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.