Chapter XI: New Ground

"And is it true
Fire rankles at the heart of every globe?
Perhaps. But these are matters one may prove
Too deeply for poetic purposes:
Rather select a theory that . . . yes,
Laugh! What does that prove?—Stations you midway
And saves some little o'er refining."
"Sordello": R. BROWNING.

"IT is five o'clock, I do believe," said Mrs. Trevelyan.

She slowly lifted her eyes from the book which had held her enchained during an hour past; eyes exactly like those of her son Jem in shape and colouring, but at this moment ineffably dreamy. It was not Mrs. Trevelyan's wont to indulge in absent attitudes for the purpose of impressing other people, after the fashion of Sybella Devereux: but she was of a genuinely dreamy nature, given to losing herself in vague trains of ideas, to the complete exclusion of her surroundings. This tendency does not always imply profound thought; in fact, it very often does not mean "thought" at all, in the strict sense of the word. It only means a certain readiness—possibly a weak readiness—to be swept away by any little streamlet of notions or emotions, no matter how trivial. The veriest child-story in pink or blue cover had power to withdraw all Mrs. Trevelyan's faculties from the outer world; and if she began to consider the make of her next bonnet she was plunged into an abyss of cogitation.

But on the other hand, she was not a vapid women; she read a good deal besides stories; and she was capable to some extent of following out a chain of mental observations.

"Five o'clock, I do believe," she repeated, as the hall clock boomed out the hour.

Her eyes travelled to the hearth-rug, and were there arrested by a fine black Cocker spaniel of solid make, lying, nose on paws, in a position of comfort.

"Prince! Only think! The little girl will be here directly."

Prince was a gentleman, born and bred. He replied at once to the remark, left his cosy corner, and came to his mistress' side.

Though past fifty, she was still slight in figure, and active when not dreaming. She wore perpetual black, and it suited well the pale brown hair, arranged in smooth bands on either side of her forehead. A modified widow's cap had been her headgear for many years, and nobody would have liked anything else. Her movements were very gentle, ladylike, and quiet.

The room was small, too full of furniture, and overcrowded with knick-knacks. A continuous sheet of portraits in every variety of frame clothed the walls, and all gaps were filled up with brackets or hanging plates of old china. One window overlooked the village street, with a neat front garden and a goodly bank of evergreens between; the other window, a bow, opened upon a sloping lawn. Both house and garden were upon a small scale, but both also were prettily designed.

"Only a few minutes more, Prince. We shall like to have her, shall we not? And you will be a dear good dog, and not bark or frighten the little girl. Children don't like to be frightened, you know. So you must be very gentle to Jean."

If brown eyes could speak, the intelligent orbs of Prince uttered volumes, as they gazed into the lady's face.

"Good Prince! You understand it all, don't you?—Every word! I used to like little Jean very much. She was a dear little girl—rather funny, but nice. She must be grown now. Why, it is actually a quarter past five. And no tea up! Giles!—You there!"

"My dear aunt, don't excite yourself, pray! The clock is fast, and the train will be slow. Usual combination of circumstances."

"But the tea! Maria seems to have forgotten. What can she be about? O no, don't ring—please don't ring! You see—" in a hushed voice—"Maria has rather a temper, and I don't think she or the cook quite like it. And if the cook is cross to-morrow morning, it is uncomfortable. O the tea is sure to come directly—only I can't think what Maria is about. Don't ring, please, Giles. Yes, I always keep that clock rather fast—just to hurry on Maria."

"Doesn't Maria know that it is fast?"

"Well, yes; and somehow she always remembers it, and I never do. How long have you been in the room? I didn't hear you come."

"No, indeed. You were utterly lost to all sublunary considerations—mentally and spiritually gone. It was a mere casket sitting on that chair—the outside shell—interior vanished elsewhere! What have you of such engrossing interest? History—philosophy—science? Whew—it's a story—a good little innocent story of sweet little boys and girls."

"Ah, that is the worst of me. I do get so interested in a story. Would you believe it? I had forgotten that you were in the house. And when I looked up and saw you, I was as startled—!"

