Chapter VII: An Unwilling Witness

"The world goes up, and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,
Sweet wife:
No, never come over again."
C. KINGSLEY.

"INDOORS, my love? That is right. It seems disposed to snow," observed General Villiers, entering the boudoir half-an-hour later. "Miss Trevelyan here!"

"Snow!" repeated Evelyn, turning to the window. "How pretty! Look, Jean—such great soft feathers. Yes, Jean has been here some time. I shall keep her to tea, and let Walters see her home. You are not going out, William?"

"I have a little business to attend to. It will not take very long."

"But your rheumatism—"

"That has been better lately. I am well wrapped up, and the snow does not seem much. Exercise is good for me. Are you better now, my love?"

Jean turned to the fireplace, making believe to find some object of interest on the mantelpiece. Something beyond common husbandly solicitude underlay the simple inquiry.

Jean's perceptions were very keen. She had caught one glimpse of the General's bent head and tender gravity of demeanour, one glimpse also of Evelyn's lifted remorseful face. More than that she would not see; but she could not close her ears. There was the sound of a hushed kiss, and then a murmur. Jean longed to run away, but she felt it essential to keep her back turned; and the most she could venture on, was a slight rattle of the fire-irons, to cover a possible answer.

"You are sure you won't take cold?" she heard Evelyn say next, in a stirred tremulous voice.

"No fear, dear. I have to go to the Ricketts'—yes, the cottage on the border of the wood. Not so very far. I shall be back by six o'clock, I hope."

The General came forward for a good-bye shake of the hand with Jean, so she had to face about, somewhat discomposed. Evelyn seemed to cling to her husband's side.

"Good-bye. Pray stay as long as you can with my wife," General Villiers begged, with his stately courtesy. "I shall count it a kindness. She has been rather over-fatigued to-day—not quite the thing."

"Jean will not hurry away. She does not mind weather," said Evelyn.

"I should love to be caught in a storm," asserted Jean.

"It is no storm yet. I do not know how things may be by-and-by. Well—good-bye, my love, for the moment. Keep yourself warm, and try to rest."

"I'll try, and—William—"

Evelyn clung to him, white as a sheet, with wide sorrowful eyes, and there was the sound of a sob.

It was of no use for Jean to pretend now not to see or hear. She could only stand in constrained silence.

"William, I am so sorry! You were so good to me! I'll try not to behave so again! Say you forgive me."

"My dearest!" and the General folded her slight figure in protecting arms; for the moment almost as oblivious of Jean's presence as Evelyn was careless of it. "You are overstrained," he said, kissing her brow. "I must not let you do so much. Miss Trevelyan will take care of you now for an hour or two, and when I come back—My dear one, don't fret! You did not mean anything, I know—" in a most audible masculine whisper. "Another time, perhaps—Yes, I quite understand—My own dear little wife! Yes, come to the door, and see me off."

Jean was greatly relieved when the two vanished. She drew a breath of vexation at having been so uncomfortably placed, and walked to the window, where growing darkness was lighted by a ghostly glimmer of white feathers, trailing slowly earthwards.

As she looked, a gust of wind set the feathers swirling in complicated circles; then it died away, and they dropped again with soft deliberation. Jean thought of her two miles' walk as of something delightful to come. She heartily enjoyed a battle with excited elements.

Evelyn returned soon, with moist wistful eyes, and a red spot on either cheek.

"O Jean, he is so good—always so noble and true! If only other people were like him!" Two large tears fell heavily. "I have been so cross to him to-day—before you came! As if he could help the Atherstones being what they are! And it is just his real goodness and humility which make him not even see how different they are from himself. I am sure Colonel Atherstone's way of laying down the law, and riding over everybody, would make any other man angry—but not my husband."

Jean was taken by surprise. She had not expected this little outburst of wifely enthusiasm. It was all true, no doubt. The General was most good: a noble nature in many respects. To be sure Evelyn did not always show so vivid an appreciation of his fine character; but nothing could be more desirable than that she should appreciate him. If a man's own wife is not awake to his merits, he stands a poor chance. Jean knelt on the rug, studying this phase of affairs in the firelight.

"He is very kind," she remarked moderately.

"Yes, you like him, of course. You could not know him, and not like him. But you do not know my husband fully, Jean. Who can—except myself? There are a hundred things that people never hear. He is so ready to take trouble for anybody. And so perfectly honourable—he never could stoop to any of the little mean things which other men do stoop to—even good men sometimes, not thinking. It is such devotion to what he feels to be right. He would give up everything to-morrow—I am sure of it—if there were any question of sacrificing his principles. One must admire such a spirit. And all these years so good to me—so patient! Even when he finds fault, he only does it because he thinks he ought—not from temper."

