEAR AUNT."

"Though man a thinking being is defined,
Few use the grand prerogative of mind;
How few think justly of the thinking few!
How many never think, who think they do!
Opinion, therefore—such our mental dearth—
Depends on mere locality or birth."
JANE TAYLOR.

"EVELYN!"

"Yes, aunt."

"Where are you going?"

"Into the garden."

"My dear, you have thin shoes on."

"Thick enough for August."

"No, indeed. The dew was quite heavy last night. And I heard you cough yesterday."

"Cough! I don't know what it is to take cold."

Sybella's brow puckered. "Really, Evelyn, that is childish. Everybody takes cold sometimes."

"I don't."

"My dear, I cannot let you risk it. I really cannot. And, besides—"

"Yes?" Evelyn stood, careless and graceful, outside the French window of the morning-room. She was a marvellously fair young creature; but the fringed black-blue eyes, like those of her little brother in shape and colour, wore a combative expression, as they met the anxious orbs of Sybella.

"My dear, I wished—I thought I had made you understand—I should like you to give up an hour or two every morning—two hours it ought to be—to some useful occupation. Dear aunt always insisted on that with me, when I was long past your age."

Miss Devereux sighed, and her voice grew plaintive. She, like Evelyn, wore heavy mourning, not alone for Sir Theodore, but also for old Mrs. Willoughby, who had passed away within a week of General Villiers' arrival, having never so much as heard of her nephew's death.

Two months had elapsed since then. Sybella stood alone in the world, so far as her accustomed props were concerned, but with a fresh and absorbing interest in life. She had the children to care for. Sir Theodore had appointed her sole guardian of Evelyn and Cyril Devereux.

It was an interest which brought weighty responsibilities in its train.

"The children—" there was the rub! If it had but been only "the child!" Miss Devereux' whole heart went out from the first towards the gentle boy, who was always ready to respond to her caresses, always eager to give love for love. Every day the fascination grew upon her. From early morning till late at night her one idea was "Cyril." She dressed him in the daintiest garments compatible with mourning; she cultivated each curl and wave of his brown hair; she revelled in her new charge.

Cyril might undoubtedly be considered old enough for school. All the world agreed on this point. But Sybella had a mortal aversion to schools, diligently instilled into her by Sir John Devereux and Mrs. Willoughby, through the best part of her forty years. What they had thought, she continued to think, and if she lacked decision on many points, she knew her own mind here.

She displayed a sudden resolution which took people by surprise. School for Cyril! That little delicate darling to be knocked about by a horde of great rough boys! It would be the death of him! For once Sybella was determined, asking no advice. She would go in for any amount of advice on matters unimportant, but in this case she declined counsel, having her aunt's strong opinion to serve as a guide.

General Villiers reasoned in vain; friends lifted their eyebrows in vain. Sybella would teach the precious boy herself for the present, till he had rallied from the weakening effects of the Indian climate; and then—well, then she would consider. A tutor, perhaps, or even a day-school. Time enough for that. Miss Devereux was beginning to be conscious of her own power, and to resent what looked like interference with a guardian's prerogatives.

There might be no difficulty as to the actual lessons. Sybella, though not mentally gifted, had had a good education; and Latin was easily to be procured. But there was the question of boyish games, of boyish companionship; not to speak of the perils of over-petting and spoiling.

Miss Devereux was afflicted with a mortal horror of cold, of damp, of east winds, of draughts, of wet feet, of unwholesome food, of over-exertion. She did her best to instil this compound horror into her young charge. She watched and discussed everything that found its way into the baronet's pretty mouth. She examined the weathercock each day, before allowing him to go out. She tenderly consulted his looks and symptoms.

Sir Cyril was a most responsive little boy. He had always been delicate, and he was used to anxious petting. There were no struggles between the two. Miss Devereux found him malleable as wax in her hands. His sweet grave sayings, his trained politeness, his un-childlike understanding of some things, combined with a more than childlike timidity, his love of Bible stories, his readiness to be taught, his affectionate clinging to herself—all these were in Sybella's eyes "beautiful." She could not praise him enough to friends.

"The child is heavenly," she said often, with a gush of enthusiasm which made some smile, while others were touched, and yet others hoped that the little baronet "wouldn't be a prig!"

So for the present all went if not wisely at least smoothly, as regarded Cyril. But as regarded Evelyn, matters were far different.

Miss Devereux had sent for her in haste, on receipt of the sad news brought by General Villiers, feeling sure that the poor dear girl must be heartbroken, unable to give thought to lessons.

Evelyn came, though not too willingly. She was not broken-hearted; and anybody less sentimental than Sybella would hardly have expected her to be so, for a father whom she had not seen during ten years. The loss was a loss, and Evelyn knew it; nevertheless she grudged missing the final examination before leaving school.

It had been a settled matter that she should quit school after this term, to join her father either in India or in England.

Now all was changed. Evelyn had to live at Ripley Brow, under the guardianship of an aunt whom she did not love.

For the maiden lady of forty, with her unpractical ways, her pseudo-poetical tastes, her tendency to overstrained sentiment, her generally old fashioned ideas, never had "got on well," as the saying is, with the brilliant yet sensible and practical niece. Miss Devereux was secretly proud of Evelyn, but scarcely fond of her.

Evelyn had learnt before eighteen what Sybella did not learn till after forty—to stand alone. She had not been hardened like Madame Collier, for everybody loved Evelyn, who came within reach of her magic wand; and love is softening. She was accustomed to the worship of her schoolfellows, to the devotion of governesses and friends. It was a matter of course in Evelyn's life that wherever she went, she should win affection. The one exception among all whom she knew—the one rift in her environment of adulation and love—was Sybella. Evelyn's wand had no power over Sybella; and Sybella was a perpetual irritation to Evelyn.

A stronger contrast could hardly have been found than between this aunt and niece. While Evelyn had not suffered hardening, she had been in a manner both braced and repressed by long years of school-life, with absence of home associations. Her training had been the precise reverse of Sybella's. She had developed under it rapidly; and few could believe her to be still not eighteen.

Sybella might have belonged to two generations earlier. Evelyn was a thoroughly modern girl; cool, self-possessed, independent, at her ease, afraid neither to speak nor to act, yet always entirely ladylike. Sybella was alarmed at her own shadow, frightened as to proprieties, seldom sure what she wished, rarely certain of her next step, and direfully in need of props.

Side by side with all this, however, Miss Devereux had distinct notions of subordination for young girls and of her own rights. She looked upon seventeen as scarcely past infancy, with need still for leading reins. "When I was seventeen—" settled the question. Evelyn, on the contrary, regarded herself as emancipated from all save a light authority, and well capable of judging in minor matters.

It was almost impossible that these two minds, brought together, should not suffer friction, each exciting the other.

Sybella had been brought up from infancy on a rigid and limited selection of doctrines, carefully expressed; and it had never so much as occurred to her that further truths might exist beyond the boundary of the said selection. Her ideas on religious subjects were petrified into a permanent shape; that shape which had been handed to her ready-made in childhood; and whatever did not fit into the said shape, like a pudding into a bowl, was at once rejected. The vigorous though narrow mind of the older lady had entirely formulated the niece's belief. What Sybella had received in early youth she had as a matter of course swallowed whole unhesitatingly; and she continued to hold the same unquestioningly.

Of reasons for accepting this or rejecting that, she cared little and knew less. Discussions terrified her, historical facts were "dangerous," and from "evidences," she fled in alarm. She believed what she believed because she believed it; and because she believed it anybody who did not believe it was in error.

The niece was again in these matters a contrast to her aunt, unable to look upon things from Sybella's standpoint. She had early worked her way to a disdain of mere party oppositions on religious questions; and her young wide awake mind, eager with the spirit of the age to dive below the surface, and to know the why and wherefore of things, was perpetually fretted by Miss Devereux's illogical fears and unreasoning positiveness.

Troubles were fast springing up between them. The Devereux household always went to St. John's Church, Dutton—not to Dulveriford Church—always had done so, and as a matter of course, always would. The Devereux household was traditionally extremely "Low" in its views; and the successive Dulveriford clergy had long been more or less "High"; therefore like oil and water, they flowed apart, failing to mingle. Moreover, Mr. Trevelyan's predecessor had been personally obnoxious to Mrs. Willoughby; and Mr. Trevelyan, stepping into his place, had small chance of pleasing her. To be obnoxious to Mrs. Willoughby was to be obnoxious to the family. If easy-going old Sir John spoke a pleasant word now and then to his Rector, he did it sub rosa, concealing the delinquency from his sister. Sybella, indoctrinated from infancy with her aunt's notions, counted no condemnation too strong for the doings of "that man." Had not "dear aunt" always "strongly disapproved" of him?

But Evelyn counted St. John's architecturally ugly, and she found Mr. Kennedy prosy. His mild "comforting" sermons, which delighted the hearts of the middle-aged ladies and elderly gentlemen of the congregation, had only a soporific effect upon Evelyn. Her cultivated musical taste, repelled by the tuneless shouting of St. John's, was attracted by the well-trained choir of Dulveriford.

The next step was a warm liking on her part for Mr. Trevelyan, and a girlish readiness to submit herself to his teaching. How much of this preference sprang from a spirit of opposition, it would be hard to say. No doubt it was real of its kind.

Miss Devereux could not prevent the personal acquaintance. The two families had lived too long in close neighbourhood to be strangers; and, so far as his connections went, Mr. Trevelyan might be counted unexceptionable. Mrs. Willoughby had, however, always strenuously resisted the growth of acquaintanceship into friendship; and Sybella set herself to do the same. Thereby, at once, she enhanced the value of the friendship to Evelyn.

There were bones of contention enough between them, without this in addition. Whatever the one thought, the other did not think, on every conceivable subject, from questions of Church and State, down to the quilling of a frill.

Sybella's incessant quoting of Mrs. Willoughby provoked Evelyn. She did not see what it had to do with her occupations, or why she needed to follow certain rules, merely because Sybella had followed them at her age.

"I don't intend to pass my days uselessly," she answered.

"But some regular plan—Indeed, I assure you, it is really necessary for young girls. Dear aunt always said—"

Evelyn's involuntary movement was like that of a high-mettled horse, akin to a shake of the mane, with a backward step, as if in retreat.

"Wait a moment. Pray do not be so impatient, Evelyn. It is necessary that I should sometimes speak; and you ought not to be annoyed. It is—" plaintively, "only for your good."

"Well?" in a questioning tone.

"There is one thing I must mention. I am sorry, but it is my positive duty to—otherwise I would—If I am not misinformed, you went yesterday—I have reason to believe that you were at the Rectory—that you called there."

"Yes."

"It was not necessary—so soon. Only last week, and again yesterday! I thought had made this clear to you, but I seem to have failed. I must speak more plainly. I do not wish to complain, but, once for all, pray remember that I object to any intimacy in that direction. I have said this before, and it seems to have had no effect. You must please to recollect. An occasional call is all very well, but not oftener than is necessary."

"Why not?"

"We have never been intimate with the Trevelyans, and I do not intend to be. I could not allow it. Dear aunt very much disapproved of certain things—of Mr. Trevelyan's opinions, and—Pray listen to me, Evelyn. You need not look so impatient. He holds most erroneous views about—and at one time dear aunt found him most unpleasant—"

"Erroneous views about what?"

"I see no necessity for explaining more. You are a mere child still, and cannot enter into these questions. Only you must understand that I should not think of allowing any intimacy. It is out of the question—and I expect strict obedience in the future." Sybella was becoming agitated, and she twirled her hands nervously. "Dear aunt would have said the same, and I am sure, if she had ever thought—My dear, pray listen to me."

"I am listening. I cannot say that I understand. The Trevelyans seem to me the nicest people about here."

"That is all perversity, Evelyn. You do not really know anything of them. They are well-connected, but as for manner—! It is out of the question that anybody should think Mr. Trevelyan attractive. And as for Mme. Collier—!" Sybella's tone spoke the very quintessence of contempt.

"She is odd, but I like her. I like her immensely. She is so genuine. And Jean fascinates me. And Mr. Trevelyan is the best—the most really truly good man I ever came across. I could listen to his sermons for hours. Of course I have only heard him two or three times—I have not been to Dulveriford Church since you said I must not. But one very soon knows what does one good. I like even his queer dry manner. He is different from everybody else, and that is so refreshing."

"You are saying all this to vex me, of course," quavered Sybella, reddening. "Just because you know how I feel. Go to Dulveriford Church! I should think not indeed!—From Ripley Brow at all events! And I expect the same obedience as to the acquaintance. Just politeness and no more. When, all these years, we have kept so carefully aloof—"

"I don't think one ought to keep aloof from one's Rector. I don't think it is right."

"Really, Evelyn—! But it all comes from your training. I always have felt it a thousand pities that you went to that school. If your dear Papa would have taken our advice—"

"My father was the best judge."

Evelyn made another backward step, which landed her on the lawn—a happy occurrence. It diverted Miss Devereux's attention from the Trevelyans to her pet hobby—health.

"Child! The grass! And your thin shoes!"

Evelyn turned and fled. She could not trust herself to remain longer; but it was a pity that she ran straight across the lawn. The deed looked like defiance.

[CHAPTER IV.]

SEVERELY SMITTEN.

"She should never have looked at me,
If she meant I should not love her."
R. BROWNING.

