Chapter II: The "spanish Gipsy."

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.

• • • •

"Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more."
SHAKESPEARE.

JEAN'S estimate of Evelyn Villiers as one who "had always a pet worry," was not far wrong—indeed, such a statement might perhaps be made of nine out of every ten individuals, then or now—yet it was an estimate with two sides. Almost everything has two sides, if it possesses a side at all; and here was no exception.

The distinctive characteristic of Evelyn's case lay, not so much in the possession of a worry, or a succession of worries, as in the fact of rather too much leisure for looking at those worries; perhaps too in the absence of a spirit which should lift her above them. Life hitherto had been too soft and shielded for the richer development of Evelyn's character. She was like a plant, by nature hardy, which would flourish on the border of Alpine snow, but which grows pale and sickly in the vitiated air of a hothouse.

Still these worries were real of their kind; no mere outgrowth of the imagination. It is fair to admit so much. Sybella Devereux would have been a severe trial to almost any young niece, flung upon her tender mercies. The General, with all his goodness, must have been a pull upon the patience of any wife who could not entirely submit her opinions to his. The sorrow of losing him must have been in any case enhanced by the recollections of previous friction. As for Miss Moggridge—Jean was often fain to admit that she too would have found that excellent lady tiresome as a life-long companion. But then, why had Evelyn created the companionship?

Miss Moggridge was undoubtedly excellent, in the true sense of the word. She excelled alike in right principle, in right feeling, in right action. That is not to say she was perfect; but who is perfect? She had her faults, of course, like other people. She was, theoretically, so liberal-minded that, practically, she could see no manner of illiberality in another without risings of righteous anger. And, unfortunately, with her, as with many other good people, human anger is apt to outrun the righteous boundary.

To put it differently, she was—or, at all events, she counted herself—so broad in her mental and spiritual make, that it made her wrathful to find anybody narrow. But most naturally, the narrow individual, who called his narrowness by the more euphonistic title of "sound principle," failed to see the Christian beauty of a broadism, which was flung like a cudgel at his devoted head. Since his narrower line of thought was every inch as much a matter of right with him as Miss Moggridge's broader line of thought was a matter of right with her, it was to the last degree improbable that she should cudgel him over to her way of thinking. Nay, the question even arises in the mind of a quiet looker-on—was her vaunted broadism altogether broad, and did it not partake of inevitable human narrowness, only under a fresh guise?

Evelyn herself was not narrow, rather the reverse. Since her husband's death, however, she could not patiently endure aught which might seem to be levelled at his memory. This made Miss Moggridge peculiarly liable to tread upon Evelyn's corns; and with all her devotion to Evelyn, Miss Moggridge was clumsy in her manner of walking.

The two ladies had rubbed on together for three years, and might rub on a good deal longer; but such "rubbing on" can hardly mean present happiness, however much it may be expected to improve one's spiritual shape in the end. Moreover, though friction does commonly wear away corners, it may be so applied as only to sharpen the angles.

Jean had been into Evelyn's boudoir, one may safely assert, hundreds of times; yet she rarely entered that room without at least a transient recollection of a certain snowy day, years since, when she had witnessed the last parting between General Villiers and his young wife.

Such recallings were more vivid than usual on this particular afternoon; notwithstanding the difference of a clear May day, cold but sunshiny. Perhaps the association of ideas lay in Evelyn's listless and sad air. She welcomed Jean lovingly; then sank back in a cushioned chair, lifting deep violet eyes, full of the dumb-animal appeal, of which Jean had spoken to Jem. The face, though so much older and strictly less beautiful, was infinitely sweet and attractive. Jean, always strongly under the influence of this attraction, could never agree with Sybella Devereux's verdict as to "how dear Evelyn was gone off in her looks."

"Sit down here by me, Jean. Sit down, and talk me into a better frame of mind. I am feeling wicked. Nothing is worth doing or worth living for; and I am sick of everything and everybody. Except—yes, of course, there are always exceptions. Does it sound very dreadful?"

"It sounds dyspeptic. You had better see Dr. Ingram," Jean said the words in jest; and then she wondered if she ought not to say them seriously. Jem had remarked that Evelyn was not looking well. Not well! The little hand, lying on her knee, was transparent; and the fair face seemed to have shrunk, lending unnatural largeness to the eyes. Had this come suddenly? It dawned upon Jean in a flash.

"Dr. Ingram would laugh at me. O yes, he would. He can laugh at feminine nerves."

"Evelyn, have you grown thin lately?"

"My dresses have all grown too big. Things stretch so!"

Jean lifted the slight hand, and looked it over attentively.

