Chapter XIII: Bouleversement

"She's bonny, blooming, straight and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my very saul,
The kind love that's in her e'e."
R. BURNS.

CYRIL had not remembered to lock the door, and he became speedily aware of his mistake. It opened, and a head was inserted.

"Cyril—?"

No answer; so Miss Devereux walked in, and stood looking down on the prone figure: some real solicitude mingling with her dissatisfaction.

"Shall I send for Dr. Ingram?"

"No, thanks. I only wish to be left in peace."

"But, Cyril—! Something must be wrong! If you are not ill, something must have happened. I can't imagine what has come over you to-day . . . I daresay, after all, it has to do with those Trevelyans . . . I almost always find, if you are out of temper, that Jean is at the bottom of it . . . Of course, it can't really be that you care so much about that odious man—Captain Lucas, I mean. Impossible, you know . . . After all, I really do believe, it is only that something has disagreed with you. If you will take such violent exercise, and eat such unwholesome food, what can one expect? Why, that stew yesterday—my digestion would not stand it for a moment! I shall tell cook never to send it up again."

Cyril lay motionless on his face through this harangue.

"If you go on so, you are sure to end by having some attack. People always do. And as for the Lucases, I only hope you will take warning, and keep clear of them in the future! It ought to be a lesson to you. An artful, designing girl, like Miss Lucas—"

Cyril spoke without stirring. "Will you stop that, if you please! I wish to be alone."

"Well, I must say, I do think you are a very ungrateful nephew," sighed Sybella, with a different species of pathos from the pathos of little Emmie.

"I must say, I do think—! When you have always been so much to me! And, I am sure, the care and thought I have given—And now, just because—Yes, I am going. I haven't the least desire to stay where I am not wanted. Not the very least! I only came to bring you a note. It has been left at the door—Pearce doesn't know, or else he won't say, by whom. And I can't imagine who the note can be from. It is a lady's hand, at least a girl's. It might be a child's. Would you like me to open and see for you, if you are not well?"

"A note!" Cyril's confused brain had not at once taken in the sense of the word. It dawned upon him in a flash; and with a leap he was on his feet, demanding, "Where? Give it to me!"

The astonished Sybella fell back two paces; curiosity strongly awakened. She could not but be aware that something unusual was afloat.

"Where is the note?" he repeated, and Sybella's reluctant fingers yielded it.

"That is not Jean Trevelyan's handwriting, Cyril. Who can it be from? You don't correspond with any other young ladies, I hope!" Her manner implying that Jean was enough and too much!

The words put Cyril on his guard. One glance revealed to him that the childish unformed writing was indeed Emmie's. Within this little Silurian-grey envelope, crookedly directed, lay his fate—the question of his future life-happiness or life-misery, once for all decided! So it seemed to Cyril at the moment, though such apparent decisions do not always turn out to be permanently decisive. Yet, while feeling thus, he had the self-control to turn carelessly away, to toss the note on a side-table, and to walk to the mantelpiece.

"Who is it from, Cyril?"

No answer.

"You know, of course. I see you know. Is anything really the matter? Anything really wrong? One would think it was a bill—from your face!" suggested Sybella, recalling stories of extravagant young men and distressed guardians.

She was not Cyril's guardian now, but her mind was unable to acquiesce in the change wrought by his coming of age.

"A bad bill perhaps!" she went on—without the slightest idea what is meant technically by a "bad bill."

She had heard the term, and it recurred conveniently.

"My dear boy, you had much better make a clean breast of it all. Much better! Far better!" She came near, and laid a hand on his wrist, with an air of advice and interest. "You know I would so gladly help."

"Thanks!" Cyril withdrew his arm from her touch—rather pettishly, it must be confessed, but how could he help it?

He stood upright, holding the mantelpiece; his face colourless, while a surging like the sound of waves filled his ears. Nevertheless, he forced his lips into a smile.

"I have no bad bills; and I have plenty of money. My tastes are not so very extravagant. Much obliged to you all the same. If you have nothing more to say, perhaps you would be so kind as to leave me to myself for half-an-hour. I have—things to do—"

"And I am to understand that you have a secret—and that I am not to be told!"

"You may understand anything that you choose. It is a matter of indifference. Only, be so good as to leave me alone."

Cyril walked across the room, and opened the door.

Sybella had no choice but to go. She complained and protested; but still she went.

Cyril locked and double-locked the door in her rear. Then he returned to his former station, close beside the fire.

He stood there, fidgeting a little box of wax matches, striking one after another with delicate accurate fingers. Not one was bent or broken. He watched each in turn, burning itself out, as if his whole soul were intent on the process of combustion.