SYBELLA'S forehead wrinkled as Evelyn fled, and she sighed pensively.

"I shall have to appeal to General Villiers," she murmured. "He has more influence over the girl than I have. So very wilful and obstinate! It is most melancholy. But she will listen to General Villiers, because he was her father's friend; and he will not approve of such conduct. I must certainly speak to him. He is almost sure to look in by-and-by."

This was true. General Villiers had taken to "looking in" on most days: and undoubtedly he had a strong influence over Evelyn. Sybella thought him most kind and fatherly to the child: only perhaps a little too ready to show how very pretty he thought her.

Sometimes it struck Sybella that he came to the house rather often, all things considered. There were a good many arrangements to be made, and he had constituted himself general adviser and helper: but still—! Now and again this thought would recur, bringing a blush with it. Could he mean anything particular? General Villiers was only about fifty-five in age, and except for his grey hairs, he did not look so much. He was handsome and gentlemanly; a person of good standing and of considerable wealth. His antecedents were irreproachable. Sybella herself was barely forty. Fifteen years of difference on the right side! What could be more suitable?

Some such ideas floated vaguely through her mind, as she came indoors and sat down. She was not in the least in love with General Villiers; but she was quite ready to fancy herself so, if desirable; and she felt that matters began to look suspicious. That poor dear man might well feel lonely at Dutton Park, with no companion. Sybella woke up at the sound of an "Auntie darling!" to find Cyril by her side.

"Auntie darling, may I go out?" He systematically addressed her thus—to the delight of Sybella, but not at all to the delight of Evelyn. The iteration was apt to grow tiresome.

"Yes, my pet. But you must put on your overshoes, and your coat and necktie. The wind is east."

"Yes, auntie darling."

"And don't go on the grass, or sit down anywhere."

"No, auntie darling."

"You are pale, my sweet. Not a headache, I hope?"

Cyril had to consider. "Just a little wee one, auntie darling."

"Then you must not play in the sun. Walk in the shade; and mind you don't run fast so as to get too hot."

"No, auntie darling."

"If you see Evelyn, don't let her excite you. And if the headache doesn't go soon, you must come in and lie down. Something must have disagreed with you yesterday. Perhaps it was the baked apple. I think you had better have only broth to-day for dinner—and just a little dry toast."

"Yes, auntie darling."

Cyril obeyed the various directions given, so long as he remembered them. He crept about in the shade, like a venerable invalid, till near the river. By that time the fresh air, acting upon so much of a boyish nature as had been allowed to develop in him, overcame the cultivated languor, and he began to run. A bright idea sprang up, and Sybella's cautions vanished.

He had never yet made a second trial of the stepping-stones. He would do it now. Jean had urged him to conquer. He would not be a coward.

There was natural force of will in the boy, though his fond parents had done their best in the past to weaken it; though his doting aunt was now doing her best to carry on the process.

"You don't like so-and-so! Then don't do it, darling!"—had been the manner of his training hitherto. Such treatment is an absolute cruelty to a child, unfitting him for the exigencies of future life. To teach a child to master his own will, to control his own inclinations, is a grand beginning for life. To wrap the will in cotton-wool, and slay its vitality through disuse, means often a terrible after-slavery to the inclinations. "If I like!" becomes the rule of action in place of "If I ought!"

Cyril had enough of latent vigour to prevent his succumbing utterly to even Sybella's training. As yet, however, he was very young for his age; small, timid, almost babyish; and his affectionateness made him the more malleable. The chief bracing influence in his little life was Jean Trevelyan. Oswald frightened him; and he shrank from Evelyn's high spirit; but he was ready to do or bear anything for Jean.

So he made the effort bravely, though his heart fluttered, and dire sickness crept over him, as the waters ran past. He knew no more than did Jean of the physical weakness which caused these sensations. It was "cowardice" in his eyes as in Jean's; and it had to be conquered, because she said so.

From stone to stone, he struggled on—whitening, shivering, hardly able to hold himself upright, till the middle of the stream was reached. Then he could do no more. Water and banks swept round with dizzy whirl, and as he crouched down in a forlorn little heap, he seemed to be sinking through unfathomable depths. He would not cry this time, for Jean despised boyish tears, but further advance was not possible.

"Hallo! What's wrong?"

It was a man's voice, full and musical; a voice unknown to Cyril. A few strides brought the owner of the voice near, and Cyril was lifted in a pair of strong arms, to be carried the rest of the way.

"What's the matter, you poor little chap?"

Cyril burst into tears. "Oh, I did want to get over," he sobbed, "and I couldn't; and Jean—Jean—"

"What about Jean?"

"Jean says—says—it's so cowardly—and she won't—won't love me!"

"What's cowardly?"

"I can't get across the stones."

"Turns you giddy, eh?"

"Yes," sobbed Cyril, from the depths of his heart.

"Never mind. I wouldn't cry. When I was a little fellow like you, I was just the same—every inch as bad; and you see I don't mine the stones now."

Cyril was wonderfully comforted. Tears lessened, and he could manage to look up into the other's face—a young face, frank and kindly; with a mouth of exquisite curves, sweet, strong, and smiling; with a broad forehead above the grey eyes, which were full, half of mockery, half of tenderness, a touch of sadness running through both.

"Please put me down," entreated Cyril, direfully afraid of seeming girlish.

The young man obeyed very gently, as if he were handling a piece of porcelain. There was something porcelain-like in the child's look. Cyril tottered, and caught at his new friend.

"Dizzy still, poor little man? Sit on this bank."

"I mustn't. Auntie says the grass is damp to-day. And I promised."

"Whew! Quite right to do as you are told. Well; you won't find me damp. I'll be your cushion."

He threw himself down, lifted Cyril on his knee, and encircled the child with kind arms. Cyril rested his curly head on the broad shoulder, with evident relief.

"That's better, eh? Now tell me your name. Cyril! What—little Devereux? I know all about you. And is Jean a friend of yours?"

"Jean? O yes! I do love her so."

Pretty, but hardly boy-like, the young man thought.

"She's a jolly little girl, isn't she?"

"Do you know Jean?"—with great eagerness.

"Rather! I should think so! Hasn't she ever talked to you about Cousin Jem? If not, I'll pay her out."

The mocking grey eyes sparkled, then grew soft as they glanced down on Cyril's tiny white hand. Jem's oppositions of mood were almost as marked as those of Jean.

"O yes; I know. Jean told me. She said Cousin Jem was a sort of a cousin. And she likes him—you, I mean—ever so much. Next after Oswald, you know. And I think I shall like you next after Jean. And Evie said you were coming to stay with General Villiers. But—" with an elderly air—"I didn't know it was you, of course, at first: because Evie called you a boy."

Cyril was regarding, in his turn, the muscular brown hand beside his own, a hand of aristocratic outlines and powerful grasp, matching well the lithe muscular figure.

"Evie calls everybody boys."

"Does she? Who is Evie?"

"Oh, she's my sister. She's so pretty. I love Evie; only not like Jean." A pause, as if for reflection. "I mean to marry Jean, some day."

"Ah!" said Jem. "Have you told her so?"

"O no!" Cyril's voice had a sound of indignant surprise. "I haven't told anybody."

"Except me!" Jem Trevelyan was used to this. He had the indescribable power over all who came in contact with him, which causes unlimited confiding. Young as he was, other people were perpetually telling him things which they "had told nobody else." He never knew why: neither did they: but in a tête-à-tête with Jem, secrets were sure to ooze out; and Jem never abused anybody's trust.

"You won't tell Jean!"

"Not a word. You needn't be afraid. I wouldn't advise you to tell Jean either. Many a lady is lost through the gentleman speaking too soon." Jem stated this as seriously as if he had been addressing a full-grown man; and indeed the little fellow's intense seriousness hardly admitted of a joke. "Wait a while."

"How long?"

"Oh, wait—let me see—how old are you?"

"I'm just ten."

"Well, you must wait ten or twelve years at the very least. Perhaps more. Never do to speak sooner."

"Jacob waited fourteen years."

"So he did." Jem mentally contrasted the patriarch with this dainty infant, and had difficulty in keeping his lips straight. "If you have to wait fourteen years, it's nothing. Just bring you to twenty-four."

"And then I'll marry Jean."

"Supposing Jean consents. There's that little point to be considered. I'll tell you one thing—Jean will never marry a man to whom she can't look up. Do you understand? You must grow into a real man before you speak—strong and brave and good—a man she can respect and lean upon, not a twopence-halfpenny creature in a coat."

The words sank deep; deeper than Jem knew.

"Yes, I will!" said Cyril.

"And don't mind waiting. Don't be easily disheartened, or get into a tiff and throw it up, because she isn't to be had at the first go. If she's worth winning, she's worth waiting for."

Cyril heaved a sigh. Sybella was always giving vent to audible expirations of air, and the trick is infectious.

"I think Jean is just exactly like Rachel," he said. "Rachel was so beautiful, you know."

Jem's expression became comical. Had he uttered his thought, he would have said, "She's a queer little scarecrow, but she'll improve." Happily he was spared the need for a reply.

"Hallo! There she is! Wait and see if she knows me. We've not met for two years."

Jean advanced slowly, recognising Cyril, and perplexed at his position. Cyril would have struggled up, but for Jem's grasp. When Jean came near, a flash of light appeared in her eyes.

"Cousin Jem!" she cried.

Jem pulled her down on the grass beside him, and kissed her cheek.

"How d'you do, little one? Can't get up, for I'm acting bolster. Here's somebody in mortal dread of a scolding from you. Tried to get over the stones, and turned giddy."

"Cyril is always frightened," Jean said, with disdain.

"It's not fear. He can't help the dizziness."

Jean looked up in surprise. "Can't he?"

"No. The feeling isn't cowardice. If he caved in, and made up his mind to be beaten, that would be cowardice. But he won't."

"I won't, really and truly, Jean," pleaded Cyril. "I did try so hard."

Jem's hand went with a tender motion over the curly hair. Jean saw and understood, the soft side of her nature springing in response.

"You won't mind some day, Cyril."

"Not he," said Jem. "He'll be as plucky as anything! See if he isn't! You must give him time. Everything isn't easy to everybody, you know. It really is braver of Cyril to get half over, feeling as he does, than for you to run backwards and forwards fifty times. Yes, of course, much braver!"—emphatically. "Because one is hard, and the other isn't. Mind, Cyril, don't try it alone for a time or two. Take Jean's hand, and try a few stones. Do a little more every day. By-and-by you won't care a rap."

"No, I won't," assented Cyril.

"It's a nasty feeling. I used to be just as bad—got into an awful funk if I had to walk along a board. Had a hard fight too, before I could master it. But it had to be mastered. If I'd given in, and been a slave to that, I should have been a slave to a hundred other fancies as well; and think what a useless fellow I must have grown. Always a bother to myself, and a hindrance to everybody else."

"I won't!" declared the little baronet, with concentrated earnestness.

"That's right. You'll conquer, never fear! Now you're better, eh? Able to stand again? Why!—Who—?"

Jem, otherwise James Trevelyan, sprang to his feet, snatching off his cap.

He had seen pretty girls in his lifetime—any number of them; and his pulse was not wont to beat fast at the sight. They did beat now, furiously. For not many "pretty girls," so called, could match the one coming at this moment across the stones.

She was tall for her age, slight and willow-like in figure. Brown hair clustered thickly about the brow; and dark curled lashes fringed the violet eyes. Other features, if not classically beautiful, were delicate, unobtrusive, and set off by a rare complexion of ivory and pale rose. One ungloved hand held a garden hat, the other guarded a crape-trimmed skirt.

In leisurely style she drew near; not troubling herself to put on the hat; not in the least embarrassed by Jem's bewildered gaze. Evelyn saw it, of course; but admiration was an everyday thing in her life. It came and was accepted, much in the same fashion that sunshine comes and is accepted.

Had admiration failed, Evelyn would have felt the loss. Having it in superabundance, she received it carelessly. While aware of her own exceptional charms, and appreciating the privileges of beauty, she was far less vain, far less occupied with her own looks, than many a girl not one tithe so fair. Evelyn was much more disposed to vanity in respect of her mental gifts than of her pretty face.

"That's Evie," announced Cyril.

"Who?"

"It's Cyril's sister—Evelyn," said Jean, wondering what had come over "Cousin Jem."

Jem stood motionless, cap off, till Evelyn quitted the last stone. Then he went forward, and offered his help for the ascent of the bank.

"Thanks!" Evelyn said, smiling, and just touching the brown hand. She needed no help, but she was too gracious a being to refuse. "Thanks!" she repeated, reaching the level path, with a kind look at Jem which finished him off completely, though it was no more than she would have given to gardener or butler for a service rendered. "Is anything wrong with Cyril?"

"He turned giddy, crossing the river," said Jem.

"But I'm going to try again, and I mean to do it," exclaimed Cyril. "He says he was just as bad, Evie, and he got over it. And I mean to be brave. Jean says I must."

"Jean says!" repeated Evelyn. It recalled Miss Devereux's perpetual citing of "dear aunt."

"He's a boy," explained Jean.

"And I'll be a man some day," cried the little baronet. "You'll see, Evie. I'll take care of Jean when I'm a man."

"Jean is more likely to take care of you at present."

