Chapter VI: Friction

"If two lives join, there is oft a scar,
They are one and one, with a shadowy third,
One near one is too far."
R. BROWNING.

MRS. VILLIERS of Dutton Park was a marked personage in Dutton; partly from her husband's wealth and position, partly from her own personal charms. Her actions were watched and commented on to any extent. Where she drove, how she dressed, what she said, thought, and did, became matters for daily chit-chat. Above all, whom she called upon, whom she chose to welcome, and whom she treated with coldness, were questions which stirred the neighbourhood—more especially that part of the neighbourhood which belonged to the congregation of St. John's.

General Villiers was looked upon as the exclusive property of the St. John's clique; and where he belonged, his wife of course belonged also. How could she help it? He always occupied in Church one of the few carved chancel chairs, and Evelyn occupied a second by his side—an enviable distinction not to be accorded to everybody. When he stood up, martial and handsome, he was a fine specimen of the "old soldier," and he spoke out the responses in a deep bass voice, while his face was illuminated with earnest feeling, the sincerity of which none could doubt.

Evelyn, standing by his side, looked lovely and graceful, of course, for she never could be anything else; but nobody could help noting her air of habitual weariness, more especially during the sermon. Mr. Kennedy always preached for half-an-hour, sometimes more, on no occasion less. Whether or no his brain happened to contain matter enough for a thirty minutes' discourse, thirty minutes at least the congregation invariably had. Now a sermon, like a gas, is capable of indefinite expansion; but also, like a gas, a sermon grows thinner through stretching. That which might be a forceful little address, when compressed into fifteen or twenty minutes, becomes too often thin and weak when pulled out to fit thirty or forty minutes.

The congregation generally did not object. These soothing effusions, lengthily spun out, suited them—or at least suited their taste, which is not quite the same thing—and since they thoroughly accepted Mr. Kennedy, they were loyally willing to accept any amount of sermon from him, wholesale and without criticism. But to this state of mind Evelyn had not attained; and she chafed beneath the weekly infliction, making little effort to hide what she felt, and thus becoming a subject for animadversion. To add to the displeasure of the clique, she only came to St. John's when her husband came. If he were kept in by rheumatism, she wandered to Dulveriford Church.

Evelyn cared little what might be said, since she cared little for Dutton people. If any murmur reached her, she smiled her faintly satirical smile, and went on, unmoved. Why should she shape her life to suit the notions of Lady Lucas, or the Atherstones, or a dozen other people, whose very existence was a matter of indifference to her? The only friends she had in the place were the Trevelyans.

General Villiers had shown displeasure more than once at her persistent coldness to those whom he most favoured. He loved his young wife intensely—not, of course, with the romantic worship of courtship days, which could see no fault in her; but with a deep and tried affection, far transcending hers for him. It is not too much to say that he would willingly have given his life for hers, any day. Nevertheless he was keenly conscious of a certain independence of will, which would not submit to his dictation; and, as we have seen, he did not scruple to tell her plainly when he counted her in the wrong, though never with harshness.

"My love, I wish you would arrange to see a little more of Colonel Atherstone and Miss Atherstone," he said one day in the beginning of December, speaking with his air of gentle authority. He had been incited to this, of course, and of course quite unconsciously on his part: for he was a most transparent man, and very much under the dominion of others, without being in the least aware of it.

Evelyn's wifely instinct divined or guessed both facts. She did not blame him for the first, because she understood the second. She had complete trust in his chivalrous honour. That any person should venture directly to blame her to him was a thing impossible in her eyes. Her affection for him was far more akin to that of child for father, than of wife for husband; and it was often buried under a pile of rubbish, resulting from everyday friction; but her trust was undoubting. Nor was that trust misplaced. Yet—and Evelyn knew it—others could turn him to and fro, without his knowledge.

"I am afraid it is sometimes remarked," he went on, "that you hold aloof from them. You are so often engaged when they call; and you never receive them with any warmth. I do not ask you to give up your friends, Evelyn, but surely I have a right to expect kindness to mine."

"Anybody except the Atherstones,"' she said.

"Nay, Evelyn; why?"

"I cannot endure them."

"You do not give yourself the opportunity to become acquainted—"

"I am too much acquainted already. Anybody rather than them! I can get on with Lady Lucas, for she is a perfect lady. I could not make a friend of her, but we are on civil terms."

"Civil terms!"

"I mean, we are all politeness. We discuss the weather, and we don't yawn. But none of that set suit me."

General Villiers wore a look of displeasure. "I should not have expected you to call my friends by such a term."

"To call them a 'set!' Is there any harm? I thought all Dutton was divided up into sets and cliques. William, I do try to be polite to the Atherstones when they come; but I can't do more. I cannot make myself like them."

"I wish to ask them in to lunch one day soon. To-day is Monday. Will Thursday suit you?"

"If you like," she said coldly.

"You will write the invitation, of course. To lunch, quietly—by ourselves."

"I would rather have some one else to meet them."

"No—I think not this time. In fact, I have promised the Colonel that we would be alone. There are matters that I wish to talk over with him."

"And I am to have the pleasure of Miss Atherstone's interminable gossip."

