Chapter XII: The Wigginses and Maidenhair

"The happy find
Equality of beauty everywhere
To feed on."
JEAN INGELOW.

MRS. TREVELYAN carried out her intention, and made abundant use of Giles Cuthbert for the amusing of Jean. Usually he was not amenable to such efforts, having a great objection to needless trouble, but for once, he offered no objection. If he had taken a fancy to the girl, that made all the difference. The laziest people living will take trouble to please themselves.

Giles liked ease; and his life had been such as to foster this inclination. He had been born, not to wealth, but to sufficient means; and he had been brought up from childhood with the notion, that while it was correct and gentlemanly to have some stated occupation, there was no necessity for him to work hard. So he never had worked hard. He had passed schooldays with tolerable credit; he had gone through college with no particular reproach; and he had consented to the law as a profession. There advance was stayed. Some amount of preparatory reading was accomplished; and Giles, finding law by no means to his taste, threw it up. Months of dallying followed, and he began to talk of a career in politics; but an opening had to be waited for, and somebody suggested a lengthy tour on the Continent, by way of preparation. Giles seized on this notion, his indulgent father always consenting; and the tour proved to be a very lengthy one indeed.

At twenty-five, his future mode of life was still uncertain, when the sudden death of that father left him in easy circumstances, unfettered, depending on nobody, while nobody depended on him.

Thenceforward, he drifted away from any definite line of life, simply pleasing his own fancies. He had no lands or tenants to occupy him; nothing beyond a clear fifteen hundred a year, to spend as he would. Since Giles had expensive tastes, he found no difficulty in getting rid of that amount yearly; indeed, at times, he outran it, though not seriously, for debt was a matter which disturbed his peace of mind, and Giles preferred to be comfortable, mentally as well as bodily.

He lived a good deal in Town, travelled a good deal on the Continent, saw a good deal of society, skimmed a good deal of literature, and in a lazy fashion, found a good deal to do. When money ran short, he would betake himself to Mrs. Trevelyan's Cottage for a few weeks, and would "vegetate" there in contented idleness. Mrs. Trevelyan had always been his favourite aunt, and her home was always open to him.

There were capabilities in Giles, which, rightly trained and used, might have resulted in a fine character; but it is through resistance, not compliance, through hardship, not ease, that harmony and beauty of character are evolved. For the bare idea of grandeur, opposition overcome is a necessity.

A boat swept downward by the current may be pretty: but there is nothing "fine" about it. Our higher admiration is reserved for the same boat manfully fighting its way up-stream, overcoming difficulty inch by inch through resolute effort. A tree, reared in a hothouse, with soil, warmth, food, amply provided, may be a most successful specimen of its kind; but it suggests no thought of victory; it is only the pampered darling of scientific care. ᴵ The gnarled and twisted oak, which has fought its way through countless storms, has mastered unnumbered hardships, stands out as a type of the truly great, of the morally grand.

ᴵ I must acknowledge here a debt to Mr. Ruskin.

Giles Cuthbert had fought through few difficulties, had mastered few oppositions. His had been a smooth and leisurely existence; hard duties had not come to him as a necessity; and he had not turned aside to seek them for the sake of others. The consequent growth of character was easy, self-satisfying, pleasant in many respects, but by no means great.

Jean had been surrounded from babyhood by a far more embracing environment, had been compelled habitually to march in the face of her own inclinations, had had to wrestle through countless oppositions. Instead of finding all difficulties cleared away from her path, she had been trained to meet and grapple with them. The resisting vigour of her growth was gradually shaping a woman's character of fine outlines, pure, straightforward, self-denying—such a growth as could never have resulted from a spoilt and cosseted existence.

Perhaps the very contrast between the two drew them together. Jean liked Cuthbert despite his laziness, which was, after all, more mental than bodily. He was ready enough for physical exertion, if an adequate object lay ahead. It was steady work from which he turned with loathing; work which had to be done, whatever his passing mood might be. He was quaint, amusing, and full of fun. Jean had never before laughed to such an extent; indeed, when once it becomes an admitted fact that somebody is funny, very little wit is needed to set people's risible muscles in motion.

She liked Mr. Cuthbert, certainly. Not as she liked Jem; not as she liked Cyril; not with liking to be named beside her love for Oswald; still, she found him a pleasant companion. Of course he was ages older than herself; why, he actually had a grey hair or two visible. Jean set him down loosely in her girlish mind as "somewhere about forty or fifty," which to a girl not yet seventeen, sounds venerable. On the whole, she was inclined to regard him as a species of adopted uncle, much nearer to her father than to herself in standing.