"That state of things is often reversed later," observed Jem, feeling for once unaccountably shy, and striving after self-possession. He was not given to shyness commonly. "Cyril and I had to perform self-introductions. Jean was our connecting link."

"Then perhaps you are General Villiers' friend?"

"And he isn't a boy," cried Cyril, drowning Jem's assent.

Evelyn did not blush. She said, "No?" and looked straight at Jem with a soft laugh, which put him at his ease, but tightened the strings of fascination.

"I reached Dutton Park last night. General Villiers, is an old friend of some of my family. A delightful man."

The girl's eyes drooped. "He is—I don't know anyone like him!"

"A sort of modern preux-chevalier style."

"And always so gentle."

Jem wondered whether any human being could be otherwise than gentle to Evelyn. He knew little of Miss Devereux.

Evelyn made a move as if to go. "Come, Cyril—" she said; "we will walk round by the bridge. I suppose you have had enough of the stepping-stones for one day."

"There's a prettier path to the Brow up the glen—crossing the rustic bridge," observed Jem. "But of course you know."

"Oh, I know it all. I have spent so many of my holidays here—only not very lately. That is my favourite ramble. But it is supposed to be too lonely for me, with only Cyril; and somehow nobody is ever free to escort us."

"Why, I go alone anywhere," said Jean.

Jem's glance went from the one to the other. "That is different," he remarked; and then he turned again to Evelyn, audacious though embarrassed. "If you would not mind—Jean and I would gladly act escort. The glen is perfect just now. You really ought to see it. I have been the whole round this morning."

"Thanks!" in a considering tone.

"Jean and I are cousins," apologetically. "So I thought—"

"A sort of cousins," corrected Jean, trained in habits of rigid accuracy.

"My father was first cousin to Jean's father, so Jean and I are 'seconds.' It is a convenient tie where people suit; and Jean and I do suit; so perhaps—"

"Perhaps, on the strength of it, we may count ourselves acquainted."

"There is General Villiers as well to vouch for my respectability."

"Ah!"—with a smile.

"Then you really will make use of us! I'll walk behind, if you would rather."

Evelyn laughed. She found the proposal tempting, and could see no harm. "I don't think a rearguard will be needful," she said. "Thanks—if it really is not giving you trouble—"

"Trouble!!" protested Jem.

[CHAPTER V.]

QUITE TOO UTTERLY.

"A dim Ideal of tender grace
In my soul reigned supreme;
Too noble and too sweet, I thought,
To live, save in a dream—
Within thy heart to-day it lies, and looks on me
from thy dear eyes."
A. A. PROCTER.

THE winding glen in its tangled beauty, far surpassed ordinary English types of scenery. It might almost have served for a Swiss ravine, but for the lack of enclosing mountains; and, indeed, the range of great hills, not many miles away, where the river had its birth, might not inaptly have been called "mountains," at least as an act of courtesy.

Banks, rising on either side of the gorge to a height of two hundred feet and more, were carpeted thickly with moss, decked with ferns, and clothed with trees which descended to the very brink of the swirling stream, there to overhang its surface. The path led through a prolonged bower of foliage, occasional gleams of sunshine creeping through. Gnarled roots projected themselves fantastically; and large flat stones, now high and dry, showed the wash of the water in flood-time.

Cyril grew timid at the nearness of the path to the steep lower bank. He slid his hand into Jean's, and she did not rebuff the appeal, for Jem had taught her a lesson. She put him on the side away from the stream, and held his fingers protectingly.

Jem did not mark this. Usually he saw everything; but his whole attention was given to Evelyn. Her delight with the exquisite tints, the lights and shades of the gorge, was pretty as a study; and it meant more than a study to Jem. She did not use up a vocabulary of adjectives, but the closed lips parted, the violet eyes deepened, the blush-rose tint of her cheeks grew bright. She went slowly—it could not be too slowly for Jem!—devouring with earnest gaze every detail of light and shadow. Jem was enchained with the grace of her movements, the more remarkable from utter absence of self-consciousness. He had never come across any one like her before, though the girls he had known were in number legion.

Still Evelyn said nothing till they reached a wilder part, less shut in. Trees grew scanty, and the rocks were steep and bare, while the stream rushed swiftly through a straitened bed, foaming past with a sweet high note. Then she did say "Oh!" and her eyes went in a swift appeal for sympathy to Jem. Not in the least because he was Jem, but only because in her joy she wanted a response from somebody.

Jem could hardly be expected to understand exactly how things were. He realised only that a new world was opening out before him—a new world in the shape of Evelyn Devereux. If he had not been already taken captive, this one glance would have done the business. Such a pair of great violet eyes, liquid, radiant, fringed all round with even lashes, turned full upon him, as if he, and he alone, could enter into her delight—what chance had he? And yet he was nothing to Evelyn. She would have bestowed the same look upon almost anybody who had happened to stand in his place at the moment. It was simply the natural expression of her pleasure.

Jem was a devotee of Nature commonly; but the sole item of Nature which he had eyes for on this particular day was a human item. The fair scenery of the gorge was lost upon him. He forgot even the presence of the children, and saw only Evelyn.

She had the dumb response she wanted, and went on, thinking no more about him. Jem was content not to talk. His one wish was to be allowed to walk beside Evelyn indefinitely, watching the play of feeling in her face. But this could not last; and somewhere in his mind, he was counting on five minutes of her free attention, when they should have crossed the rustic bridge, into the path which led away from the gorge, straight to the Ripley Brow grounds. The gorge itself would take a sharp bend just after the bridge, becoming then the second arm or branch of the letter V, and growing for a while even more rugged and wild in character, before it flattened and sobered down.

When, however, the bridge had been crossed, and Jem's hopes were high, a clerical figure could be seen striding down the glen towards them.

"Mr. Trevelyan!" exclaimed Evelyn.

She had taken, as already intimated, a strong girlish fancy to the Rector; and, as also intimated, the fancy was being fed by opposition. Left alone, it might have sunk into insignificance. Stamped upon, it was sure to flourish.

"How do you do?" said Mr. Trevelyan. He had always a curt and rigid manner, but a certain softness crept into his eyes as he bent them on Evelyn; for no man could be grim to Evelyn Devereux.

Jem received a handshake, and a brief, "Heard you were coming."

"Have you been for a walk?" asked Evelyn wistfully.

"On business. Not pleasure. A man ill in cottage."

"And you are going home down the gorge?"

"No; I have another visit to pay beyond your sapling plantation."

"O then you were coming our way; so I need not trouble Mr. Trevelyan any longer. He has been so kindly taking care of us through the glen. Thanks; I am so much obliged to you for coming all this distance," she said, giving her hand to Jem with bewitching graciousness. "It has been lovely."

Jem submitted to her decision with lifted cap, and did not betray the depth of his disappointment. Evelyn would scarcely have seen it, if he had, for she was busied with her new companion.

"Jean, it is nearly time for you to go home," said Mr. Trevelyan, as he turned away.

The tiny baronet, with a parting glance at Jean, trotted in the rear of the retiring two. He was desperately in awe of Mr. Trevelyan, and seldom by choice approached within fifty yards of him; so Evelyn was likely to have what she thoroughly enjoyed, a tête-à-tête talk with the Rector. His characteristic air of dry attention did not repel her, as it would have repelled many girls; and there was nothing small or nagging about his severity. She felt the man to be thoroughly genuine in all he said or did. If the path of duty should lead him through fire and water, he would follow it unhesitatingly. Whatever his faults might be—and faults, of course, he had, being human—self-indulgence was not one of them. Evelyn's keen insight read him truly.

Jem would have given all he possessed, which was not much, to follow Evelyn along the path, and into the "Brow" grounds; no matter at what distance. But gentlemanly feeling rendered this impossible. He stood like a statue, gazing fixedly till the three had vanished, unconscious of Jean's watchful attention.

"Well—" he said at length, and he made an effort to pull himself together, to awake to common life once more. "Well, Jean?"

"Do you think Evelyn very pretty?" asked Jean, with a child's directness. "Is that why you stare at so?"

Jem felt ruffled. His worst enemy could not lawfully accuse him of anything so objectionable as "staring."

"Rather a rude remark, Jean!"

"I don't mean to be rude. But you did," asserted Jean.

"I beg your pardon! Looking is not staring. A gentleman never stares."

"Do you think her very pretty?" repeated Jean, dropping what she counted an unimportant question.

"Yes. Don't you?"

"Not so much as some people."

Jem was amused. He planted himself with his back against a tree, and scanned curiously the straight supple child.

"Who is prettier than Miss Devereux, among your acquaintances?"

Jean was puzzled. "Miss Devereux isn't pretty. She's too old. Aunt Marie says she is fifty."

"Oh, I see. But I mean Miss Evelyn Devereux. I say, Jean, don't you go about talking Of Miss Devereux as fifty years old. She wouldn't like it."

"Aunt Marie said so."

"You needn't quote Aunt Marie. Come—who is prettier in your estimation than Miss Evelyn Devereux?"

The answer was delayed. Jean seemed to be weighing the matter. She said at length composedly:

"You!"

Jem did laugh. He had a pleasant musical laugh, round and full like his voice. It rang out now, not loudly but irresistibly. Jem held on to a bough, and bent with his merriment; while his eyes danced, and fairly ran over with tears of fun.

"Jean, you are past everything. It's the best compliment I ever had in my life," cried Jem, nearly convulsed.

"It's true," sturdily answered Jean.

Jem mastered himself, though every muscle in his face was twitching yet.

"Are you sure you don't mean Oswald?"

"Oh no. Oswald says boys are never pretty; only brave. But I think men are pretty sometimes."

"What do you find pretty in me? Eh?"

Jean found response easy. "Your eyes are pretty," she said. "They look so funny. And your mouth is pretty, only you're getting a horrid moustache. And I like the way you do your hair. It's got a nice wave just on the forehead. And you laugh so often. Nobody's pretty that doesn't smile."

"But Miss Evelyn Devereux smiles."

"Oh, not like you."

"What a pity Jean doesn't smile more!"

"I shouldn't be pretty, anyhow."

Jem could not contradict this. He patted her arm.

"Never mind. You are a nice little girl, and I like you. What is to be your next step?"

"Now? I'm going home to lessons."

"Not holidays yet!"

"I don't have holidays. I wish I could. Aunt Marie says they are such waste of time."

"I'll see if I can't beg you off a day or two. Come along! Yes, this minute!"

Jean's face of wondering delight was worth inspection. A passing question slid through Jem's mind—was she so plain, after all? But he did not trouble himself to answer the question. He was longing to get away from everybody, that he might dream over his new vision of beauty. Perhaps not many in his place would have voluntarily put aside the longing, to beg a treat for a child; and he half regretted his own offer the next instant, though he never thought of drawing back. Jem was essentially kind-hearted.

Together they went to the Rectory; and Jem pleaded so successfully that four whole days were granted. This was Friday. Lessons should not begin again till the Thursday following. Jean heard in a maze of silent rapture. Five days of uninterrupted freedom, counting Sunday! Freedom to devote herself to Oswald!

Jem did a good deal of walking and fishing those days; and a good deal more of dreaming. Whatever else he might have in hand, Evelyn was never out of his mind.

He saw her each day, one way or another. Sometimes it was only a glimpse, of which Evelyn knew nothing. Once they met in the road, and had a little chat. Once General Villiers took him to the Brow for afternoon tea, and Jem was in her presence for an hour. It all meant to Evelyn—nothing. To Jem it meant—everything.

[CHAPTER VI.]

AN APPEAL AND ITS RESULTS.

"And just because I was thrice as old,
And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was nought to each, must I be told?
We were fellow-mortals, nought beside?"
R. BROWNING.

"I CERTAINLY am surprised! I could not have expected such a want of correct feeling!" Miss Devereux spoke in tremulous accents, moving her hands nervously with a washing gesture, one over the other.

Sybella's hands were seldom at rest. Either she was twiddling her chain, or she was drumming the table, or she was going through some other digit-exercises of her own devising. People who have unpretty hands, and do not wish to call attention to them, should refrain from needless gestures. Sybella had not pretty hands, but she was far from following this rule.

Miss Devereux's face was in a flutter, as well as her extremities, and her eyes roved anxiously about. Evelyn's composure made her increasingly nervous.

"I certainly am surprised," she reiterated. "Such an extraordinary thing to do. My dear aunt would have been quite shocked: she would indeed. I am sure, when I was your age, I should as soon have thought of flying as of such an impropriety!"

"Impropriety! To let that boy walk up the glen with us!"

"James Trevelyan is not a boy. You cannot pretend to think him so. He has been through college."

"Twenty-two, is he not? I know he said he could not be ordained for another year."

"Five years older than yourself."

"Ten years younger in mind and character."

"Really Evelyn—"

"And I shall be eighteen in a week."

"Really, Evelyn, if you persist in this sort of thing, I shall have—I shall be compelled to appeal to General Villiers."

Evelyn laughed, but it was easy to see that the threat told.

"Ask General Villiers whether I may walk in the company of a big boy and two children, for fifteen or twenty minutes!"

"Your flippant tone only makes me feel—"

"General Villiers told me yesterday all about young Mr. Trevelyan," said Evelyn. She was not rudely interrupting her aunt. Sybella's sentences were apt to die away unfinished, as ideas or language failed. "He must be a nice lad."