"Rings don't stretch—do they?" laughed Evelyn. "I'm in danger of losing mine. It is all right, Jean—nothing but want of interest in life. I can't eat, and Miss Moggridge gives me no peace . . . I'm so tired of it all—and of her! If I could only manage to see the dear creature once a day, for an hour or two, we should get on. But every day, and all day!—Sometimes I don't know how to breathe."

"Only—"

"You look exactly as Mr. Trevelyan did this morning. I was prowling round the Church, and I came across him—or he came across me. Somehow, I had a confidential fit—one does with some people, you know—and I told him what I was feeling. Not about Miss Moggridge: there was no need to drag her name in: Only that everything seemed 'stale and unprofitable!'"

"And he said—"

"Said I was wrong, quite plainly. The feeling might be inevitable—perhaps physical—but I was wrong to give in to it. He told me, almost sternly, that life ought not to be empty for me—that I ought to find an object, if I have not one. He spoke of poverty of aim, and living too much for self . . . It is all true, no doubt, but—Do you find him stern? I did not expect it."

"No," Jean said wonderingly.

"I suppose he thinks mine a mere butterfly existence, all for pleasure. And yet—"

She stopped speaking; and two large tears crept from under her lashes.

"It must seem absurd to you—to everybody—that I should talk of troubles. I, in my easy existence! Yet things are not always exactly what they seem . . . I think I would give half my remaining years, if the choice were offered me, to have him back for one month. It would be—such rest. He loved me so truly. And nobody—"

"Don't say that. It is not quite real."

"Perhaps not in one sense; but in another—Jean, how can you enter into it all? I am so much older. There are different kinds of love; and some kinds don't meet one's craving . . . I suppose one cannot often have just what one would choose. Better not, some would say. I don't see that. I suppose the denial has to be—but to be loved is such a help! . . . Mr. Trevelyan said, in that calm cold manner of his—"

"Jem cold!!"

"Did I call him 'cold'? No, 'cold' is hardly the word. It means repulsion, and he does not repel. He wins one's confidence somehow—in an abstract sort of way. But his manner is so entirely self-mastered—as if he had reached a height beyond all passion of feeling. Almost as if nothing that merely touched himself could never ruffle him again. It is beautiful, of course; only a little chilly. That was what he was this morning—very kind, but just a degree chilly. He listened to me with such intense patience, and looked most gentle—as he does, you know—yet when he spoke, he was stern . . . He said life ought to be something better for me than drifting down the stream, and getting myself bruised among jagged rocks. He told me to take my oars, and row up the stream . . . And, of course, he is right—he is perfectly right! . . . If only I had energy to obey!"

"Jem is not stern or cold! Evelyn, what can you mean? You don't understand Jem."

"Do I not?" Two drops again shone on Evelyn's lashes, then dropped heavily? "How silly I am!" she said, with a laugh. "Like a baby! After all, what can I do in life that is different? I am set down here—tied to a place that I detest. Yes, I detest it, Jean. I never can love Dutton, even for my husband's sake. Sometimes I think I will abdicate—throw up everything, and install Thomas Villiers in my place. He is a man who would not abuse such a trust. Then I should be free, and I could go and work at the East-End. I have had for years a craving for that kind of life—a life of real hard work for others . . . My husband would not have chosen it for me, perhaps—to become a deaconess or sister, I mean. But where he is now—don't you think they see with other eyes? Things must look so different there! He will understand now—if he sees—the want in my life—the need for fresh interests . . . I should like to turn everything upside down, and to start afresh."

"Would that make you happier?"

"You think I should want the Park back as soon as I had given it up? O no—never. I am so weary of the place . . . Now I have talked enough about myself. It is a bad habit. No letters yet from our wanderers?"

"None. Jem thinks that the last before they started must have gone astray—perhaps not been posted. And they may for once have skipped over a mail or two before that. Once really off, we must of course expect a long break. We shall hear in good time, I dare say."

"And you don't worry yourself in the least—brave sensible Jean!"

"I'm too busy; and what is the use? Generally one finds in the end some common-sense explanation, which one might have known all the time. If anything had happened to put off their starting in the 'Spanish Gipsy,' why should they not have written to say so? If they were staying on at Melbourne, what should have prevented their writing? Unless—One possible explanation has come up. A piece of gossip, but I don't know why it should not be true," said Jean hardily, without a blush. "Miss Atherstone says Cyril is engaged."

"To—whom?"

"A young lady in Melbourne."

Evelyn did not at once repudiate the idea, as Jean had expected. "How did Miss Atherstone hear?"