Evelyn spoke scornfully, and the General sighed, feeling the state of things to be deplorable. He was conscious of a widening gulf between himself and his wife. They could scarcely talk now on any subject without a jar. If only she would have submitted herself to his dictum on disputed points, all would have gone with such delightful smoothness; but this was far from being the state of the case.

He had an odd liking for the hugely-moustached Colonel, whose loud voice and boisterous laugh were so in contrast with his own gentlemanly quietness. Such likings are difficult to understand. The Colonel could talk down all Dutton, and he did not know the meaning of refinement. He was broad and stout, plain-featured and roughly resolute, and he would trample with an iron heel on the opinions of all who differed from himself. He loved nothing better than to decry the doings of Bishops and Clergy, with a slap-dash and jaunty vehemence, surrounded by a circle of listeners, and he would handle recklessly the dearest beliefs of others, caring nothing whatever for the pain he gave.

This it was which utterly repelled Evelyn. Strange to say, the General could listen and not disapprove. He would never himself speak thus; but he would permit and condone harshness, even coarseness, in his friend. Evelyn could only look upon the Colonel's power over her husband as a species of bewildering fascination.

Thursday afternoon happened to be a free time with Jean, and as she had not seen Evelyn for some days, she started for the Park. The sky looked threatening; a sharp frost had set in; and Mr. Trevelyan foretold snow; but Jean cared little for weather. She was secure of a welcome from Evelyn, and secure of an escort home, if she should not return till after dark.

Light of foot and light of heart, she sped briskly on her way. The bitter cold and the half frozen slippery fields were nothing to her young vigour. She had a great joy ahead, for Oswald would be at home for the New Year. Oswald was in the Army now, a fine young man, Jean's pride and delight. She firmly believed that no such promising subaltern had ever been seen in the Service before. Oswald's choice of a profession had been something of a trial to Mr. Trevelyan, who would have wished his only son to follow in his own steps; but he was the last man to use pressure for such a result.

Had it not been for the delight of Oswald's coming, Jean might have felt slightly flat. She had just heard that Cyril would only be at home for a week this Christmas.

"The dear boy had a cough," Miss Devereux said—anybody else would have called it "a scrape." And she meant to give him a few weeks at Bournemouth.

Lady Lucas had recommended change, and change was so good for a boy of his age. Perhaps in the summer she might take him abroad. Lady Lucas thought it would be a good plan. Even now, Sybella always wanted somebody else's opinion to bolster up her own.

Evelyn was alone in her boudoir when Jean entered, and there were traces of tears on her face. Jean asked no questions. It was not her way to show a solicitude which might be unwelcome. She pulled off her thick ulster, and sat down to talk about Oswald's coming.

Generally Evelyn liked to hear about Oswald, because it gave her pleasure to see the glowing sunshine in the sister's eyes, when his name was spoken; but to-day her attention wandered past control; and Jean soon dropped her own affairs, waiting in silence for Evelyn to take the initiative.

For a good while the silence lasted, unbroken. Evelyn was doing nothing, not even pretending to work. She only sat gazing into the fire with eyes which had their largest and saddest look. Jean had often seen her so before; and usually the mood would pass off in talk upon other matters. To-day she seemed unable to converse; and Jean, after waiting a reasonable time, took the initiative herself.

"Has something worried you very much?" she asked, in her direct serious style.

"The Atherstones have been here to lunch."

"Yes." Jean knew that they were not favourites with Evelyn; and she could not wonder.

Since the Colonel in public and in private systematically opposed and abused Mr. Trevelyan, it was not surprising that Jean disliked him. Mr. Trevelyan could afford to smile with grim unconcern: but naturally his daughter felt for him.

"One has to invite them sometimes. But it makes—such a day! When they go, I feel that I must be alone for a few hours to recover myself. I gave orders that only you might be admitted this afternoon. If anybody is offended, it can't be helped. O Jean, I get so tired, so tired, of these people."

"Of the Atherstones?"

"Of them most. When they have been with me for an hour, I could think I had been under the incubus for ages. Does that sound silly?" Evelyn pressed both hands over her face. "Jean, why am I so easily upset? Why can't I carry it all off, and be indifferent?—Not dare what anybody says or thinks? I am vexed with myself for being so worried—so like a naughty child! Do you know the feeling? I don't know how to be good or patient to anybody to-day."

"You are never naughty to me."

"Am I not? That is because you never rub me the wrong way. If you could have heard the talk, talk, talk, at lunch, about our neighbours' opinions, and our neighbours' errors, and the wickedness of everybody except ourselves! It makes me wild. You mustn't think—My husband never says such things. He never could, never would. But somehow, he doesn't see or understand when others do it. And those people are past endurance!"

Jean was not given to caressing movements; yet her hand found its way to Evelyn's, and was held fast by the white feverish fingers.

"I wonder why your touch is so quieting. You always do me good. O Jean, I am so tired!" She sank back in her chair, pale and listless. "Sometimes I almost feel that I can't go on living at Dutton—that I must get away. My husband likes it so much, and he hates travelling; but I would give anything to be on the move. One is more free abroad. It is such a narrow rut here—always the same people, and the same ideas! And the cliques, and the gossipings, and the party fights—I am sick of the whole!"