"No, I don't think I can believe that!"—solemnly shaking his head. "Too good an opinion of myself!"

"Ah, now you are quizzing me. But really that little girl ought to arrive. I hope the train hasn't broken-down."

"It's such a common thing for trains to break down! Just as likely as not!"

"Now, Giles! I do wish though, that I had gone to the station to meet her. If it had not been for the rain—"

"Why didn't you ask me to go?"

"You!!"

Giles Cuthbert laughed. He was a rather largely-built man, with long loose limbs, and a sunburnt face, not good-looking as to feature, yet attractive from its humorous geniality. His movements were deliberate and gentlemanly; and he had a curious voice, soft, low, somewhat drawling, but without affectation. The man altogether was entirely natural. In age he might have been almost anywhere between thirty and forty-five.

"How old is this little girl?"

"Jean! I don't exactly know. I have been trying to remember; but the years do go so fast—and one doesn't exactly like to inquire, because it seems as if one had not cared. I could ask Jem, to be sure, but I always forget. She must be—thirteen—fourteen—nearly fourteen! It is years since I have seen any of those Trevelyans. Jean's mother was a sweet woman but her father—No, I never did care for Stewart."

"Hasn't she been here before?"

"I'm afraid I have never asked her. Things have come about so, you know. One can't always be seeing all one's relations, and Dulveriford is out of the way—so far north. I shouldn't have thought of asking the child now, only Jem put the idea into my head; he said she wanted a change, he thought. She had had a fright or something, and somebody wrote word to Jem that she was not looking well. O I remember—there was a poor old gentleman found frozen to death at night on the marshes; and Jean happened to be there."

"Odd place for a child to happen to be in."

"Yes: I don't know how it was. Jem didn't say much, and I have forgotten what he did say. He will tell us more when he comes. It will not do to tease her with questions."

"And Jem is coming home himself when she is here?"

"Yes; so nice, isn't it? I don't know when he can manage it; but as soon as possible. Jean has always been rather a favourite of his. Dear Jem is so fond of children."

"Here comes the infant, aunt!"

"Now, my dear Giles, she isn't an infant I assure you. Why, girls of thirteen and fourteen are nearly grown-up in these days. They know so much more than I do, that I am half afraid of them. All about atoms and cheese-mites, and laws of nature, and gases, and how things grow—it quite frightens one. Yes, there's the cab. I ordered the cab to be at the station, and I sent word to the station-master to see after Jean. I did want to send Maria, but cook doesn't like Maria to go out when it rains. You see cook is rather rheumatic. No tea yet! What can Maria be after? I almost think I shall have to ring? O no, wait, please—she will come to answer the front bell, and then I can speak."

"I don't see the precise connection between cook's rheumatism and Maria's staying indoors. You seem to have a pair of dragonesses in the kitchen."

"No, indeed—pray don't say such things, Giles! Somebody might hear! It is only that I do like to keep people good-tempered. Cook is such a nice worthy creature—I am sure, if I were dying, she would do anything for me! But she does get rather old, and if anything puts her out, the dinner is spoilt."

"I should be disposed to prefer a cook who would do anything for me while I was alive and well. What's that for?"

Mrs. Trevelyan had produced a neat square of white knitting.

"Why—nothing, dear; only a very nice clergyman said last year in a sermon that women ought to make a point of doing needlework—at least, I think he meant that! So I have always kept this at hand since, for emergencies. I am afraid I don't do much—" regretfully—"but it is nicer to be found busy. Jean might think she had such an idle cousin."

"Ah! A hint for me!" Giles lugged out a big volume of natural history, seated himself, and opened at random. "Wouldn't it be more effective to be found reading aloud?—Surprised in the act of improving our minds?"

In a monotonous sing-song, Giles started off—"'The Chlamyphores, which have ten teeth on each side of both jaws, five toes on each foot, the anterior claws very large, crooked, compressed, and furnishing, as in the Cabassous, a very powerful cutting instrument adapted for digging. The back is covered—' Hallo!"