"A letter from a friend to a friend of hers. Then you think it is true?" asked Jean, with a terrible heart-sinking.

"Cyril has mentioned several times a girl, named Lilias Mackenzie. I have had a passing suspicion more than once. However—" Evelyn hesitated, not looking at Jean.

Though Cyril had not confided in his sister before he left home, Evelyn had a pretty clear inkling as to affairs; but after two years of separation, who could foretell what might come to pass?

"It maybe all nonsense. Your father says nothing."

"He would not. It is not his way."

"If there were an engagement, why should not Cyril speak out?"

Evelyn put this question doubtfully, and was again silent. Jean longed to know more, but could not bring herself to ask. Cyril had never so much as mentioned to her the name of Lilias Mackenzie; nor had her father. The latter had meant little; for Mr. Trevelyan was not good at items of news. Did Lilias Mackenzie live in Melbourne? Had Cyril and Lilias met constantly, through the months of Mr. Trevelyan's long illness and convalescence? Was that why Mr. Trevelyan and Cyril had returned to Melbourne for some weeks, after their trip to the South Sea Islands before turning homeward? How natural and simple the whole seemed! Jean kept strict watch over her face while thinking such thoughts—successful watch, she believed, till she looked up, to meet a wistful and compassionate gaze. Evelyn's hand came on hers with a soft pressure. This would not do. Nobody might suspect. Nobody should blame Cyril. Jean braced herself for action immediately.

"If there were an engagement, I don't see why he should not stay out to marry Miss Mackenzie," she said, with cheerful composure. "So I told Miss Atherstone. It would be absurd to come home, and then to go out again. And that long voyage round the Cape—Oh, he would never do it! Much more likely that he should stay behind; and if my father were travelling alone, he would perhaps come by Suez after all. If they had not taken their passage, that is to say . . . Miss Atherstone says the girl is little and pretty, with dark eyes. Cyril admires dark eyes."

"Does he? I don't remember. Well—we shall see. People often do unexpected things."

Evelyn was no whit deceived by Jean's cheerfulness, but she at once fell in with the assumed mood.

Then Jem was announced, and a slight flush came to Evelyn's cheeks, as she welcomed him with her usual gentle grace. Jem had a strange look, Jean thought; and Evelyn saw the same. He was pale, with an unusual pallor, as if some shock had driven all the blood inward; and his eyes had an absorbed expression.

Jean wondered whether he observed Evelyn's rare flush and brightness. A gleam of the old beauty came back, together with a new delicacy; but she hardly thought Jem was awake to either. His mind seemed to be elsewhere—an unusual event with one whose interest was always so keenly present. For once, he appeared to have nothing to say.

"Jean told me that you would walk home with her," Evelyn remarked: one or two observations having won no response. "Too late to offer you tea, I'm afraid . . . How is Mrs. Trevelyan to-day? She will not like this east wind . . . No letters yet from abroad! Curious, is it not?"

A nameless change, crossing Jem's face, arrested Evelyn's attention—a wave of some strong feeling, quickly checked. She talked on other topics for three or four minutes, then reverted to the non-arrival of letters; and again the same look was manifest.

"Jean dear, would it trouble you very much—I wish you would go to my room, and hunt for the second volume of Jean Ingelow's 'Poems.' Mrs. Trevelyan has the first, and I promised to lend her the second. You will find it upstairs—somewhere."

Jean went at once, conscious of being purposely sent away. She suspected that Evelyn might have said something in the morning to give Jem pain, and that a few words now would set the matter right. Also it might be that Evelyn wished to tell him of Cyril's reported engagement. In either case, she resolved not to find the book too quickly.

No sooner was the door shut, than Evelyn said, "You have heard bad news."

"It may not be—"

"But so far as you know—Is Mr. Trevelyan ill again?"

"No."

"Jean may be back any moment. You will not keep me in suspense! Something has happened to one of them."

"Or—to both!"

"Yes! I can bear to be told. Go on, please."

No answer came, and she asked, "Is it illness?"

"No."

"Or accident?"

Jem rose, with an involuntary motion, and turned away. He could not endure to bring sorrow to her. To bring sorrow to any one was great pain; but this was heartrending.

She only believed him to be overcome by the greatness of whatever calamity had befallen them. The tie between him and either her brother or Jean's father was not of so close a nature that she would have expected intense distress on his part! Yet intense distress was written on every line of his face.