Why should he read Emmie's note at once? There was no hurry. Suspense might be bad; but certainty would, in all likelihood, be worse. He had a gleam of hope now; and that little childish note might slay all hope in him for evermore. He could think of Jean now as not impossibly to be his some day; but after reading Emmie's answer, he might be debarred from any such dream.

In a few minutes, all would probably be over—all hope of Jean! All free thought of Jean!

"I mean to marry Jean some day," he had said at ten years old and had meant it ever since—till the doubts and hesitations of the last few months. And now, by a hasty boyish impulse, he had flung that hope out of his own reach—perhaps! There was a "perhaps" still, though a very faint one.

Why should Emmie refuse him? He knew himself to be liked by her; and doubtless her parents would appreciate the advantages, which she might be too young to weigh . . . And if Emmie said "Yes," he would be bound. He would have in honour to go on. In her position, especially, having once sought her, how could he ever cast her off? Nay, if he could, what use? Jean would never have him afterwards.

The rushing sound of waves came back, and Cyril's brain was in a whirl. He bore it for a few seconds; then suddenly, he could endure no longer. Waiting became intolerable; and a burst of impatience drove him to the side-table, where lay the little note. He would know the worst at once.

As he came to the lamp, opened and read, the surging died away into stillness, and every trace of dizziness passed away. Cyril glanced round, with an odd feeling that he had never seen the chairs and tables so motionless. Then he read the note again.

He could hardly believe his own eyes. At first, he almost thought his brain must be playing him false.

Refused—after all!

Emmie "liked him very much, but she was afraid she could not say she loved him." And so "it would not be right." She "was very sorry to give him pain," but "it would be best in the end." The utterances were childishly direct and simple; no manner of hesitation or incertitude about them. She was grateful to Cyril, but she would not have him.

"Emmie! You're a brick!" spoke Cyril aloud.

A man does not like to be refused; and notwithstanding Cyril's relief, notwithstanding the weight lifted from him, there came for one moment a touch of the "wet-blanket" sensation. He had not expected himself or his belongings to be so lightly valued; and self-satisfaction sustained a wound.

But pride, either wounded or unwounded, could claim only a small share of his attention. As he read and re-read the brief sentences, hardly able to credit the fact that he was free, a great wave of joy swept over him. Jean's face rose once more, quiet, smiling, no longer sad, no longer reproachful . . . Cyril had something of the boy in him yet; not so very surprising at twenty-one. He put his face down on the high mantelpiece, with a sound not far removed from a sob—

"My own dear dear dear Jean! Never, never any one but you!"

Then an unreasoning impulse seized him to rush off there and then to the Rectory; just to look in upon Jean with his bodily eyes, now that he knew they were not parted for life by an ever-widening river . . . Yet could he trust himself? Would he be betrayed into saying too much? To propose to one lady within an hour after being refused by another would be too supremely absurd. Cyril laughed at the idea and resolved not to go.

He could not rest or stand still, but walked to and fro, unquiet with very joyousness, as he pictured Jean at the Brow—Jean at his table—Jean in this study. Emmie's little face never rose between to blot out Jean's. He only felt intensely grateful to Emmie, as he realized his escape from a terrible thraldom, possibly life-long.

He would have to be careful, he knew. If Jean suspected his late fancy for Emmie—and Cyril was pretty sure she did suspect it—she would not readily put faith in his present frame of mind.

The best plan, undoubtedly, for himself and for all parties concerned, would be to make a thorough break—to get away from Dulveriford entirely. If he only had had something definite to go for! Staying on at the Brow would be awkward in many respects. To cut himself suddenly off from the Lucases would cause remark; yet to go in and out as before would be impossible. To begin at once openly seeking Jean might cause misunderstandings; yet how could he be in the place and not seek her?

Cyril gave the matter full twenty minutes of serious thought. Then he unlocked his door, and with feeling of compunction for Miss Devereux, went to the drawing-room.

Sybella was deeply aggrieved, and in cue for a sulk; but the sight of her nephew's cheerful face and alert air surprised her into speech:

"Why! But, Cyril—! Then it couldn't have been bad news?"

"It!"

"I mean your note?"

"My note! No; why should it?—" with perfect sang-froid. "I came to speak about something very different. I am thinking of a week or two in Town."

"What for?"

"Picture-galleries—"

"Nonsense, Cyril! You can't impose on people like that!"

"And everything else that's going!"

"If you don't choose to tell me the real reason, you needn't at least pretend—"

"I shall start to-morrow morning—early express."

"Such an extraordinary thing to decide all in a moment—and not a word to me—"

"Couldn't publish the fact before I knew it myself. Aunt, you've not heard, I suppose, whether anything is settled about Mr. Trevelyan?"

"I thought you were there all yesterday afternoon."

Cyril's joyous indifference was more amazing to Sybella than his previous irritability.

"At the Rectory! I've not seen Jean for days—not spoken to her, I mean. Nothing settled yet?"