"Mr. Trevelyan may—That has nothing to do with your conduct! Your conscience must convince you how wrongly you are behaving! I shall certainly have to appeal to General Villiers," quavered Sybella.

"General Villiers!" announced Pearce.

With more than usual gravity, the General entered. No doubt he had heard the words last spoken, for Miss Devereux's voice always grew shrill under excitement. She greeted him with a disturbed air, while Evelyn stood in the centre of the room, carrying her head like a young princess.

"I hope nothing has happened," General Villiers said, with his air of polished politeness. He kept Evelyn's hand, scrutinising the unwonted spot of crimson on either cheek. The exceeding kindness of his look was almost too much for her self-control; and tears flushed her eyes.

"Aunt Sybella is vexed," she said. "Your friend, Mr. James Trevelyan, was so good as to walk up the glen with us, the day he arrived. I had been longing to go there, and nobody was ever free to take me. I am told I must not do it alone. He and Jean and Cyril and I were together. Was it so very objectionable?"

General Villiers could not drop the small hand, which seemed to creep into his for protection. He stood looking down upon Evelyn, with mingled sympathy and admiration. Evelyn's lip quivered, and two large tears fell despite all her efforts. She dashed them away with the free hand, as if ashamed.

"Evelyn is of course making the best possible story for herself," complained Miss Devereux. "My dear aunt always trained me to be so very particular—"

"But perhaps—" the General said, taking advantage of a hiatus.

"And Evelyn pays no regard to my wishes. None whatever! I am sorry to have to complain of her, but I feel it to be my duty. My feelings matter little, but there is Evelyn's future—and what may be said of her. I feel that I ought to appeal. It is not the one thing only. I am sure if I could have known what these two months would be—Evelyn running deliberately in the face of my wishes—disregarding my opinions—setting up her own judgment—forming friendships which she knows I must disapprove—disobeying my express commands! And then the temper and annoyance, when I venture to remonstrate. If I had guessed—"

"But about Jem?" said the General.

"When I was Evelyn's age, I am sure I should never have dreamt of such a thing as a walk with a stranger—a young man!!—absolutely without even an introduction! But then I was so carefully brought up! I could never have stooped to such an act. I would have walked twenty miles round sooner! Such a want of self-respect."

There was a dangerous flash in Evelyn's eyes. "It is you who give the false impression now," she said. "Mr. Trevelyan helped Cyril when he was frightened; and that was an introduction. I knew all about him; and the two children were there. We went up the glen together, all four of us; and as soon as Mr. Trevelyan appeared—our Mr. Trevelyan, I mean—I said good-bye to him. Was that so dreadful?"—her eyes going to General Villiers. "I did want to see the glen again."

"Why did you never ask me to take you, my child?" the General asked naturally. "However—I think Miss Devereux must have misunderstood matters. Now that it is all cleared up, shall we—?"

"I beg your pardon; it is you who do not understand," tartly interrupted Sybella. "But perhaps I had better say no more. Evelyn is bent upon taking her own way. Dear aunt would have been sadly grieved. If Evelyn did not feel herself to be in the wrong, why did she never tell me what she had done? Why did she so studiously conceal it—and no doubt induce her little brother to do the same? Such underhandedness—But I feel it is useless for me to pursue the subject. I have said all that is needful, and I have done. Perhaps, if you are alone with Evelyn, you may induce her to speak the truth. My remonstrances are thrown away."

Miss Devereux's voice was so high-pitched and shaky as to suggest an imminent breakdown. She left the room, and Evelyn's eyes were again full.

"O it is hard—hard to have to live with her," the girl murmured. "I have never had to bear coldness before: Aunt Sybella cannot endure me. Everything I do and say is wrong. Perhaps I ought to have told her of that walk, but I knew she would worry, and it did not seem worthwhile. Sometimes I almost think I must run away—everything is so wretched. She is winning even Cyril from me."

"My poor child!"

"You feel for me, I know," she said, raising her eye frankly, as to a father. "That is my one comfort. If it were not for your kindness—knowing that you understand—I think I should go wild. I cannot tell you what the pressure is, all day long. One is never left in peace, never allowed to have one's own opinion. Everything must be discussed, and aunt Sybella must always prove herself to be in the right. The weariness of that incessant tittle-tattle—what this person says, and what that person thinks. The only being never in the wrong is aunt Sybella! You are not even allowed to differ in silence. You must listen, you must answer, and you must be convinced."

"I don't wonder that you find things trying."

"Oh, if you knew—how trying. I may speak out this once, may I not? You are my father's friend, and she has appealed to you. I have never ventured before. I did not even ask you to take me up the glen, because she is so jealous of any kind word spoken to me. Don't you see how hard it is?—How alone I am? If only I might go back to school! They did love me there."

A sob broke into the words. General Villiers was deeply moved. Evelyn's face did not lose its attractiveness, even under agitation. Her very weeping was controlled, and her features were not distorted by the muscular expression of distress; but the violet eyes grew pathetic, and large drops fell slowly.

"Two months? They seem like two years to me! How shall I ever bear whole years of it, with no hope of escape? She will never learn to love me."

"She must—in time."

"She will not. I have no power over aunt Sybella. We repel one another at every point. Isn't there a sort of mutual repulsion between certain people?" Evelyn tried to laugh. "I think I shall grow a bad temper here. I never knew that I had one before; but she makes me naughty. Do things lie dormant in us sometimes, till we get into a new atmosphere? Aunt Sybella will be my temper-growing atmosphere, I am afraid. If people love me, and I love them, I can be vexed at nothing. Real love doesn't get vexed, you know. But she—oh, she makes it so hard to be good; so hard to do right."

General Villiers might have whispered patience to the tried young spirit. He might have told her that the very "atmosphere" which threatened to develop a temper ought rather to be the means of developing a spirit of endurance. He might have suggested that one can never learn to bear bravely and Christianly, without having something to bear. He might have reminded her that life and its surroundings are modelled for each individual by ONE who knows that individual's need. But his overwhelming sense of sympathy prevented a dispassionate view of matters.

While feeling for Evelyn, he ought also to have felt for Sybella. The very weakness of character and narrowness of intellect, which made her so trying a companion for Evelyn, added to her perplexities in dealing with Evelyn. She was much to be pitied for those perplexities, and for the enervating education which had fostered her natural feebleness.

General Villiers could not see Sybella's side. He had eyes only for Evelyn's trouble.

The past two months of constant intercourse with this young girl, fresh from school, had worked a revolution in his being. After long years of widowhood, wherein no thought of marrying again had come to the fore, he found himself passionately in love with a pretty creature, not yet eighteen, a complete child in comparison with himself!

The thing was wild, of course; inconceivable. The idea of marriage could not be cherished for a moment. General Villiers had not cherished it thus far. He had scarcely even admitted to himself that he loved, other than in a fatherly way. Or if at times he allowed the fact, he was resolved to keep his secret, to be only her true and father-like friend, to watch over her life, to guard her so far as he might from sorrow, to find his joy in seeing her happy.

So matters might have gone on indefinitely, but for this scene. General Villiers was a man of peculiarly simple nature, single-eyed and straightforward, but by no means incapable of taking a false step. The very directness of his aims, and the childlike eagerness of his impulses, combined with a certain innate incapacity to look upon both sides of a question, made him the more liable to such a step. Evelyn's distress, her free speech, her instinctive turning to him, broke through his purposes of self-restraint. The love, which had smouldered hitherto, leaped up in a fierce flame, and bore down all barriers. He thought how he might bring her speedy relief; and he did not think how the manner of that bringing might possibly mean a fresh thraldom. At the moment it seemed to him that for her sake he might speak.

"Evelyn, my little girl," he said, and his manly voice faltered, "if I were but younger! If I were but more fitted! I would give my life for you! I would give all I have to smooth your way! And even as things are—if I could be sure that I ought—"

She seemed perplexed, and said, "I don't understand."

"You are too young—only seventeen! Far too young for an old fellow like me. Yes, I am old compared with you, my child! The discrepancy is far too great. It would be wrong! You are such a child. You cannot know your own mind yet. Still I could give love as strong—stronger, I think, than any mere boy. I do give—but how can I ask your acceptance? It would be a cruelty to your future."

She gazed wistfully into his agitated face.

"I don't quite understand," she repeated. "At least I am not sure. But you are the best and kindest friend I have ever had. Nobody can be to me what you are. And I am not a child. I am just eighteen. I have not been a child for years. They said at school that I grew into a woman long before the right time. I don't care for young people or boys. There is always a want in them. Why should you talk as if there were such a very great difference between you and me? I think age has more to do with mind than body."

The words dropped slowly from her soft rosy lips, each with an intonation of serious thought. General Villiers was swept away by them. He took her hands into his own, kissing again and again the slender fingers.

"My little girl! Can it be true? Will you be mine? Could you make up your mind to marry me, my Evelyn—to let my home be yours?"

"Marry you! Live at Dutton Park!" And her eyes opened wider. Despite her would-be middle-aged manner, she looked inordinately young at that moment, her ivory skin and delicate bloom contrasting with his grizzled locks and developing crow's feet. The innocent surprise was so like a child's pleasure. "Live at Dutton Park!" she said. She did not add—"Get away from aunt Sybella!"—but unquestionably that idea was prominent.

"Would you? Could you? Do you feel that it would be possible?" faltered the General. He could hardly speak, he was so stirred and shaken by the rush of his great love; while she was entirely calm, only surprised and pleased. "My Evelyn! My darling can such joy be?"

"Yes, I will indeed," she answered.

[CHAPTER VII.]

PREPOSTEROUS!

"What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?"
R. BURNS.

"I NEVER heard anything so preposterous in all my life!" declared Madame Collier, in a muffled tone of righteous indignation.

The muffled sound was due to a physical cause, not to a mental condition. Madame Collier was putting a false hem to an old serge skirt of Jean's for lengthening purposes; and the process required a plentiful use of pins. Two or three white points protruded from each corner of her mouth. She wore her huge untrimmed garden hat, having been previously fruit-gathering; and the rusty alpaca was looped up, Dutchwoman-wise, nearly half-way to her knees, displaying ankles formed rather for strength than grace.

Marie Collier had her little vanities, like most people; as, for instance, in the matter of her name. She plumed herself on being "Madame Collier;" not plain prosaic "Mrs." In the matter of dress, she did not study the becoming. Vanity here took the opposite course, not necessarily less vain. She prided herself on a stoical indifference to appearances.

"Preposterous!" she repeated, taking a pin from her mouth, sticking it into the serge, and reaching energetically across the dining-room table for scissors. Mr. Trevelyan stood on the other side, upright and stern. "I declare the world is going crazy. General Villiers, over sixty years old—and a baby of sixteen! Preposterous!"

"Matters are bad enough without exaggeration. General Villiers is fifty-five, and Evelyn is just eighteen."

"Eighteen and fifty-five! He might be her grandfather! It is wicked! Downright wicked!" declared Madame Collier, paying off her heat of spirit into the folding and pinning. "I never heard such an idea in my life. Who told you?"

"General Villiers. I met him half-an-hour since. He seemed too much delighted to keep the thing to himself; but it is not to be known just yet."

"And Miss Devereux?"

"I gather that she is taken by surprise—"

"I should just think so!"

"But that she will offer no serious objection."

"Sybella Devereux would offer no serious objection if the world were to be turned into a cream-cheese. She hasn't the wits. Oh, she will fall in with the plan—glad to get the girl off her hands. The General can do as he likes—though how he manages to reconcile his conscience passes my understanding."

"He must decide for himself."

"He's sure to do that—and for Evelyn too. What man doesn't? He'll follow his own inclinations, of course, and sacrifice that young creature, before she understands what it all means. Why, she's an infant! What has she seen of life? Care for him! It's out of the question! Preposterous! Yes, I dare say she cares after a fashion—the way a girl cares for her grandfather. Likes to be the Lady of Dutton Park, no doubt! That's the bait. And she and Miss Devereux don't pull together. Anybody with half an eye can see! A lucky chance of escape, no doubt—but as for that child being in love with General Villiers—! I know better. The girl's an actress, if she lets him think so. But it's the General that I blame. She doesn't know what she is doing, and he does. Don't talk to me again of his goodness! I've no patience with such goodness! It's downright wickedness!" cried the Rector's sister, dropping a small shower of pins by way of climax, for anger opens the lips.

Her tone changed suddenly. "Jean! What are you doing there? You have no business to creep in and listen to what people are saying."

"I'm just come home," Jean said in self-defence. She had approached so near that Mme. Collier really had no excuse for not seeing her sooner, beyond abstraction of ideas. Jean had reached the end of the table, not creeping, but walking with her usual erect bearing and light footfall. There she had stopped, electrified by the words which reached her ears. She thought some dreadful calamity must be impending.

"Come home! Yes. But why don't you show yourself properly? I hate creeping and listening ways."

Jean grew stiff under the sense of injustice. Mr. Trevelyan's eyes travelled over her.

"Did you mean to listen, Jean?"

"No, father—" very low.

"I have a great mind to put her to bed for it," declared Marie Collier.

"Jean did not mean to listen!" Mr. Trevelyan was a strictly just man. He had never found Jean in untruth, and until he should do so he would trust her implicitly. "The door was not shut; and we might have seen her come in. How much did you hear?"