Mrs. Trevelyan, knowing Giles to lack about fifteen years of the fifty, did not view matters in precisely the same light.

"To be sure he is almost twenty years older than Jean," she thought; "and that is a great deal even on the right side. Jean is such a child too. It would be absurd to think of anything at present. But some day, three or four years hence—if Giles is not married then, I don't see why it should be impossible. Such a wife as Jean, might be the making of Giles. If anybody could ever get him to work, it would be some one like Jean—always busy. If not, there is no reason why they should not live comfortably on fifteen hundred a year. It sounds like wealth to me! Only of course, Giles could not get quite so many waist-coats, or have such very expensive cigars. He seems taken with the child; and Jean is friendly with him." Mrs. Trevelyan smiled contentedly over her little castle in the air. "I shall write and tell Stewart how well she is looking. He really must let me keep her six weeks or two months now she is here."

Five weeks at the Cottage! Jean could better have believed in five months. The novel ideas and events of each day in Wufflestone lengthened it out to her mental sensations, while each hour flew with speed.

Everything here was different from home. The little dainty house and garden; the dilettante manner of living; the slow meals; the placid tempers; the abundant leisure; the dearth of needlework; the absence of fault-finding; the supply of new books—all these were unwonted and for the time charming.

Dearly as Jean loved Dulveriford Rectory, and the associations of her childhood, she was of too vivid and malleable a nature not to rejoice in the new knowledge springing from now surroundings. Jean learnt more of ease, of freedom, of frank girlish simplicity in those weeks, than in all her previous life. She learnt to hold her own in good-humoured argument; to stand being laughed at, and sometimes even to make others laugh; to be mistress of herself, not alone in action but also in manner. Rigid reserve was fast thawing, and she allowed herself to be affectionate to Mrs. Trevelyan.

This easy mode of existence did not spoil Jean. The reign of duty in her life was too strong to be so soon disturbed; and while her nature, like all sensitive natures—by "sensitive" I do not mean ill-tempered—was peculiarly open to new impressions, her principles were firm. She had no wish to live always such a life; but there was a wondrous charm in its freshness.

Perhaps the most curious part of these weeks to Jean, was the finding herself so completely cut off from home interests. Neither Mr. Trevelyan nor Madame Collier were good correspondents, and Jean seldom had a line from either; nor did Evelyn write. Mrs. Trevelyan inquired duly at intervals after Jean's home-people; but she knew nothing of Dulveriford, nothing of the Brow, the Gorge, or Dutton, nothing of Miss Devereux, Cyril, Evelyn, or the General.

Jean had been at first glad to escape questioning about late events, yet it seemed singular that Mrs. Trevelyan should not have heard more. Jean knew that Jem liked and admired Evelyn—as who did not?—and she wondered that he had not more fully related to his mother the tragical end of Evelyn's married life.

Mrs. Trevelyan did indeed once allude to—"that poor old gentleman, Jean, who was frozen to death—General What-was-his-name? And you were actually there yourself and saw it all, poor child!"

But Jean's constrained answer drew no further show of interest, and the matter was not again spoken of.

Jem's proposed appearance had been repeatedly deferred, through pressure of work.

"Don't let Jean go home, until I have seen her," he wrote more than once to his mother, and at length a day was fixed early in April.

"The very day of the party at the Hall," said Mrs. Trevelyan, after reading the letter. "Well, that cannot be helped. If Jem arrives in time, he must go with us; but the evening train is more likely, he says."

"What party?" asked Giles.

"Mrs. Wiggins—to afternoon tea. I suppose it is partly in honour of Jean; so of course we must go. She made a great point of my taking Jean; and she wants you too, Giles. I told her I would try: but I was not hopeful. If you could make up your mind once—"

"Thanks, ma'am!"

Giles' tone was sufficient, and Mrs. Trevelyan sank into acquiescence.

Jean would gladly have escaped the ordeal, had freedom of choice been permitted; but Mrs. Trevelyan was so placidly sure of her delight in the treat, that nobody could have the heart to undeceive her. Jean disliked strangers, and was not captivated by Mrs. Wiggins. Still, the thing had to be endured; and she was prepared to endure heroically.

The Wigginses were so excruciatingly correct that they introduced nobody to anybody. This was the rule of the house. Indiscriminate introductions are not "the thing;" but neither is it to be accounted "the thing" to plant an absolute stranger amid a group of people, all mutually acquainted, who will leave her socially out in the cold.

Those who meet under the roof of a common friend ought, no doubt, to be able to exchange ideas without being formally named one to another; and the absence of introductions presupposes this possibility. English people are not yet cured of shyness, however; and even while tabooing introduction, they too often wait rigidly for it.