Jean's glance spoke admiration, not for the General at that moment, but for Evelyn herself. Evelyn failed to decipher it.

"He ought not to go out in such weather as this. It is very bad for him. There is a poor man, ill and in trouble about his rent. Our agent seems to have been hard on him; and the man is taken worse in consequence. My husband will not let him pass another anxious night; and he will not send any one else, because he doesn't understand the rights of the case."

"Couldn't he have the carriage out?"

"The horses are not rough-shod. This frost has taken us by surprise, and we did not mean to drive anywhere, so my husband thought we would wait a day to see if the cold lasted."

Evelyn sighed. "I wish I had not let him go. Suppose he takes a bad chill?"

"But why should one expect it?"

"I don't know. I have had such a feeling this afternoon of some trouble ahead. Do you know what that is? It comes sometimes and lasts for hours, and nothing happens, and then I laugh at myself; but when it comes again I am frightened. I never felt so when I was a girl—only the last two or three years. It was that which made me beg my husband's pardon just now—a kind of dread. I had worried him, and he is so kind and good. When he held me in his arms, I kept thinking, 'Suppose he should never hold me so again?' Why does one have such fancies? I often do, and they lead to nothing—but they might."

"If one is always expecting trouble, one is sure to be in the right some day, because troubles do come sooner or later," said Jean, with severe common-sense.

"That is so like you," Evelyn said, with a sad smile. "But one can hardly reason away such feelings. I suppose they are partly physical—when one is not very strong. I wish he were safe back. Jean, I think we will go to the library. Walters will bring tea there presently. You don't mind staying with me a little longer? The snow seems getting very thick—but I feel as if could not bear to be alone. You won't leave me yet?"

"O no: and I don't mind any amount of snow," Jean could truly answer.

Two hours passed, and Jean was still at the Park, for she could not quit Evelyn. General Villiers remained absent, and Jean had resolved to wait till he should appear.

Not that there was the slightest cause for anxiety, she told herself. Though the wind howled, and the snow fell heavily, it was not a storm of exceptional violence; and though the General was an elderly man for his years, he could be counted well up to a four or five miles' walk.

Jean did not stay on the General's account, but for Evelyn's sake. They had had their tea long since, and Evelyn had walked up and down the library, as a vent to her restlessness, till strength failed. She was leaning back now in an easy-chair, every muscle in her fair face tense with suppressed agitation. She seemed equally unable to endure conversation and silence.

"Sit close to me," she whispered, if the girl moved. "Jean, let me feel you close!" came repeatedly; yet when Jean spoke, she hardly responded.

Jean was perplexed whether to look upon the mood as purely nervous, or whether to conjecture some possible reality in it. No doubt, real foretellings of trouble have been at times experienced; but, on the other hand, Evelyn had frankly confessed to such experiences on her own part as usually without result; and when genuine result does follow, one still has to allow for coincidence. Whatever else the mood implied, however, it meant suffering, and Jean was always tender to suffering.

"Jean, what o'clock?"

"Half past six. That is nothing. The wind would hinder anybody."

"You are so wise and logical."

"Isn't it best?"

"Perhaps—yes. But logic won't do away with this feeling, the dread of some evil ahead. When it comes it always terrifies me, even though it so often means nothing. I am not superstitious; but don't you think warnings are sometimes sent?"

"I am not sure that they may not be," said Jean slowly. "Only—they would be true; and you say that this feeling is often mistaken. But if you are so worried, why don't you send Walters to meet General Villiers? He might be glad of an arm, now the wind is strong."

"Oh, thanks—the very thing! You practical girl! Yes, please, ring."

She roused herself into something like animation when Walters appeared—a middle-aged slow-mannered man, of stout and heavy build. He listened attentively, looking from one to the other.

"Ricketts! Yes, ma'am! On the border of the wood. Which way, ma'am?"

"Are there two ways? The path across the marshes? General Villiers would not attempt that in such weather. The road, of course; and go as quickly as you can, please."

Then they waited again. Seven o'clock came; half past seven. Evelyn had the dinner put off till her husband should arrive; but she consented to take a glass of wine and a biscuit at Jean's urgent request. She had not dressed as usual. Jean could not; and Evelyn would not go upstairs.

Though pale, Evelyn was braver now—now when Jean began to feel that some cause for uneasiness really did exist. Suppose General Villiers had missed his way in the blinding snow? This was not absolutely impossible even on the high road. A false turn might have carried him far out of his route, before he discovered his mistake, and might mean some risk of chill for an elderly man. As for the footpath across the marshes, Jean scouted the idea as absurd. No man in his senses would choose such a path on such an afternoon, even though the high road might mean nearly a mile farther round.