This was to Jean. A lump in the child's throat almost prevented speech. She swallowed with difficulty, and said, "General Villiers is going to do something bad."

"General Villiers is going to marry Evelyn Devereux. That is not 'something bad' in the sense you mean. Your aunt is sorry to hear it, because he is too old for such a young girl, and the thing is unsuitable. But remember, it is not your business. Unless by accident, you would not have heard it at present; and the matter must not go further. I trust to your honour."

"She will go and talk to Cyril the first thing. I know what children are."

Mr. Trevelyan looked searchingly into the troubled eyes of his little daughter. They met his, clear and resolute, though pained.

"Can I depend on you, Jean?"

"Yes, father."

"It is not to be mentioned again, unless somebody speaks first to you. And then the less said the better. You will not repeat what you heard us say."

"No!"

A slight dry smile crept into the grim lines round Mr. Trevelyan's mouth.

"Marie, you need not be afraid. That child is trustworthy."

Jean's face changed. Any word of praise was rare in her little life. She hardly knew what to make of it. Mr. Trevelyan, watching still, did not quite know what to make of her. He knew well the Trevelyan half of Jean: but the sensitive loving Ingram half was commonly veiled from his sight: he scarcely recognised its existence. The sudden radiance of response in her eyes, and then the quiver of her lips, surprised him. He did not know what he had said to bring about such results.

Before he could speak, Jean was gone. She felt a rush of tears coming, and fled wildly away to a retired corner of the garden, there to sob her little heart out, not knowing what made her cry.

"Why, Jean!"

Jem's voice startled her to her feet; and tears were checked by a mighty effort. To be found in such a condition was in Jean's opinion a dire disgrace. She stood bolt upright, herself again, though with wet cheeks.

"Please don't tell," she begged.

"Not I! Don't you know me better? What is it all about, little woman?"

No answer came, and he did not press the question, shrewdly suspecting that sharp words from Madame Collier or rough ones from Oswald lay below her distress.

He was not far wrong: though indeed Jean would have found it hard to analyse the different ingredients which went to the making up of that distress. The actual last straw had been the softening touch of her father's unwonted praise; but further back was the aunt's displeasure; and further back still another grief. This was the last afternoon of her short holiday, and Oswald had chosen to spend it away from her.

She was a lonely little being, commonly. Her fervent love had a scant return: her thoughts and feelings were not understood. Few guessed what a sensitive organisation underlay the somewhat curt exterior. With her brother, the child's heart was always craving for a show of affection which never came. No doubt Oswald loved Jean after a fashion: but he loved himself much more; while Jean's love for him was a rapt devotion.

A woman too often lavishes gold, only to receive copper in exchange. Jean was learning early the sense of loss entailed by such barter. At times the vague loneliness would take shape in a thirst for her mother. When Oswald had treated her to a boyish rebuff, she would lie awake at night, clasping her pillow with both arms, and wondering how it would feel to have a mother's arms thus folded tightly round her. The Ingram part of Jean did so cry out for love and gentleness: while the Trevelyan part was ashamed, and tried to stand independently aloof.

With Jem she had a sense of placid satisfaction, unknown in other quarters. She did not pour upon him the frantic devotion which she poured upon Oswald: but there was happiness in his companionship. She could trust his unvarying kindness; and she felt herself to be understood by him. This consciousness often drew Jean on to open her mind to Jem, as to no other human being.

"Where is Oswald this afternoon?" Jem asked. "Cricket! Ah, that's unfortunate. And you couldn't get there to look on. What a pity you are a girl, as girls can't join! I say, Jean, suppose you come for a walk with me up the gorge. I'm all alone; and I want somebody."

Which was true—for Jean's sake. He had not wanted somebody for his own sake, unless it were a somebody unattainable.

Jem loved to haunt the gorge these days, for Evelyn's sake. He would always associate one particular turn in the glen with her face.

They were in the wildest part of the gorge, more than an hour later, beyond the "point of the V," and in the second arm of it. Return could be either along that branch and across divers meadows, or else it could be back the way they had come. Jem decided on the latter, and when they reached the rustic bridge at the Point, he took Jean's hand for a race down the path, resolved to shake the gravity out of her.

He had found the child a pleasant companion, fearless in climbing, untirable in walking, full of quaint simplicity and intelligence. He had exerted himself to interest and amuse her, till all traces of the little trouble were gone; and she had poured out her ideas with a rare frankness. But she had been sober throughout—a slim solemn upright child.

Down they came now, full swing; Jem's light run well matched by a speed of foot in Jean which few children of eight or nine could emulate. Jem of course hung back for her sake, yet not so much as might be expected. Jean hung on his strong hand, like a bird, rushing beside him with a glow of pleasure, for once perfectly natural and childlike.

Jem was delighted. He had not seen her so before. Looking down into the eager face, and at the steady shine of the greenish-brown eyes, he asked himself again, "Will she be so plain?" Jem began to think she would not. "But I wish the poor little mite had a brighter existence."

Faster and faster they descended the rough path, as he saw her enjoyment. Soon they passed at a run the open space which had vividly awakened Evelyn's admiration. Reaching an acute bend beyond, they dashed round, glowing and laughing, to find themselves unexpectedly face to face with another couple, slowly ascending the glen.

Jem took in the situation at a glance. A light shock darted through his whole nervous system.

For Evelyn Devereux was there—Evelyn, by the side of General Villiers. Her hand was through his arm; her face was upturned with a sweet confidingness to his; and the General's head was bent from its superior height towards the fair girl, with a fatherly—no, not a fatherly—interest. Something altogether different from a fatherly interest. Jem saw this. He saw the General's momentary embarrassment, and the soft flush on Evelyn's cheek.

Jem dropped Jean's hand, and stood like one struck dumb. Evelyn's first view of him, had been a surprise to her. She had seen him before in a shy and admiring mood; but Jem's real nature was better shown in his vigorous rush down the gorge. The sure free step, the well-proportioned lithe figure, the dancing grey eyes, and the kind care of the little child—all these came before Evelyn as a flash, unexpectedly.

General Villiers could not have pelted down the steep glen at such a pace for any consideration. He suffered from slight rheumatism of the knees; not enough to spoil his military walk, but enough to prevent violent exercise; besides, joints stiffen after fifty.

In one moment, Jem's career was checked. A sudden gravity crept into the warm face, and the grey eyes, emptied of their sunshine, looked earnestly, questioningly, at Evelyn.

"Nonsense!" Jem was saying to himself, putting aside a sick fear. "Nonsense! Absurd! It can't be!"

But General Villiers, embarrassed no longer, looked smilingly at the small hand on his arm, then at Jem.

"I meant to tell you this evening," he said in a deep tone of happiness. "You have found us out sooner. My darling—she is mine now!" He glanced at Jean, who had moved delicately away, with a child's sense of being de trop. "My own!" the General repeated. "Who could have dreamt that such happiness would be for me?"

The healthy glow was gone from Jem's face. He looked grave, dignified—taller and older too than Evelyn had imagined him. One hand, hanging by his side, clenched itself till the nails almost pierced the skin, but except in his sudden paleness, no sign of pain was allowed to appear. Not all Jem's force of will could control the rush of blood to the heart, as he spoke a few words of formal congratulation.

The General, wrapped up in his own delight, did not see: but Evelyn, far more widely awake, noted at once the change. She could not fail to conjecture its cause: and, knife-like, the question shot through her mind—

"Have I made a mistake? Have I been too quick?"

Too late for that now! Evelyn smothered down the thought, with a voiceless "No! No!" and clung more closely to the General's arm. His attention was drawn by the pressure.

"Yes; we will go on—we have not too much time. I shall be back by-and-by," to Jem. "Good-bye, for an hour or two. Yes, I know you congratulate me. Everybody must!"

A few more meaningless words, and they parted. Evelyn had not much to say during the remainder of the walk, but the General had plenty, so her silence mattered less. He had reached an age when most men like a good listener. Evelyn could safely follow her own train of thought, while clinging to his arm. She had to follow it, had to stamp down the questioning which threatened to disturb her peace.

Not that Evelyn was in love with Jem. Nothing of the kind. It was only that his look had been a revelation to her. It was only that she had awakened to the realisation of another manner of life, upon which she had shut the door.

Too late now, she told herself firmly. She had promised, and she would keep her promise.

Then she found the General saying something—what was it? About—how soon?

Evelyn flushed, and her eyes filled. "Oh, soon—the sooner the better!" she said. "Why should we wait? I belong to you now."

BOOK II.

AFTER SEVEN YEARS.

"There wild woods grow, and rivers flow,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean."
R. BURNS.

[CHAPTER I.]

MRS. KENNEDY'S NOTIONS.

"How we talk in the little town below!"
"PIPPA PASSES": R. BROWNING.

"A REGULAR niminy-piminy-molly-coddle! That's what he'll be, my dear."

"But don't you think—by-and-by—when he gets out into the world—?"

"No, I don't. Miss Devereux will have done the business by then. I wouldn't say so much to most people, Mabel: but it's just the old story over again—the hen with one chick, you know. And an old maid hen is the worst of all, don't you see?"

"Only he's such a nice boy!" regretfully.

"He's lovely!" said Mrs. Kennedy. "A real out-and-out gentleman, and the prettiest manners! Too pretty by half for a boy of seventeen! Why, he ought to be a hobbledehoy, and there isn't a scrap of hobbledehoyism about him. It isn't natural. It's like a tadpole growing into a frog, without dropping its tail, you know. And it's ruination to any boy to be treated as if he was a spoonful of salt, ready to melt. That's what she does, don't you see?"

"But at school—"

"Oh, well, yes, there's school. Of course there's school. It's a good school too, from all one hears. Capital masters, and all that; and a hundred and twenty boys isn't bad. I'd sooner have him at a regular public school: but this is next best. Only, the moment Cyril comes home, all the good's undone. Mustn't get his feet wet, don't you know? Dear me, if my boys were coddled like that, there'd be a rebellion, I do believe. They wouldn't stand it, not even from their mother. But Cyril's been brought up to like a fuss."

"He had one bad attack on his chest."

"Three years ago! I wouldn't wrap a boy up in flannel and cotton-wool all the rest of his days, just for that. I'll tell you what, Mabel—you get your father to interfere. A doctor always can step in. Everybody expects good advice from a doctor."

"Not unasked advice," Mabel said, smiling. She was a nice ladylike girl of about nineteen, the eldest of Dr. Ingram's three daughters.

"Oh, as for advice—Miss Devereux is like other people. She doesn't ask for advice, except when she wants to be told that she's in the right. That's the way, don't you know? Why, she wouldn't have sent him to school at all to this very day, I do believe, if General Villiers and his wife hadn't made a rumpus."

"Still—five years and a half of schooling ought to have done something for him," Mabel remarked.

This was Mrs. Kennedy's "At Home" afternoon; and she was seated in the small drawing-room of St. John's Vicarage, expecting callers. Friday had been from time immemorial—in other words, so long as she had lived at Dutton—her "At Home" day.

Not that she dignified it by any such important title: "I am generally in, you know, on Friday afternoons," was her fashion of asking friends to call at that time. She had a free-and-easy manner of speaking. The County people did not care for Mrs. Kennedy; not that they objected to a touch of originality, but they were not satisfied as to her connections.

"To talk of one's 'At Home day' sounds so fussy, don't you know," she often said. "Not fit for such little people as we, my dear! If it was the Canon, now!" For the mother-church of Dutton was held by Canon Meyers.

Mrs. Kennedy was not good-looking, despite a pair of genial and expressive blue eyes. Moreover, she posed badly, rounding her shoulders and squaring her elbows. Though she dressed well in point of material, her clothes were put on more or less awry; and an end of loose hair was often out of place, needing to be perpetually tucked up. She had been known to sit through her Friday afternoon, with a half pinned collar dangling loosely on one side. Such little matters did not affect her serenity. Had she discovered the collar in the midst of a room-full she would have gone calmly to the mirror to pin it into position, without the slightest flurry. Whereby it is evident that Mrs. Kennedy had seen something of good society, even though her family connections might not be altogether unexceptionable.

The frank simplicity of her manner was sometimes mistaken for rusticity. But she was no rustic. She had considerable perception, and not a little knowledge of human nature. There were even touches of intellectual power, only her education had been deficient; and when entirely at her ease, she was apt to express herself in an odd unconventional fashion.

A more devoted Parish worker than Mrs. Kennedy could hardly be found. Mr. Kennedy was not strong in the visiting line, having usually too many committees and meetings on hand; but his wife did her best, as a wife should, to supplement his deficiencies, to fill up gaps in his administration. In public, she always appeared to be at one with her husband in his views and proceedings; in private, she had her own views and her own theories.

Some intimate friends would have described her as "Not quite so desperately Low-Church as he is!"

However, as a matter of duty, she upheld him praiseworthily.

"Have you heard that General and Mrs. Villiers arrived last Monday?" asked Mabel.