"Mr. Trevelyan is ordered to Australia. Dr. Ingram wants him to stay away two years. I believe he starts in a fortnight."

"And Jean—?"

"Jean will be at Dutton Rectory. He can't afford to take her too. I call it a wild scheme. As likely as not, he will die out there, all alone—not a soul near—and Jean will never see him again. But, of course, it is no concern of ours. I only wish one could hope that the locum tenens would be the sort of man I could approve of, but of course his views—"

Cyril heard no more, though he was dimly conscious that Miss Devereux continued talking. She was apt to continue talking indefinitely so long as anybody was present to listen. A sudden idea had come to him, of so startling and brilliant a nature, that it nearly took away his breath. He had desired something definite to do; and here it was. Something for Jean too!—There was the charm of the notion. True, it would mean a long separation. But if all the while, he were acting for Jean, living for Jean—what then, though his waiting should grow to the Patriarch's fourteen years? Cyril felt that they would seem short, for the love that he bore to Jean. He stood in the centre of the room, lost in thought, his eyes sparkling with so remarkable a scintillation that Sybella stared.

"I can't imagine what has come over you to-day," she said. "You look—"

"Never mind my looks. Aunt, don't stay up for me. I am going out."

"Again! You have been out the whole day."

"I must see Jean."

"What for? Really, Cyril, it is too absurd. There is something underneath all this. Something you have not told me. To go after Jean Trevelyan to-night—Just look at the clock—! And when you have not been well! I know you were not well, by the way you left the dining-room after dinner! Something has disagreed with you, I am quite sure. And if you get a chill upon that, from the night air—! It is perfectly crazy! Perfectly mad! As if you could alter things! Dr. Ingram says Mr. Trevelyan must go; so, of course, he must. He says it is as much as his life is worth to stay through another winter in England. Nobody will care for your opinion . . . But perhaps that note was from Jean, after all—though I don't see why you should make such a mystery of it. I dare say she got somebody else to write the address, so that I should not know the handwriting."

"About the last thing Jean would ever stoop to do! But I have no note from Jean."

"Well, I don't see, really, what concern we have with their plans. Why should we interfere? I don't attempt to stand between you and your friends; but certainly they are not people who—My dear aunt always highly disapproved of them . . . Cyril, you have tried me very much this evening—you really have!—And I am sure I have been most patient! But there are limits even to—I really do think—I really have a right—In fact, I positively insist upon knowing what is the meaning of this extraordinary behaviour."

Cyril looked down on Miss Devereux's agitated features and twirling hands.

"Very well," he answered, speaking without the least unkindness; "if you insist, you shall know. As well now as later. It means—that I am tired of home, tired of Dulveriford, tired of doing nothing. It means—that if Jean does not object, I shall go out in the same ship with Mr. Trevelyan, and take care of him. It means—that when I come back, if Jean will have me, I shall make her my wife."

For once, Sybella had no words. She could only gaze blankly, her lips and jaws dropping apart.

Cyril walked to the door, paused, came back, and stooped to give her a kiss.

"Good-night," he said pleasantly. "Don't be vexed, aunt. If I have spoken out, it is by your wish. Of course, that about Jean is in confidence. She may or may not be willing . . . Meantime you'll have two years' swing at the Brow, to do as you like—and I'll take care that you have enough money to carry you on. After that, we must make some other arrangement. I should like to build you a jolly little house, outside Dutton—near to St. John's, you know. But there's plenty of time to think things over. Good-night."

Without waiting for an answer he was gone; and Sybella was left to her own cogitations.

Jean rose from a low chair beside the drawing-room fire to greet Cyril. She seemed to have been for once enjoying the luxury of idleness; and there was a touch of mournful gravity in the look she turned upon him. It brought to Cyril's mind the pale reproachful visionary likeness which had come to him on the marshes, blotting out Emmie's face.

"It is late for a call; but you will give me a few minutes," he said. "Will you not?"

"I can spare a few minutes. It is almost bedtime."

"I have just heard something which I didn't know before. About your father going to Australia for two years. Is it true?"

"Dr. Ingram advises at least a year and a half. He would prefer two years. Yes, it was settled days ago."

"And I never heard! But he ought not to go alone."

"He must."

"Is he well enough?"

"No—not if it could be helped. We have no choice."

"Only, if the thing could be managed—surely, he ought to have a companion. Think, if he were taken worse out there—alone among strangers—"

"I know! Do you think I don't know?" asked Jean, lifting sad eyes to his. "Cyril, I didn't expect you to be cruel. Why should you say it to me? I know all so well, and yet I cannot go. There are all the expenses of his illness—and the locum tenens—and his voyage! And I shall cost him almost nothing in England, living with cousin Chrissie and Jem. Don't you see?—The thing has to be."