Mrs. Trevelyan never could resist Giles' manner, and she was in a paroxysm of laughter when the door opened to admit, not the expected "little girl," but a tall damsel, with pale oval face, and combination of shyness and reserve crystallised into a resolute stillness.

Giles did not start up quickly, yet he was standing, before Jean could actually enter; and his twinkling eyes took her in at a glance, twinkling more than usual at his aunt's mistake. The subdued "Hallo!" meant some measure of surprise on his own part. "So—ho!" thought he. "That is what Jem is after! Little girl, indeed!"

Mrs. Trevelyan's greeting was no less warm than if the supposititious "infant" had really appeared. She took Jean into her arms with repeated kisses, while Jean, unused to be hugged by one virtual stranger before another and absolute stranger, was conscious of an inward glow of response, but outwardly shrank rather more into herself.

Giles Cuthbert came forward, as a member of the household, to offer his meed of welcome, and thereby recalled Mrs. Trevelyan to her duty.

"How stupid of me! I'm forgetting to introduce—my nephew, Mr. Cuthbert, Jean—Miss Trevelyan, Giles. Of course you have heard of Giles, dear, hundreds of times. He belongs to us, you know, in a way. Now do sit down by the fire, and warm yourself. You must be cold after travelling all day. Dulveriford always seems so far north—almost out of the world."

Jean was amused, for Dulveriford seemed to her the world's centre.

"Come and sit down! The tea—O, that girl is gone."

"Too late, aunt!" Giles' hand was on the bell, unbidden, and a sharp tinkle sounded.

"Now, Giles!" reproachfully. "And there really was not the least need. I can hear her coming now along the passage. After all, she was only waiting till Jean arrived—keeping the tea nice and hot. My dear!—" to Jean. "I am astonished to see such a grown-up young lady. Jem never gave me that impression. Is it possible that you are only thirteen?"

"Sixteen last birthday!"

"Ah, that makes all the difference. I shall tell Jem, he really must leave off speaking of you as a 'little girl,' because it gives such a wrong impression. Why, I have actually been telling Prince not to bark, or frighten you. Yes: this is Prince—such a dear clever dog. I assure you, he understands every single thing that is said to him."

"One has to avoid talking secrets before Prince. He is apt to repeat them, on the sly."

"Now, Giles! What will Jean think of you? But really, the dear dog is wonderfully clever. He reasons like any human being. It is all nonsense to say that dogs can't reason, because I know Prince does. Now I am wondering whom Jean is supposed to be like. You are such a curious mixture, my dear. A little of your father, certainly, and a little of your mother! She was such a sweet woman! Ah, you have your grandmother Trevelyan's chin! And your grandmother Ingram's mouth! Only the way you shut your lips is like a Trevelyan. Your eyes are nobody's—"

"Unless Miss Trevelyan's own," murmured Giles.

"I mean, nobody that I have seen. Of course, one could trace them back, if one had lived long enough. Everything comes from somewhere," said Mrs. Trevelyan, with gentle positiveness and profundity. "But the way you use your eyes, dear, is quite like an Ingram—like one branch of the Ingram family, I mean. And you have the long Trevelyan hand—"

"Don't be astonished," Giles put in softly. "My aunt always appraises her guests in this fashion. Eyes, nose, mouth, worth so much apiece; total, so much: samples of doctrine of heredity."

"Now, Giles! But Jean understands, don't you, dear? Of course I like to know how much of you belongs to your own family. As for heredity—" the speaker folded dreamy hands, preparing for a gentle canter on her pet hobby-horse—"I do not see how anybody who knows anything of life can doubt it. Why, look at handwriting alone! Jean makes the tails of her g's and z's exactly like her old great-uncle Thomas—I mean, like his writing—and yet she never even saw him, and learnt from quite a different person. So you know that must have come down by inheritance."