"O yes, I know. All the world knows that, my dear. Time enough too—after nearly four years abroad! People who have got property ought to look after it, and not go scrummaging all over the world. But of course it's no wonder Mrs. Villiers likes change—a pretty young thing, tied to a husband old enough to be her father, to say the very least. And then the General's rheumatism makes such a nice excuse for keeping him abroad. The General is a most delightful man, of course—agreeable and all that—and I'm sure she's quite prettily fond of him. It's as nice and proper as can be; only you know one does sometimes expect to hear her say 'Grandpa' when she speaks to him; and when 'William' pops out instead, it gives one a shock. And then the Park must be so awfully dull: for it's only a certain sort of people he cares to see, you know. Just those that think exactly like himself."

"The St. John set," suggested Mabel, with a scintillation of fun in her quiet eyes.

"Well, my dear, the St. John set is very good. Such nice dear people, you know. I'm sure the dear good General always says he is perfectly content with what he finds among them: and if he and they—he and we, I mean—Now, Mabel, don't look wicked! As to family, we've old Lady Lucas, you know: and Miss Devereux is equal to anybody; and then nothing can be more respectable than a lawyer and a Colonel, not to speak of the General himself when he's at home. But still, though he likes us well enough, I'm not sure about his wife. She comes with him always, as regular as clockwork—used to come, I mean—but you know there's no doubt she's got a very uncommon mind, and she reads books that you and I wouldn't know what on earth they were all about! And I shouldn't quite think all the dear good St. John's people would exactly satisfy her: I mean, intellectually, don't you know? I should think she would want a little more friction, perhaps—and originality, you know."

"So my father feels."

"Oh, your father is so clever—I don't suppose he could expect to find his match in Dutton, dear. One can't help being a little afraid of him, you know, he's so clever."

Mabel laughed. "I have a piece of news," she said. "Who do you think is expected at Dulveriford Rectory in a day or two? Can't guess? Jem Trevelyan."

"Mr. James Trevelyan! Your cousin. He hasn't been for ages. Centuries!" said Mrs. Kennedy, with the calm air of one stating a fact.

"Not since I was a child. Yes, it is years ago. But he really is coming at last, for a few days' rest. He has overdone himself at the East-End."

"He's a nice man—very nice! Not one of those odd sort of people that you can't tell whatever they are after next! But my husband doesn't quite care for him, I'm afraid."

Mabel was intimate enough, not to be classed among the horde of mere outsiders.

"We met him in Town last year, and he said something or other—I'm sure I don't know what, only it was something my husband didn't like. I suppose he's just a scrap too Churchy, you know, for poor dear Thomas. But I'm sure he's such a good man; and if anybody ever lived a real missionary life, it's away in those horrible London slums of despond."

"There's a ring. Another call. I must go."

"Oh, to-day of course! Sometimes everybody comes all together, and then I just don't know what to do. I feel all sat upon and 'scrushed,'" said Mrs. Kennedy, in her unconventional language, while she looked affectionately at Mabel with kind soft eyes. "The only thing to do, don't you know, is to let them have it out. Everybody has always got plenty to say. But such a crowd won't come to-day, I don't think. It's too fine. Must you go, really? Well, good-bye, and mind you tell your father that he really ought to look after that poor little baronet, and keep him from being turned into a molly. Oh, I'm forgetting—there's a note for him from my husband. Couldn't you take it? Thomas!" cried Mrs. Kennedy, opening the door, to find herself face to face with Miss Devereux.

Mrs. Kennedy fell back a step. "Oh, how do you do? I'm so glad it is you—not a man. Just think if it had been a man!" she said frankly. "Do pray come in. I'm only calling my husband to—"

Mr. Kennedy appeared through an opposite door. He was undersized, plain-featured, and shy-mannered, with anxious pale-tinted eyes which saw little before them, by reason of the mental eyes being bent habitually inward. When his glance fell upon Miss Devereux, he put out one hand, with a gradual smile, deprecating in kind.

"Mabel is just going home, dear. Would you like to send any message to Dr. Ingram?"

"I—yes, I have a note," said Mr. Kennedy.

He did not at once go in search of it, but followed Miss Devereux into the drawing-room, and stood looking at her with his mild blank goodness of expression. Nobody of any penetration could see Mr. Kennedy, and not recognise the goodness written in his face.

"Dear man! He is half in heaven already!" Some of his more attached friends declared; though if there were truth in the words, it remains an uncontrovertible fact that to be "half in heaven already," does not obviate a considerable amount of earthliness about the half still upon earth. The earthliness takes different forms in different cases.

"I hope your nephew is well this summer—growing stronger?" said Mr. Kennedy.

"Thank you, dear Cyril is fairly well, but I have to be very careful of him," sighed Sybella. She did not look so markedly older for her seven additional years as might have been expected, but she had gained in a certain conscious importance, in an air of responsibility. She had learned by this time to appreciate her own position, and even to act for herself. Still—Sybella was Sybella.

"He is always so delicate, dear boy! A great anxiety to me! And at School you know—though I cannot speak highly enough of the school—your recommendation!" effusively. "Such a delightful man, the head-master—so truly Evangelical!—And all the arrangements so perfect. Still of course there cannot be quite the same individual care at school as at home, and I am sadly afraid the dear boy is sometimes a little imprudent. I can't think how it is—boys do so dislike great-coats; and I cannot make him say whether he always remembers to change his shoes the moment they get damp. It is so very essential, you know. I do my best to impress upon him the need for care. The way he gets on is really astonishing; such a love for books! I tell him he is never happy without a book in his hand; and he works so hard—too hard, dear boy. It makes me so afraid for his dear brain! I really cannot let him study through the holidays—it is quite too much!"

"Oh, I shouldn't think an hour or two a day could hurt anybody," suggested Mrs. Kennedy. "Keep him out of mischief, don't you know?"

"Indeed, I beg your pardon! I think I am the best judge as to that."

Mrs. Kennedy somehow always managed to excite Sybella's bristles.

"The dear boy had a headache only yesterday: and I don't like the way he coughs. I shall have to consult Dr. Ingram."

"Oh, come, he really did look uncommonly well yesterday," protested Mrs. Kennedy. "Not robust, of course—one doesn't expect that—but plenty of vigour. Thomas, Mabel is waiting."

Mr. Kennedy beat a deprecatory retreat, not sorry perhaps to leave the ladies to fight their little battle out together. After an interval of ten minutes, he slowly returned.

"I am very sorry—I have mislaid the note," he said. "But perhaps you would kindly take a message, asking your father to call. This is the woman's address."

"Must my father go there to-day?" asked Mabel, dismayed. "He has been all that round by this time."

"I am afraid it is pressing. One does not know what is the matter. I told her your father would be sure to look in before night. The note ought to have been sent sooner, but I—in fact, I forgot."

Mabel knew better than to protest, and she went off swiftly. Outside the gate, a girl was waiting—about sixteen in age, with a pale oval face, and clear greenish eyes.

"Jean, are you out of all patience?" cried Mabel. "I couldn't get away sooner: and now I must just race home. You ought to have come in."

"I'd rather not," Jean said decisively, as they began "the race."

The two girls were second cousins.

"You don't care for the Kennedys, I know."

"I don't mind them."

"That doesn't mean liking."

"No; I suppose not. I don't think I care for a great many people!" reflectively.

"A great many! My dear, whom do you really and honestly like, out of your own proper circle? Except Cyril, and Jem, and I suppose ourselves?"

"Mrs. Villiers. And lots of poor people."

"You have not seen Mrs. Villiers for close upon four years. You were an infant then."

"I don't forget."

"No—I believe that! Jean, I declare, I won't have you so frightfully unsociable. You ought to like people more. My father says there is something nice in everybody, if only one is willing to see it."

"Then I suppose I'm not willing," quoth straightforward Jean.

"I wish Mr. Kennedy had sent this morning. My father will have to go all the way down to the lower end of the town again. He might just as well have done the business when he was there two hours ago. He is so busy to-day."

"I don't call that nice of Mr. Kennedy."

"He doesn't think."

"Then he ought."

"Jean, you are always half pleased to find some little fault in Mr. Kennedy," murmured Mabel.

The words had no denial. Jean looked as if she had gained a new idea.

[CHAPTER II.]

MUD AND BRAMBLES.

"I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head,
The child is a woman, the book may close ever,
For all the lessons are said."
"I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it,
Not one as he sits on the tree;
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it,
Such as I wish it to be."
JEAN INGELOW.

Dr. INGRAM'S house was almost outside the town, and thus far the two girls went together. At the garden-gate they stopped; Mabel ran indoors, after a hasty good-bye, and Jean pursued her solitary way.

Dutton was a good two miles from Dulveriford. Jean had permission to go to and fro, by the path through meadows and fields; not by the high road. She turned into the meadows directly after quitting the town, and went onward in a quick steadfast fashion, not dallying. This does not mean the absence of enjoyment. Jean had in her nature intense capabilities of enjoyment; and the sights and sounds of country life always thrilled her with a keen delight, which custom could not deaden.

Now and again she would pause for a few seconds to listen to the song of some little bird, to study the markings of a butterfly as it zigzagged past, to watch the contented munching of a pretty young cow. There were a good many cows in one field, and a good many horses in the next. Fear in connection with animals was a feeling unknown to Jean. She did not, however, linger long for anything.

Jean at sixteen was simply the child of nine expanded. The straight supple form was unchanged, only taller; the slim sunburnt hands were only longer and more capable. The greenish-brown eyes were serious as ever, with their old power of shining under excitement.

She was not "plain" now; the delicate straight features would admit of no such description; but neither was she beautiful; and "pretty" was a term which nobody could think of in connection with the severe simplicity of Jean's outlines, dress, and manner. People generally called her "uncommon;" a safe word which might admit of anything.

No change had taken place in Jean's manner of life. It had been a continuous going on in the old lines; the harder part of her studiously cultivated, the softer part stamped down and driven inward. She had been trained in a splendid mastery of principle over inclination; she had been taught any amount of self-repression and self-control; body and mind had been well and wisely handled. But training and cultivation of the heart's affections had not been equally prominent. Mr. Trevelyan was always just and even, always entirely high-principled; and Madame Collier was always practical. Neither of the two was in manner gentle or loving.

Had it not been for three definite outlets, Jean's softer and more affectionate side would have been walled up and subjected to a slow starvation. These three were—her passionate and absorbing love for Oswald; her quiet friendship with Cyril; her interest in the sick and needy of the parish. Jean's tenderness thus found a three-fold vent, and did not die; but at present it crept through those vents in a shamefaced and surreptitious fashion.

Jem Trevelyan might have supplied a fourth softening element. During years, however, he and Jean had seen little one of another. With her Ingram cousins, Mabel especially, Jean was on agreeable terms, and that was all; for the three girls, pleasant as they were, and popular in many quarters, touched no inner chord of Jean's being. As Mabel had said, Jean "really liked" very few people. "Really to like" in her case meant more than mere liking, and not "really to like" meant profound indifference.

Springing over her fourth stile, on the way homeward, she was arrested by an exclamation:

"Jean! That's jolly!"

"Cyril! You here!"

"I'm come to meet you—by accident."

"How did you know where I was?"

"Intuition."

"Nonsense."

"Madame Collier told me you'd gone to Dutton, so of course I knew you'd come this way. I say!—Give me that basket."

"No. Cyril, let it alone. I like to carry something."

"So do I!"—dexterously twisting the handle off her arm.

"How you bother!"

"Yes, I know. It's only for your good. What's inside the basket?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Hanks of darning cotton, I do believe. I say, Jean, you must use an uncommon lot of old socks at the Rectory. Madame Collier's one earthly occupation is turning them over. I never find her at anything else; unless it is grubbing up stones in the garden."

"Stockings, you mean; not socks."

"Two varieties of the same genus. What are you hurrying for, now?"

"Aunt Marie will want me."

"Let her! I want you more."

"I can't wait, really. She will be vexed."

"Have you got to darn? I'll come and read to you, then."

Cyril had scarcely yet overtaken Jean in height. While actually almost a year her senior, he was commonly supposed to be the younger of the two. His make was so slight as to give an appearance of fragility, not inconsistent with a certain wiry vigour, but heightened by the girlish hands and pale complexion, not to speak of a face hatchet-like in thinness. Breadth of brow gave force to the latter, but the dark hair clustered still in thick waves; and the long-lashed violet eyes, though redeemed from insipidity by any amount of fun, lent him so soft and "pretty" an expression, that it was no wonder he had earned at school the nickname of "Missy."

This did not imply contempt or unpopularity. More than five years back, on first leaving Ripley Brow, with its enervating influences and unlimited petting, for the rougher world of school, Cyril had suffered much, and had had a hard battle to fight. Miss Devereux little guessed how much of real distress had been entailed upon the timid child by her previous policy, or how he might justly have blamed her for long months of misery. Happily, the check of a more invigorating atmosphere came in time to prevent life-long enfeeblement.

He had struggled through the worst long ago. He had now been for years a boy among boys; to all appearance as spirited and careless as any of them, when at school. If to some extent he suffered still from want of nerve, the fact was usually veiled. But it was odd how, immediately he came home for the holidays, he would relapse more or less into his old ways, responding to Sybella's petting. As of yore, his affectionate and clinging disposition, together with an easy sweetness of temper, made him malleable; and also as of yore, the chief bracing element in his Dulveriford life was—Jean.

Jean had not yet lost the impulse to take care of him, to lead, and to expect that he should follow. Growth thus far had been faster with her than with him. There was marked promise of intellectual power in Cyril, but in almost all respects he was still behind his age. Jean remained the stronger, the swifter, the more fearless, the keener in perception, the quicker in understanding, actually the elder, so far.