Jean found this to her cost. She was welcomed cordially, separated from Mrs. Trevelyan, placed among a group of strangers, and there left to her own devices. She had seen a good many Wufflestone people in the last few weeks, but not a single acquaintance happened to be "within hailing distance." Around were grouped ladies, old and young, all ladylike in appearance, and all seemingly well acquainted. They chatted freely together, and most of them used their eyes upon Jean, but none spoke to her.

For nearly an hour she sat thus, wondering how long the condition of things was to last. Tea brought round formed her one diversion. She could not see Mrs. Trevelyan. Mrs. Wiggins once flitted up for a remark, and flitted away again, taking no further trouble.

Internally, Jean grow indignant. It seemed unfair and uncourteous that she should be pressed to come to the house, and that not an effort should be made for her entertainment. She thought with longing of the cosy cottage drawing-room, and of Giles' amusing conversation. Then she wandered to recollections of home and of Evelyn—the gentle and gracious Evelyn, who would never so neglect her guests.

"Not even if she disliked them," thought Jean.

A few yards distant was a closed conservatory door. Jean growing tired of her position, rose at length and made her way thither. The movement drew general attention, for which Jean cared little. She glanced across the room, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Trevelyan on a distant sofa, exchanged a smile with her, then wandered off alone into the deserted conservatory. To close the glass door was her first care, with a sense of satisfaction in shutting off those unsociable people. Then she stole happily from plant to plant, studying the fair make of one, inhaling the sweetness of another, entirely content.

From the long conservatory, a door led into a fernery, where green things clustered in a bower, with ceaseless trickle of water. Jean was charmed. She sat down on a jutting corner of rock-work, opposite a great mass of large-leaved Maidenhair, the delicate new fronds of which were salmon-tinted, shading into green; and there she gave herself up to enjoyment.

Somebody coming in did not at once arouse her. Not till a shadow fell across the salmon gleam of the Maidenhair, did she look up.

"Jem!"

"I managed to get off pretty early. How do you do, Jean? Giles sent me after you both."

"Cousin Chrissie is in the drawing-room."

"I have seen her, and paid my respects to Mrs. Wiggins."

"Was I wrong to come out? I did get so tired of doing nothing; and nobody spoke to me."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Because I am a stranger, I suppose. But should you not have thought that a reason the other way? People ought to be kind. And I am only a girl, so it was hardly my place to begin upon them. I don't mind now. It is delicious among the ferns. Did cousin Chrissie send you to me?"

"She said I might find you here. Shall we go into the garden?"

"May we? Would it be polite?"

"Somebody is going to drive my mother home, and she has undertaken to make your apologies to Mrs. Wiggins. I told her I should carry you off. It is all right. We know Mrs. Wiggins well."

He opened the outer door, and Jean questioned no further. One of their old free talks together would be delightful. She never felt so much at her ease with anybody as with Jem, because never so sure of being understood.

Conversation did not at once flow. Jem led away from the house, through the garden, into a lane beyond, which Jean knew to mean a considerable round, before they could get home. She was ready for any amount of exercise—only, would not his mother want him? And what made Jem so grave? Had he something on his mind?

The lane curved hither and thither, in aimless fashion: having on either side a hedge, with trees at intervals. Slanting rays from the sun lighted up the right hand hedge with a dim glory, and fell upon the patches of dull lichen which decorated an aged elm trunk, smitten into ruggedness by prolonged hardships of wind and weather.

"Things are beautiful everywhere," said Jean. "Even in a flat country like this."

"It is not Dulveriford," responded Jem. And as if this supplied the opening for which he had waited, he went on—

"How is your father? And—" in a lower voice, "Mrs. Villiers?"

Jean had much to tell, for she found that he knew little. Home interests never far distant came on her in a rush, as he listened, drawing out further details by a murmured syllable now and then. After long silence on Dulveriford subjects, it was natural to pour out; and she gave abundant particulars of the evening which had left Mrs. Villiers a widow. Only, about the little boudoir scene between husband and wife, a scene of which she had been an unwilling witness, and which had been rendered by after-events doubly sacred, Jean said not a word.

"It was an ordeal for you," Jem remarked.

"One could not think of oneself at such a time. For Evelyn it was terrible. To be there on the spot, and to see him! But even my father could not keep her back."

"And since then she has been—"

"Very, very sad. I don't think I should have expected—But nobody ever knows beforehand. She seems to feel that everything is gone, and that her life is at an end."

"You would not have expected what?"

"Ought I to say it? One feels some things that one does not like to speak out. Only—to you—may I not? He was so good and kind—but still so very much older, and different in every way. Yet now one might fancy that her life had been perfect; even though one knows how things really were."