It surprised Evelyn a little; though, of course, he would feel acutely for Jean—so kind and sympathetic as he was known to be, even while she individually had found him somewhat cold. All this passed in a flash through Evelyn's mind, together with countless conjectures. She too rose, and went to the door, which she quietly bolted. Then coming to Jem, in the bow-window, she scanned him earnestly with eyes more widely open than usual under the shock of sudden fear, trying to read in his look what he would not or could not say.

"You will not keep me in suspense," she repeated. "See—I can bear it. Nothing can be worse than what I am fancying now. No small matter would touch you like this! Is it the very worst?"

She laid a hand on Jem's arm, not dreaming how her light touch shook the very being of the man. "Is it—? I am waiting to know."

"The 'Spanish Gipsy'—" and a break—"has gone down—with all on board."

"None saved!"

"Not one."

He thought Evelyn would have fainted, but she did not.

"Thanks—no—I am not ill," she said in a low voice, as a slight gesture on his part showed the expectation. She grow colourless, and there was a deep sigh, but she stood firm. "Then, if—if they were on board—"

"We have no certainty that they were."

"They had made up their minds, I am afraid."

"A dozen things may have intervened—to prevent—"

"Yes—if—" and another sigh. "Poor boy!"

"If I could but have kept it from you—at least till we were sure!"

The look she gave him was very sweet. "Thanks—I know you would do all you could," she said, with a momentary wonder that she should ever have called him cold. "But indeed I am not thinking of myself. Jean must not know."

"Impossible to hide it. Captain Lucas happened to hear by private telegram. He had a cousin on board; and he has a friend at the head-office. To-morrow morning it will be in the papers."

"Then you must countermand your papers for to-morrow morning. It is the only thing to do. Jean will think they have been forgotten. And I will take her away—at once. Not too far, but abroad—to Rouen, I think. We could get home quickly from there—if—but Jean must not hear yet—till we know! To lose—both—at one blow! It would be too terrible!"

Jem did not at once reply. He had seldom passed through a sharper ordeal than this interview. The whole force of his powerful will was needed to restrain the rush of feeling, aroused by her look of sorrow, to hold back words and looks which must have revealed his love. He had long ceased to ask whether or no he loved Evelyn. He knew only too well that he never had loved, and never could love, any other woman. Hitherto he had not shown his love; nor did he now: though to hide it at such a moment, to keep up a merely kind and interested manner, taxed his self-control to the utmost. If Evelyn had never seen him so pale, she had also never seen him more composed—in feature; but the struggle brought on trembling; and Jem was thankful when Evelyn sat down, so that he might do the same.

"You will help me, will you not?" she went on earnestly. "Jean must not know yet. If the loss has to be borne, she will bear it; only we must spare her the uncertainty. You will send a telegram, of course, to Melbourne, to know if they started."

Jem signified assent.

"I suppose the answer will hardly arrive for a day or two; and you could forward it at once to Rouen. Jean will be out of reach there of gossip. Will you help me to arrange things? I am not very well, and a little trip abroad might be expected to do me good. Don't you think so? Look—" and she held out her hand—"you see how thin I have grown. Jean noticed that; and you can say that I need a change. Say anything you like, only make her come with me to-morrow. She will understand the need not to put off, if we go at all."

Jem took in his own the offered hand, and viewed critically the frail fingers, as Jean had done.

Evelyn became aware of his trembling; and it seemed to her not quite consistent with her theory of Jem's inviolable composure. A momentary feeling of surprise was created.

But the next instant, he dropped her hand, saying—

"Yes, you are much too thin."

"And you will help me?"

"If I can do anything. I should be glad to spare Jean."

"That is it! Just to spare her needless suspense."

Then Evelyn told him briefly the tale of Cyril's supposed engagement; and Jem had time to master himself while listening.

"I do not believe it," he said at the end.

"I used to think it would be Jean."

"I think so too—" A pause, and an involuntary "If—"

Some one had tried the door once, in vain; and some one now tried it softly a second time. Evelyn hastily sketched her plan of action, obtained Jem's sanction, and summoned Jean.

It was not Jean's fashion to raise needless difficulties. She guessed that some particular cause underlay the sudden scheme; and she conjectured that the cause might be Cyril's rumoured engagement. Rather absurd if it were so—to treat her like a feeble inane creature, not able to endure a brief uncertainty without the distraction of a week or two abroad. But Jean was wisely silent as to her own conjectures, and accepted the plan as it was meant.

If the trip would do Evelyn good, and if Evelyn wanted her, she would go. Next day!—Rather soon, but she could be ready. Better soon, because then she could get back in time to welcome her father, if he should return by Suez. Jean assented with the utmost cheerfulness; and on their way home, noting how ill Jem looked, she would not bother him with a single question.