It was a singular friendship between the two. Each cared greatly for the other, but not after the same mode. While Cyril's happiness was bound up in Jean, Jean's happiness was bound up in Oswald. Cyril cared for no human being as he cared for Jean. Love for her had grown with his growth, winding itself in and out with the very strands of his being. Jean was fond of Cyril, and she missed his companionship when he was away, but she gave him no passionate affection. That was reserved for Oswald.

"Why are you not at Dutton Park this afternoon?" asked Jean.

"Because I'm here."

"Mrs. Villiers must want you."

"Mrs. Villiers isn't Jean, and I'm not Oswald. Why don't you call her 'Evelyn'?"

"I don't know. When did you go last?"

"When? Oh, to-day's Friday. Monday evening I was there—and Wednesday. Tuesday she came to us. Often enough, surely. She's got a lot to do, settling in. I'll go again soon, of course; perhaps to-morrow morning."

"It ought to be to-day."

"I'll see. What a lot you do think of Evelyn, to be sure!"

"Anyone would! If I had such a sister—"

"Well! If you had?"

"I would—Cyril, what's that?"

"Where? What are you looking at?"

"There! Don't you see?"

They had reached the next stile, and Jean stood not far from it, gazing across a wide muddy ditch upon the bank below the hedge.

"A bird—look! It's a robin. I can see its red breast. It has been hurt."

"It's not a nestling. Too big."

"Then some horrid boy has thrown a stone. Hark! You can hear it 'peep.' Poor little thing! It is almost too weak to move. I must get it."

"You can't; just look at that slush."

"Slush! I'm not afraid of wet feet."

The touch of scorn was enough. Before Jean could move, Cyril was down, ankle-deep, in the very middle of the wet slush, which indeed proved to be of the nature of thick watery mud.

"Cyril! How absurd! I didn't mean you to go. I meant to do it myself. I should have gone to the stile, and climbed along the bank."

"You couldn't. It's all brambles."

Jean nearly said, "I don't mind scratches," but forbore. Had she uttered the words, he would certainly have charged the brambles, to gain scars honourable in her eyes.

"I'll come too." Jean loved a scramble.

"No, don't. Stop! It's no use. Such a mess! Wait a moment. Here he is—poor little chap! There, don't peck! What do you mean to do with him? I believe his leg's broken."

"Oh, bring him to me."

"All right, I'm coming."

Jean bent over to receive the fluttering bundle of feathers, and examined it tenderly, while Cyril sprang up on terra firma. Furtively, he endeavoured to wipe his boots on the grass; not openly, for fear Jean should count him effeminate. He had not yet learned that a love of cleanliness is not in essence unmasculine.

"Where's the basket? I'll make a soft bed of grass. Yes, please gather some. You poor little thing! Fancy if we had not found you! It's certainly a broken leg. We must get home as fast as possible, and aunt Marie will know what to do."

"You'll have to tie up the leg in a splint."

"Yes. I'll see. A bit of match, perhaps. Aunt Marie is so clever at that sort of thing. Cyril, your boots are soaking! You ought to go straight home and change them."

"Fudge!"

"What would Miss Devereux say?"

"Anything she likes."

"And you may catch cold."

"I'm not going!"

Such an opportunity to assert his manliness was not to be lost. Jean might think it her duty to uphold Miss Devereux, but he knew that if he went, she would—well, perhaps not despise, but undoubtedly she would pity him. To be pitied by Jean was more than Cyril could stand.

"If you catch cold—"

"I shan't catch cold."

"Well, I have warned you."

"All right."

In two minutes Jean forgot all about his boots, in attention to her feathered invalid. Cyril by no means forgot, for their soaked condition and outward muddiness both meant discomfort, but he never thought of giving way.

As they reached the Rectory door, Mr. Trevelyan came out.

"Jean, just back? What are you after?" This question did not mean displeasure. It only meant that he always expected everybody to be "after" some definite object, and that he wished to hear specified the precise end and aim of Jean's existence at that moment.

"I'm going in to see if aunt Marie wants me. And this bird—"

"A robin—broken leg," said Mr. Trevelyan, touching the little creature with kind fingers. "No, your aunt doesn't want you. Give over the bird to her, and come with me to Dutton Park."

"Now?"

"I met the General, and he mentioned that Mrs. Villiers particularly asks an early call."

"Wouldn't aunt Marie like to go?"

"No, she prefers that I should take you."

Jean's eyes shone: her usual sign of pleasure. She never thought of telling her father that she had already walked to Dutton and back. The fact would have made no difference, if he counted it her duty to go now.

"I've not seen Evelyn for a day or two," remarked Cyril, the wistful look which always strengthened his likeness to Evelyn creeping into his eyes.

Its effect upon Mr. Trevelyan was to bring the question, "Would you like to go with us?"

Cyril's answer, if short, was unequivocal. He had not entirely lost a certain boyish fear of Mr. Trevelyan, but Jean was a more than counterbalancing attraction.

They went by the road this time—a somewhat shorter route than by the fields. Mr. Trevelyan walked fast and steadily, with long swinging strides, and the other two kept pace with him as best they might: Jean easily, from long practice; Cyril less easily, though he would on no account have admitted the fact. He was better at fast running than at fast walking; and the weight of his soaked boots pulled him back.

Outside Dutton they saw the "Brow" carriage approaching, Sybella seated therein with state and dignity.

"I say!" muttered Cyril in foreboding accents.

The carriage drew up, and Sybella bent forward to shake hands with Mr. Trevelyan, whom she did not exactly recognise as her Pastor, although she lived in his Parish, since their views differed on certain points. A puckered forehead showed discontent. She was never pleased to see Cyril with the Trevelyans; and, considering how Cyril haunted Jean, it was remarkable that her eyes should be so seldom vexed with the vision. Perhaps an explanation lay in the fact that Miss Devereux loved high roads and shops, while Jean detested both; wherefore their orbits were seldom entangled.

"How do you do? A very fine day. I hope Madame Collier is well. Really I must call upon her one day soon—but so many engagements, you know—always something turning up. Cyril, my dear boy, I could not imagine where you were. I was so anxious to take you to the Park. I have had really quite to apologise. Two whole days since you went; and you know it must seem strange. Where can you have been?"

"I am going to Evelyn now."

"But I could have saved you the long walk. Such a hot day! I am not sure whether I had not better turn back—" Sybella hesitated, debating with herself whether, in that case, it would not be needful to give the Trevelyans a lift also.

She could hardly pick up her nephew, and leave them trudging in the dust. But Mr. Trevelyan was not approved of by some of her friends, and to be seen by certain of them driving through Dutton side by side with him—by old Lady Lucas, for example, or by Colonel Atherstone—such a juxtaposition of representative individuals was not to be thought of!

"I am afraid, though, that I cannot well spare the time. My dear boy, you had really better put off till another day, and come back with me. I am sure you are fatigued. This hot sun is enough to give anybody a headache. Quite too much for him," she added reproachfully to the Rector.

"Is it hot?" asked Mr. Trevelyan. He looked down and up, and around, as if studying Nature for a reply.

"Exceedingly hot! Most oppressive! Surely you—But people are so differently constituted," sighed Sybella, with an audible little puff of exhaustion. "Now I feel to-day quite incapable—really quite feeble and spiritless. I assure you, I could not walk a mile to save my life."

"That might prove a potent incentive," suggested Mr. Trevelyan, with another look at the tree-tops.

His irony was lost upon Sybella.

"Robust people do not suffer in the same way, I believe. So fortunate for them! But dear Cyril is always so very easily knocked up—and his poor head, you know—"

Cyril grew furiously red at having to endure this, with Jean standing by.

"My dear boy, you are quite flushed, you are indeed—quite overheated. It makes me so anxious. I really cannot possibly allow this sort of thing to go on. I am sure you have a headache."

"No, aunt!" Cyril's voice was seldom so gruff.

"No? But you are tired—fatigued. I am certain you will be overdone. If I—Cyril!!"

Mr. Trevelyan lifted his eyebrows, and Jean's lips twitched. Miss Devereux pointed with an agonised forefinger at Cyril's feet.

"Oh, I just got a little muddy. I'm all right."

"It's my fault," Jean said promptly.

"Boys don't mind a trifle of mud," quoth Mr. Trevelyan, with a solemn smile, perhaps not realising the extent to which the "trifle of mud" went.

"Mud! His boots are wet through and through! I can see it for myself. Boys in general are different. Cyril is not like other boys. He must take care. It is absolutely necessary. To go about with wet feet—I shall have him laid up all the holidays. Another attack on his chest like the last would—I assure you, the Brighton doctor told me, he could not answer for the consequences," gasped the agitated lady. "My dear boy, get at once into the carriage. I must drive you home as fast as possible. As fast as possible, Grimshaw!" raising her voice.

And Grimshaw touched his hat.

"You must change your boots and stockings the very moment we arrive, and I must give you something hot to drink."

Had the Trevelyans not been there, Cyril would no doubt have yielded without resistance. He might have felt a certain boyish dislike to the fuss—a dislike which had for some time been growing upon him; yet mere force of habit would have won the day. To be petted and coddled by his aunt was so much a matter of course, that hitherto he had submitted.

Jean's presence made all the difference. Cyril was fond of his aunt, and he liked to please her; indeed, he liked to please everybody, whether or no fondness came into the question. But his love for Jean, his desire to stand well in Jean's eyes, his dread of being pitied by Jean, were overwhelming motives. To step into the carriage, and be driven home for the purpose of changing his boots, while Jean stood looking on, was too much. For almost the first time, Sybella's petted darling refused to answer to the pull of her rein.

"Nonsense, aunt. I'm all right. I'm going on to see Evelyn."

"If I may advise, I should not recommend a drive with damp boots," said Mr. Trevelyan. "Exercise is safer than sitting still; and he can dry them, if needful, at the Park."

This was reasonable. But to expect Sybella to hear reason from Mr. Trevelyan would mean a dire ignorance of human nature.

"I beg your pardon. I think I am the best judge as to that," she said, reddening. "Cyril, my dear boy—No, I could not possibly run the risk!" to Mr. Trevelyan. "Cyril, my dear boy, you really must—Cyril, I insist! You must come home with me at once. Evelyn will understand. I will explain to her. I could not allow you to go on with your feet in such a condition. My dear boy, it is only for your own good—Pray make haste, and get in! Every moment's delay increases the risk. My dear boy, I assure you—Really, Cyril, I am very much surprised—this is not like you! I am afraid it is the consequence of—Cyril, if you do not come at once, I shall have—Not of course that I expect you to prefer to be with me, rather than with—It is only for your own sake! Cyril, this is really too much! I insist upon obedience!"

Cyril held resolutely back, thus far.

Mr. Trevelyan moved a step nearer.

"My boy, the more manly part will be to yield," he said very low; not too low for Jean as well as Cyril to hear.

The lad grow white, and looked at Jean.

"Yes, do go!" she said gently, pityingly.

Cyril could better have done without the pity: but Mr. Trevelyan's words took effect.

"I must beg of you, Cyril, not to delay. For your own sake as well as mine. I cannot wait any longer, and I insist upon your coming," Miss Devereux went on with querulous repetition.

"Good-bye," said Mr. Trevelyan.

He took Cyril's hand, with a warm grasp which spoke volumes: and from that hour, he had a hold upon the young baronet. "Come and see us again soon."

Cyril crimsoned to the roots of his hair, and stepped in.

"Poor boy: it is hard upon him," muttered the clergyman, as they drove off, Sybella talking still.

[CHAPTER III.]

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

"Thus each retains his notions, every one."
JANE TAYLOR.

DUTTON PARK stood on sufficiently high ground to command a view of the town, and of the surrounding country. In one direction Ripley Brow might be seen, the Brow standing up boldly, more than two miles away. Between, the river wound in curves among low green banks and meadows, after its rush through the gorge.

On a fine day, such as this, anyone walking in the Park grounds could see the "S-like" windings shine here and there with the brightness of burnished metal in the sunshine; grey spaces of water intervening.

There were two ways of reaching the house from the main road. One was by a shady drive, well bowered, the trees meeting overhead in a continuous arch. The other lay through open park-like fields, ending in two large ponds, one on either side of the garden entrance. Following the latter road, Mr. Trevelyan and Jean lingered three or four minutes to watch the swans; then they crossed the wide lawn of the garden, which was sprinkled with pines and yews. Beds of massed colouring, closely packed, showed rich and artistic arrangements of tints. The house was extensive, white and low, guiltless of creepers, and on one side, sheltered by a group of mighty elms.

The great drawing-room, over forty-five feet long, was used only on state occasions. Evelyn's favourite resort for ordinary purposes was the library, a long four-windowed room, well lined with books. General Villiers had his private study besides, and Evelyn had her boudoir; but when at home, she was usually to be found in the library.

On this particular afternoon, she stood in the end window, a large bow, gazing somewhat pensively upon the outer view: not as if she very much cared for it.

At twenty-five, Evelyn well fulfilled the promise of her girlhood, so far as actual beauty was concerned. The delicacy of form and feature, the perfection of colouring, the grace of movement, were unchanged. They had only ripened into a fuller loveliness, with the addition of a finished repose and graciousness of manner, an exquisite high-bred ease, which no mere girl can show.