"To be sure, there is Mrs. Wiggins—she is our great lady here, Jean, the wife of our squire—Mrs. Wiggins thinks a mother can do anything in the world with her children, can turn them out whatever shape she chooses. But that is a great deal more easily said than done: and Mrs. Wiggins only has one little girl. I always notice that it is the mothers with only one child who think that they can do exactly whatever they like with their children. If she had a dozen, she would have found by this time, that all the training in the world wouldn't make them all grow up alike. I have only had one as it happens, but I never could model Jem. He took his own shape, all I could do, dear fellow! And I am sure I don't want him to be different, for he is all one could wish. But still, you see what I mean. And I was one of thirteen, so I do know something about it. Not two of us turned out the same; and yet I'm sure there was not a grain of difference made in the way we were treated."

Giles rose, and laid hands on the teapot.

"My dear Giles! What am I thinking about? Now that is the worst of me. If I begin to talk, I forget everything. And poor Jean half starved! No? But I am sure you must be. Have you had a proper lunch? Only sandwiches! Could you not eat an egg? Well, at all events you must take plenty of bread-and-butter."

Giles relinquished the teapot, handed eatables, and found his way to a seat nearer Jean, where he could study her at leisure—for Jem's sake. He was at pains to draw her out, endeavouring to bring about a relaxation of her too serious face. Weather and journey were discussed for a while with no particular result, and Prince was called up to be caressed by Jean.

"Fond of reading," Giles asked presently, noting a glance towards the bookcase. "You won't find dissertations here on cheese-mites or atoms. That is the correct thing for a young lady, I am told."

Jean's grave lips unbent.

"Wufflestone lags behind the age. But if you want to begin studies in Phrenology, and all that sort of thing, you have come to the right place. My aunt has a perfect library of such literature."

"I should like to know more about Phrenology."

"The science of bumps! I am not sure that I shall not recommend Lavater. Rather big volumes, but you can soon skim them. Plenty about features—noses, chins, and so on. You've no conception what an amount of character exists in your neighbours' noses."

"Not really?" said Jean.

"Not a doubt of it. There's the sensible nose, and the stupid nose; the cogitative nose and the unintellectual nose; the ill-tempered nose and the sweet-tempered nose; the strong nose and the weak nose."

"Is the weak nose always short?"

"By no means. You may have a strong short nose, or a weak long one."

"Suppose I had a weak nose and a firm chin?" questioned Jean.

"Inherited from opposite sides? No doubt you would be weak in one direction, strong in another. It would mean a perpetual contest between nose and chin—sometimes the one victorious, sometimes the other."

Jean could not make out from his face whether he did or did not mean what he said. He was politely serious, only his eyes never ceased to twinkle.

"But that is too funny," she said, laughing.

"Immense amount of truth in it. Of come you must take old Lavater cum grano salis. I shall have to conduct you through something more modern while you are here. He and the older phrenologists could only assign a particular characteristic to a particular bump, and leave it there to tyrannise over the individual. Modern wisdom begins to suspect that the mind secretes the body, so to speak, like a mollusc secreting its shell. According to which notion, a man's character is not weak because his chin retreats, but his chin retreats because his character is weak."

"Do you really believe that?"

Giles made a comical movement of his shoulder. "Why not? How can one tell? Seems odd, when you come to think of it—but everything is odd when you come to think of it. One can't tell why a weak nature should secrete a retreating chin, for instance; but one cannot get out of the puzzle, because there is not the least doubt that retreating chins and feeble characters do very often go together."

Jean drew a long breath of interest, and her eyes lighted up with the fascination of a new idea. "How nice!" thought Mrs. Trevelyan. "Dear Giles is quite lively—taking real trouble with Jean. He must like her. She is not at all a bad-looking girl—such regular features, and such a nice figure; and she holds herself well, and is so very ladylike. I can't bear fidgety people, and Jean doesn't fidget in the least. It will save a great deal of trouble if Giles should take a fancy to her. I can send them out to walk together, and get him to show her the country round. Yes, she certainly is good-looking, almost handsome, when her eyes grow so bright; and she has a soft pleasant laugh. I am glad she has come. I think I shall grow fond of Jean."