"The manner of her loss must have intensified it. The shock and suddenness—"

"I dare say that had something to do with her feeling. It was all very dreadful. It couldn't help being so. And besides—" Jean hesitated, falling into a slower walk. "I suppose it is sometimes worse to lose anybody, if—Worse in one way, I mean—"

"If there has not been perfect oneness? If there has been friction?"

"Yes, I see you understand. I didn't half like to say it—unless you knew . . . Evelyn seems to feel that she must do every single thing, exactly as he would have wished. She reads all the little books and sermons that he liked. I suppose they helped him; but I don't believe they help her. And she has locked up some of her own books, which do help her, because he didn't like them. And she always goes to St. John's—twice every Sunday—never to our Church. And she tries so hard to like his friends better than her own."

Jem understood. "You see less of her now?"

"Yes—"

"How did it come about?"

"I hardly know. There was a difference from the first. Not in herself! Evelyn could not be fickle. But I suppose people may draw back on principle. She told me plainly that it had to be so. She said it was for his sake—to honour his memory. She will not hear a word said about General Villiers that sounds like blame. Not even about the will."

Jem made a sound of inquiry.

"Have you not heard?"

"I have heard nothing. Your father sent six lines, and nobody else wrote."

"I didn't know how much I ought to say. Everything is left to Evelyn for her lifetime; but only so long as she does not marry again. If she marries, she loses the whole. There would be a little annuity of something under two hundred pounds, and that is all. Doesn't it seem odd? As if General Villiers had wanted to keep her from marrying!—And she so young and so sweet! If he really loved her, would he not want her to be happy?"

"The best of men are not perfect, Jean!"—in muffled under-tone.

"No, not perfect—but—Everybody is talking and wondering. And Evelyn will only say that he was right. She says he has provided for her lifetime, because she could never dream of marrying again. My father smiles about that; but I am sure she means it."

"She may—" and a pause.

"If her husband had not been so old! But I can't understand General Villiers making such a will. No really nice man could ask her to marry him, unless he were rich himself. She would have to give up everything."

Jean had been gazing on the ground as she talked. Now she looked up, and something in Jem's face brought a sense of troubled wonder. Had Jean been a few years older, she would not have seemed to see; but girls of sixteen do not always know exactly when to be silent; and Jean, though in general reserved, was outspoken with Jem. After one moment's blank pause, she said involuntarily—

"I am sorry! I ought not to have told you!"

"Why ought you not?"

"If you mind so much—"

"As well hear through you as anybody else!" Jem spoke shortly, with a forced smile. Then, noting her grieved look: "My dear Jean, you are too observant. You must learn to shut your eyes more."

"But—"

"There is no need to discuss the question. As for General Villiers, neither you nor I have to sit in judgment on him. He probably had reasons which seemed weighty to himself—"

"But, Jem—"

"Whether or no they are weighty to other people. Well?" With a touch of impatience. "You wish to say something."

"Only about what I said just now. I mean, about nobody being able to propose to Evelyn, unless he were rich. I did not think—"

"You said what was perfectly true. No need to qualify it . . . I don't deny that I once had a passing dream—and possibly it has revived lately. But in any case, it could never have come to anything. Don't you see? Our spheres are altogether different. My life-work is among the poor and needy; and she is trained to luxury."

"You think so ill of Evelyn!"—reproachfully.

"Ill of her!" Jem's face changed and whitened. "She has been to me as a vision of an angel!" he said huskily. "You little know—! . . . Come, we must go on, Jean. And mind—all this is strictly for yourself—not to be alluded to again."

Jean only said, "No."

Jem strode fast by her side, regaining his usual look.

"I must tell you that I have had an offer of an East-End living. Not much pay, but plenty of work. Yes, I shall accept it, certainly."

A week later, Jean had her first letter from Evelyn. The opening page or two told nothing. Then came a glimpse of the real writer.

"I want to hear all about yourself, Jean—all you are doing and
thinking. I want something fresh—something outside my own life.

"The Dutton world drags on wearisomely, just the same. I am getting slowly petrified. If I were more like him—but I cannot alter my nature, and the things that did him good, do me harm. The same medicines don't cure all men's bodies, you know; and I never can see why it should not be so with our inner selves as well. One man's spiritual meat may be another man's spiritual poison. I can say this to you, because you will understand—you will not misjudge my words. Mr. Kennedy's soothing sermons are only narcotics to me; and too much of narcotics is not good. I want to be roused and braced, not to be put to sleep . . . I have made up my mind to endure patiently for a few months more, and then I shall go abroad. But this is for yourself alone."