She wore a cream-coloured dress of India muslin, handsome in make and rich in embroidery. There was about her every appearance of a life of ease, of luxury, of affectionate care, every token of a sheltered existence. Looking upon her from without, it might seem that she had not a want ungratified.

Yet those who studied Evelyn Villiers with observant eyes were conscious of something lacking. They knew that life to this fair creature had not thus far been all that it might have been. The delicate cheek had already a slight inward curve, marring its perfect oval; a curve which in such a face could only have come from illness or from wear and tear. The graceful bearing had about it a touch of weariness, of listless indifference, like one tired of her surroundings. The closed lips had gained a faintly satirical set; and the violet eyes contained a look of forlornness, as if she thirsted perpetually after something unattainable. It had been said that the expression of those eyes was as of a captive creature, chained down, and hopeless of escape.

But these were the views of those only who could see a little below the surface. People in general said how pretty and sweet and charming she was—only rather too exclusive, rather difficult to know! And what an enviable life she led! To be sure, one might wish that the husband were a few years younger: but then he was rich and gentlemanly, delightful in his manners, and such a good man too! What mattered a little discrepancy in age? Mrs. Villiers was a happy woman: she had everything she could possibly desire!

"Mr. Trevelyan! How good of him! And Jean!"

Evelyn did not stir till the callers were announced. Then she went forward, in her soft restrained fashion, holding out two hands, a rare gesture with Mrs. Villiers.

"I am so glad to see you both. This is kind. It is just what I wanted, treating me like an old friend! Somehow I have always had the feeling that my most real friends were at Dulveriford Rectory; though I have seen so little of you since my marriage. I hope to see more now. We have come back to settle down for a time. My husband is tired of travelling."

"General Villiers was so good as to say that we might call at once, not waiting till after Sunday."

"Did he? That was kind. He knew I wished it. And this is Jean! The old look, I see—hardly changed."

She kissed Jean's cheek in her winning way—for Evelyn could be irresistibly winning when she chose, though she did not always choose.

"Do I know you well enough?" she asked.

"Jean is a child still," promptly asserted Mr. Trevelyan, while Jean breathed a "Yes" of unlimited meaning.

Evelyn smiled. She knew in a moment her power over the girl, and she was glad to know it. Jean interested her: not only for the sake of Mr. Trevelyan, whom Evelyn had always liked. Jean herself was so uncommon: not exactly good-looking, but so very uncommon. There was a trenchant attractiveness about the aristocratic pose of Jean's head, and the straightforward earnestness of her singular eyes, combined with an abnormal simplicity of dress and manner.

Evelyn's glance travelled over her, taking in all particulars: then she sat down on a sofa, making Jean do the same.

"I want to know this child well," she said, with her sweet graciousness. "Yes, I suppose she is a child still—compared with me. But I have a fancy that we shall be friends some day. Will you come and see me, Jean, when I am alone, now and then?"

Jean's eyes brightened into a golden glow like sunshine. "If I may," she said.

"The oftener the better," quoth Mr. Trevelyan, who was under the power of Evelyn's magic wand, though not to such an extent as to lose his own individuality.

"Thanks! Then come often, Jean—as often as you can be spared. I must introduce you to my little boudoir. Only think, that naughty brother of mine has not been near me since Wednesday morning."

Explanations had to be given. Jean left them to her father, and Mr. Trevelyan said no more than was needful, but Evelyn drew certain particulars from him by skilful questioning.

"The old story," she said. "My aunt will do her best to spoil him. After all, the only hope lies in school."

"Cyril doesn't want to be a coddle," spoke up Jean in his defence.

"You and he are great friends, are you not?"

"I don't know. Yes; I suppose so," Jean answered slowly, as if anxious to be exact.

Presently, with an abrupt change of subject—only, nothing that Evelyn did ever had an abrupt effect—Mrs. Villiers asked—

"What of Dutton parties and politics?"

"I am not a man of Dutton," was the answer.

"The better able, perhaps, to take a dispassionate outside view."

"That may be," cautiously, "but I am very busy in my own work. Not much time to watch other people."

"I wish 'other people' could say the same. It seems to me that the normal occupation of Dutton generally is to sit and look at its neighbours—not with approving eyes."

"A common result of too little to do."

"And looking at them means talking about them. Things have always been so, I suppose; but after years away, one notices more. I have been in the thick of it all this week. Everybody does not wait, like you and Jean, for leave to call before Sunday. Perhaps I should not have given leave in some cases—" with a slight curl of her lip. "I have had any number of callers: and they all seem convinced that the one object of my coming home is to hear how badly the world has gone on in my absence. The Dutton world I mean."

"So long as they keep to generalities—" and a pause.

"They do not. It is all about individuals."

"Such remarks may be checked, if one is resolved."

Evelyn's face wore a curious look, as if she were conscious of certain elements in the question which he had failed to grasp.

"Perhaps—" she said gently. And then—

"St. John's is unchanged, I hear. The shabby little boys still in full force!"

Mr. Trevelyan smiled, and drew cabalistic signs on the carpet with his walking-stick, while Jean listened and learnt. "I imagine that a good many elderly people would be distressed at changes in St. John's," he said.

"People who believe in the infallibility of sixty years ago: I never do understand that view of matters. Why must all that is done at a certain date in one's life be right, and every after deviation be wrong? Shall I come to the same way of thinking when I am old?"

"It is a not unusual result of age with ordinary minds."

"But may not people go on and learn more, instead of standing still? And don't the needs of different generations differ? Doesn't human nature take fresh developments from time to time, wanting varieties of help? I don't often talk like this—" and a restless caged look came into her beautiful eyes. "People would not understand. But surely truth as a whole is wider than it is made out by some such good people."

"Truth as a whole is wide as Him who is the Truth: and He is wider than the Universe which He has made. Our views of Truth may be narrow, but Truth itself is never narrow." Mr. Trevelyan spoke in a brief incisive style, and she smiled.

"Yes: that is what I meant. You understand. One gets a glimpse of how things really are sometimes—and then to come down to the little circles of good people, saying hard things of each other—But I shall be as bad as they, if I go on! We had better talk of something else. Tell me about your sister. Is she well? Busy as ever, I suppose. I want to see her the first day I can. Ah—here is my husband."

A nameless change crept over Evelyn, noted at once by the observant Jean. She looked up with a kind expression, a species of polite wifely welcome; but the smile vanished, and with it, her engaging sweetness. In a moment, the violet eyes grew weary, the lips satirical, the whole manner dignified and listless.

General Villiers came in quickly, with his military step and carriage; handsome still, though his grey hair had become white, and he was older in appearance by many years than the number of his summers warranted. Chronic ill-health is apt to age a man: and he had suffered much at times from rheumatism. He might have been easily taken for past seventy: and it was quite true, as Mrs. Kennedy had said, that he looked like Evelyn's grandfather. He had even begun to stoop a little. At the moment of his entrance, a distinct frown was stamped upon his brow, as if something had vexed him: but it cleared away at the sight of callers, and he came forward to greet them, with his air of polished courtesy.

The Trevelyans did not belong to that "St. John set" which formed his own chosen environment when at home. As he would perhaps have said, they did not "suit him." He knew, however, that Evelyn liked them: and he was too affectionate a husband not to be pleased with what gave her pleasure, even though he might be just a little uneasy at the prospect of an intimacy in that quarter.

He was somewhat in bondage to the opinions of others; not of "others" generally, but of certain leading individuals in his own clique; Miss Devereux, for instance, and Lady Lucas, and Colonel Atherstone, none of whom liked or approved of Mr. Trevelyan. Where his own kindliness of heart would have carried him on, he was often pulled back by a recollection of what others—these particular "others—" might say. Still, he was a thorough gentleman, and small-talk went as smoothly as a glissade for several minutes, till Mr. Trevelyan rose to go.

"Jean must be sure to come again very soon," Evelyn said, kissing the girl; and Jean went off in a state of smothered radiance, which her father could not even guess at.

"My dear!" the General said seriously, when he and Evelyn were alone, speaking in a tone of reproof. He was a most devoted husband, as husbands go, but seven years of married life do undoubtedly, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, make away with the romance of attachment. Dearly as the General loved his fair young wife, he was not at all incapable of finding fault with her; and this premonitory "My dear!" did not come with the shock of anything unusual. It only came as something unwelcome: and her lips grew slightly hard.

"Yes—" she said.

"I think, my love, that now we are at home, you must make up your mind to be a little more guarded, more careful in your manner, when friends call friends of long standing."

"More guarded!"

"Perhaps that is hardly the word. What I mean is, that you have to be a little more kind and pleasant, my love, even where you do not so very particularly care for the callers themselves. It is necessary to guard one's manner sometimes from over-coldness, as well as from over-frankness. I am speaking early for your sake as well as for my own. I should be sorry if a wrong impression went forth of my wife; and you cannot, I am convinced, really wish to give offence. It is only inadvertence."

"Offence to whom, William?"

"It is hardly needful to mention names. I think you will understand without further explanation. You did not of course intend to act slightingly to anybody; but a certain amount of attention is due to people in a certain position; and when it is withheld—can you wonder that they are hurt?"

"I cannot be otherwise than natural."

"Nay, Evelyn—surely politeness ought to be natural."

"I have not failed in bare politeness, and I will not," she said quietly. "But more is expected, and I cannot give it. I don't like Dutton people."

"You do not really know them. There is at least no need to pass judgment until you do."

"I have no wish to know them any better."

"Then I am to understand that your manner yesterday to some of my friends—a manner which gave pain—was not inadvertent, but intentional?"

Evelyn almost spoke, almost told him of the real cause. It was a pity that she did not. Though he might have been difficult to convince, he would not in the abstract have approved of gossip, and he would at least have seen that she had a reason for showing coldness.

"But what is the use?" she asked herself plaintively. "He will not understand."

She turned away with a sigh, making no answer, and the frown on the General's brow was stamped there during many hours. He thought Evelyn was wilfully bent on opposing him.

It was difficult, perhaps, for him to think otherwise, when she would not attempt to make her motives clear; yet no doubt it was difficult also for Evelyn to enter on such an attempt, when she had so often tried and failed. The state of tension between them had grown gradually out of an utter discrepancy of mind and character, at least not less in degree than the discrepancy of age. In such cases, it is often most difficult to say where the blame lies.

For he was so good, so earnest, a man: and withal so fixed in his views. When he had made up his mind, he had made up his mind, and nothing could move him. This was a marked idiosyncrasy, a part of his very nature; and it was equally shown on questions of great moment and of passing interest.

On almost every conceivable subject of importance, he had come to definite conclusions some thirty or forty years earlier; and he had not since deviated by a hair's breadth, at least not consciously, from the neat solution of each difficulty, then laid down by himself for his own instruction. He was never troubled by a shadow of doubt that his opinions might not be absolutely and altogether right. He never thought it possible that here or there he might be mistaken. He had his Bible; he studied it; he reached certain conclusions. When other people, studying their Bibles no less earnestly, reached different conclusions, they of course were wrong.

He was too gentlemanly and kind-hearted to judge them harshly in words; but he always felt their deviations from truth, as held by himself, to be sad and perplexing; and he had no pleasure in their society. His friends were always those who agreed with himself, who submitted to his dictum. All who did so agree, he accepted and believed in thoroughly; so thoroughly that, as we have seen, Evelyn was hopeless of her power to disturb that belief. All who did not so agree were relegated to the outer circle of mere acquaintances.

But he could not so relegate his wife: and Evelyn by no means agreed with him on all points. She made no effort to conceal the fact; and this was a lasting grief to the single-eyed simple-hearted man. For if he were inevitably always in the right, she must of necessity, where she differed from him, be always in the wrong.

Evelyn's mind and character were in many respects a complete enigma to the General. He could not fathom her; could not grasp the complexities of a nature so unlike his own. It was not his fault. A short-sighted man cannot fairly be blamed for not seeing so far as a long-sighted man.

The General, with all his real goodness and nobleness, had a narrow make of mind, a contracted mental vision. And at sixty-two or sixty-three years of age, he was incapable of gauging his young wife of twenty-five. She had not yet come to her full growth. She was expanding, gaining fresh knowledge, assimilating new thoughts, year by year. He had been petrified early into a permanent shape; and for thirty or forty years past, he had almost ceased to expand. How could the two minds suit?

Evelyn's restless thought, her searching into the foundations of statements which he accepted en bloc, her eager listening to fresh theories, her weariness of religious strifes and factious oppositions—all of these he resolved with sorrowful haste into "dangerous tendencies," and to all of these, he set himself in resolute opposition. He was indeed most willing to discuss vexed questions with her; and he would never, like many men, forget his gentlemanliness in the heat of argument; but he always began and ended with the assumption that he himself was inevitably right, and he had no power to see her side of the matter.

So it came to pass that Evelyn fell into a habit of systematically evading all discussion; not merely all religious discussion, which under the circumstances was no doubt her wisest course, but all discussion of most everyday matters. If he found fault, she offered no defence. If he misjudged her, she attempted no explanation. It was "no use," she told herself. Such a state of things, which in any other relationship of life would be hardly more than endurable, when existing between a husband and wife could not but result in distress and isolation.

[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."

Miss Devereux, spinster

MISS DEVEREUX, SPINSTER