Till close upon seven the snow continued to fall, and then it ceased. Jean, periodically visiting the window, to peer through curtains and blinds, reported breaking, clouds, and presently a gleam of moonlight.

"I shall have a lovely walk," she said cheerily. "If General Villiers has taken shelter in some cottage, he will be able to get home now."

"Jean! There he is!"

Evelyn sprang up with a rare impulsiveness, and ran into the hall. Her cheeks and eyes were brilliant with joyous relief. Jean thought she had never seen her look more lovely.

The front door had been left on the latch by Evelyn's order, and as it opened, they were both at hand. A cloaked figure stepped in, shut the door, shook off soon loose snow upon the mat, and looked at Evelyn. She stood as if turned to stone.

"Father!" Jean said in amazement.

"I thought you might be glad of some one to see you back, if—"

There was an ominous pause. He took Evelyn's cold hand, and the stern set of his lips relaxed.

"My husband!" she said faintly.

"Then he has not come home yet?"

"No. O tell me—"

"I think you had better sit down. You are trembling," said Mr. Trevelyan.

He drew Evelyn's hand within his arm, and led her back to the chair she had left. Without such help she could hardly have reached it. "Your husband has been to the Ricketts' cottage."

"He left us at about four o'clock, and he meant to be back before six," explained Jean.

"Yes: I called to see the sick man, and General Villiers had been there before me."

"How long before?" Evelyn asked.

"He started to come home at five o'clock—"

"Two hours and a half ago!"

"Mrs. Ricketts told me that he seemed spent and out of breath when he arrived. She begged him not to stay long, as the weather was getting worse; and she offered to send her boy with him, but the General would not hear of it. She saw him struggling against the wind before he disappeared. It is not unlikely that he may have turned aside and found shelter somewhere. But the snow is over now. I have come direct along the road. Walters arrived before I left the cottage."

"He had not met my husband?"

"No. General Villiers may have tried the short cut, and—found it difficult," said Mr. Trevelyan cautiously. "It would not be wise; still, if he felt over-fatigued, he might be tempted. Walters and young Ricketts have gone that way, and I have promised to meet them with Adams."

"In case help is needed."

"If he has lost the path—yes. He might be too exhausted to get on. I met Adams outside, and I told him to be ready at once with lanterns—feeling sure you would excuse the liberty. Walters does not profess to know the geography of the marshes, and young Ricketts unfortunately is lame just now from an accident, so they may not get very far. Jean will stay here and take care of you."

"Thanks—I am coming too."

Evelyn stood facing him, a bright flush on either cheek.

"You! Pardon me: it would be madness! You do not know the marshes on a night like this. Stay indoors, Mrs. Villiers, and be ready for your husband when he arrives. You could do no good whatever—only hinder us."

Mr. Trevelyan's manner was uncompromising to sternness. He thought nothing of a buffet with the gale for his hardy Jean—brought up from infancy to fight through any manner of discomfort in the path of duty; but such exposure for this fair porcelain-like creature, always tenderly sheltered, was another matter.

"I shall not be a hindrance," she said resolutely. "You don't know how much I can do and endure when there is need."

Mr. Trevelyan was not convinced. He thought the scheme an insane one, and he told her so again in plain terms. Delay was much to be deprecated, yet he did delay to urge her compliance.

When, however, in place of opposing her will to his, she laid pleading hands on his arm, and lifted beseeching eyes to say—

"Please, please, let me go! I cannot stay at home any longer! I think it will drive me wild!"

Then he gave in.

Perhaps Evelyn was the only woman living to whom he would have yielded in the face of his own judgment; but what man could ever withstand her?

"Well," he said, "it is not wise, but if you are bent upon it—Yes, you may come too, Jean. See that Mrs. Villiers is well wrapped up. The wind cuts like a knife. Would your husband allow this?" he asked of Evelyn.

"It is for him," she answered. "If it were for anybody else, I would ask his leave. Come, Jean—we must be quick."

Evelyn was all life and energy, as she donned a fur-lined cloak and beaver hat. Jean fastened her dress higher, insisted on the stoutest boots within reach, and wound a woollen cloud round throat and chest.

Jean's own substantial footgear, close-fitting ulster, and cloth cap, were well adapted for such an expedition.

Evelyn's fears seemed almost to have departed, and she smiled at Jean's precautions.

"My dear, there is no need. I never take cold," she said. "But you shall do as you like. How good your father is to let me go! Nothing is so dreadful as to sit still, doing nothing, when one is anxious. Jean, ask Mr. Trevelyan whether we ought not to take a little flask of brandy? My husband might need something of the sort."

Mr. Trevelyan had thought of this already. Adams, the head-gardener, was waiting, and in three minutes, they sallied forth.