"I'm not speaking unkindly, but because I have a reason." Cyril moved to a chair nearer Jean, and looked earnestly into her face. "Jean—I have a plan, and I think it may be a comfort to you. Will you let me go out with Mr. Trevelyan? Will you trust him with me—as my charge?"

"You?"

"I mean it. I'm not joking. To-morrow I shall run up to Town for a few days; and I can get an outfit in no time. There isn't a grain of difficulty. I'll secure my passage at once in the same vessel and be ready to start . . . It's the most delightful thing I ever thought of. I'm sick of the Brow, and I want something to do, and I've been longing to see more of the world. The expense is nothing. I'll do my best to bring him back to you, safe and sound. Will you trust me?"

A thought came swiftly to Jean as she listened. "He has gone too far with Miss Lucas, and thinks it best to escape!"

Yet she doubted, because of his joyous air; and while the guess was not so very wide of the mark, Jean was ignorant of attendant circumstances. She did not know what to believe, and answered slowly, after some hesitation: "Yes; if you really wish to go, for your own sake. It would be the greatest relief—of course—to know that somebody would be with him."

"For my own sake—and for his—and most of all for your sake!"

"No, not for mine. But if you seriously think of going to Australia for your own sake, then I should be only too thankful if you could be in the same ship with my father."

"Most of all for your sake, Jean!"

Cyril repeated the words emphatically, and it was impossible to mistake his meaning. No flush came to Jean's pale cheek, as she replied, "Call it what you like. I shall be very grateful."

"I don't want gratitude. I want something different. When I come back—Jean, listen to me—don't turn away! I have no right to speak now—I know I have not—but when I come back—"

He had not meant to say this; the words seemed to be wrenched from him.

"Stop, Cyril! Hush! I must go upstairs."

"Not yet. There's no hurry. I must know about the ship; and you must listen to me. When I come back, if I have carried out my trust faithfully—then—"

"No—I am not going to listen."

"You must! You don't know what I want to say."

Jean laid her hand resolutely across Cyril's mouth.

"No—hush—I will not!" she repeated. "You are to say no more! . . . What of that poor little Miss Lucas? You see—I know! I dare say you have meant no harm—and you are doing this kindness to my father, so I must not blame you—but there cannot be any playing fast and loose. What you do is for his sake—your sake—anything you like, only not to do with me!"

Cyril removed her hand from his mouth, and kept it prisoner. He had merely meant to give her a gentle hint as to his hopes; but now there seemed to be no choice about speaking out; now he could not restrain himself. It might be the last chance for two years or more.

"You needn't be afraid, Jean. I'm not doing what is wrong. You don't understand how things are, and I want to make you understand! . . . I've been a fool, and I don't deny it! She has not suffered—she doesn't care a rap for me! Yes, I know—for she won't have me . . . I suppose it was a sort of craze. I did think I wanted her; and I was demented enough to speak—and then I found out! I shall not forget what it was—to feel that I had put a barrier between you and me for life! It was—awful . . . I seem to have lived through ten years yesterday. Till her answer came, I mean! . . . You see—I'm hiding nothing from you! And you can think what you like—despise me, if you like—But if ever I marry, you will be my wife! You—and nobody else."

"Are you going to keep me much longer?"

"Not if you will stay without being kept. I'm not asking you to say anything now. It wouldn't be fair. I can't expect you to believe in me yet. Only, by-and-by, when I come back—when you find out that I am the same—that I shall always be the same—don't you think—? No, I'm not asking you to speak, really! You shall give me an answer in two years. I'm only telling you how things are . . . You are entirely free—only, when I come back, Jean, I shall ask you to be mine! And if you won't—But I can't let myself think of that! Life wouldn't be life without you! Till then I shall live on hope. And your face will be with me always—night and day. You'll think of me sometimes—won't you?"

"You want to know the name of my father's ship," said Jean.

Somehow she could not make her voice quite so prosaic as she wished, for a strange joy was fluttering at her heart.

"Yes—I'll write it down in my pocket-book." After doing which, Cyril said in disappointed accents, "Not one word!"

"I thought you were not asking for a word. You inconsistent boy!" said Jean calmly. She lifted her eyes, dropped hitherto; and there was in them the old golden shining, once reserved for Oswald.

It was too much for Cyril's complete self-control. He made a hasty motion, an impulsive start forward, as if to clasp her in his arms; but Jean as quickly eluded him, stepping back.

"No! No! Nothing of that sort," she said in an odd restrained voice. "No nonsense, please. I shall not see you again till just at last—and then not alone. We are only friends still, just as we always have been. Both perfectly free. You understand? If I choose to marry meantime—Or if you choose to bring home a nice little Colonial wife—"

"Jean, if you say another word—"

"Then—good-bye!" And she vanished.