Chapter IV: Severely Smitten

"She should never have looked at me,
If she meant I should not love her."
R. BROWNING.

SYBELLA'S forehead wrinkled as Evelyn fled, and she sighed pensively.

"I shall have to appeal to General Villiers," she murmured. "He has more influence over the girl than I have. So very wilful and obstinate! It is most melancholy. But she will listen to General Villiers, because he was her father's friend; and he will not approve of such conduct. I must certainly speak to him. He is almost sure to look in by-and-by."

This was true. General Villiers had taken to "looking in" on most days: and undoubtedly he had a strong influence over Evelyn. Sybella thought him most kind and fatherly to the child: only perhaps a little too ready to show how very pretty he thought her.

Sometimes it struck Sybella that he came to the house rather often, all things considered. There were a good many arrangements to be made, and he had constituted himself general adviser and helper: but still—! Now and again this thought would recur, bringing a blush with it. Could he mean anything particular? General Villiers was only about fifty-five in age, and except for his grey hairs, he did not look so much. He was handsome and gentlemanly; a person of good standing and of considerable wealth. His antecedents were irreproachable. Sybella herself was barely forty. Fifteen years of difference on the right side! What could be more suitable?

Some such ideas floated vaguely through her mind, as she came indoors and sat down. She was not in the least in love with General Villiers; but she was quite ready to fancy herself so, if desirable; and she felt that matters began to look suspicious. That poor dear man might well feel lonely at Dutton Park, with no companion. Sybella woke up at the sound of an "Auntie darling!" to find Cyril by her side.

"Auntie darling, may I go out?" He systematically addressed her thus—to the delight of Sybella, but not at all to the delight of Evelyn. The iteration was apt to grow tiresome.

"Yes, my pet. But you must put on your overshoes, and your coat and necktie. The wind is east."

"Yes, auntie darling."

"And don't go on the grass, or sit down anywhere."

"No, auntie darling."

"You are pale, my sweet. Not a headache, I hope?"

Cyril had to consider. "Just a little wee one, auntie darling."

"Then you must not play in the sun. Walk in the shade; and mind you don't run fast so as to get too hot."

"No, auntie darling."

"If you see Evelyn, don't let her excite you. And if the headache doesn't go soon, you must come in and lie down. Something must have disagreed with you yesterday. Perhaps it was the baked apple. I think you had better have only broth to-day for dinner—and just a little dry toast."

"Yes, auntie darling."

Cyril obeyed the various directions given, so long as he remembered them. He crept about in the shade, like a venerable invalid, till near the river. By that time the fresh air, acting upon so much of a boyish nature as had been allowed to develop in him, overcame the cultivated languor, and he began to run. A bright idea sprang up, and Sybella's cautions vanished.

He had never yet made a second trial of the stepping-stones. He would do it now. Jean had urged him to conquer. He would not be a coward.

There was natural force of will in the boy, though his fond parents had done their best in the past to weaken it; though his doting aunt was now doing her best to carry on the process.

"You don't like so-and-so! Then don't do it, darling!"—had been the manner of his training hitherto. Such treatment is an absolute cruelty to a child, unfitting him for the exigencies of future life. To teach a child to master his own will, to control his own inclinations, is a grand beginning for life. To wrap the will in cotton-wool, and slay its vitality through disuse, means often a terrible after-slavery to the inclinations. "If I like!" becomes the rule of action in place of "If I ought!"

Cyril had enough of latent vigour to prevent his succumbing utterly to even Sybella's training. As yet, however, he was very young for his age; small, timid, almost babyish; and his affectionateness made him the more malleable. The chief bracing influence in his little life was Jean Trevelyan. Oswald frightened him; and he shrank from Evelyn's high spirit; but he was ready to do or bear anything for Jean.

So he made the effort bravely, though his heart fluttered, and dire sickness crept over him, as the waters ran past. He knew no more than did Jean of the physical weakness which caused these sensations. It was "cowardice" in his eyes as in Jean's; and it had to be conquered, because she said so.

From stone to stone, he struggled on—whitening, shivering, hardly able to hold himself upright, till the middle of the stream was reached. Then he could do no more. Water and banks swept round with dizzy whirl, and as he crouched down in a forlorn little heap, he seemed to be sinking through unfathomable depths. He would not cry this time, for Jean despised boyish tears, but further advance was not possible.

"Hallo! What's wrong?"

It was a man's voice, full and musical; a voice unknown to Cyril. A few strides brought the owner of the voice near, and Cyril was lifted in a pair of strong arms, to be carried the rest of the way.

"What's the matter, you poor little chap?"

Cyril burst into tears. "Oh, I did want to get over," he sobbed, "and I couldn't; and Jean—Jean—"

"What about Jean?"

"Jean says—says—it's so cowardly—and she won't—won't love me!"

"What's cowardly?"

"I can't get across the stones."

"Turns you giddy, eh?"

"Yes," sobbed Cyril, from the depths of his heart.

"Never mind. I wouldn't cry. When I was a little fellow like you, I was just the same—every inch as bad; and you see I don't mine the stones now."

Cyril was wonderfully comforted. Tears lessened, and he could manage to look up into the other's face—a young face, frank and kindly; with a mouth of exquisite curves, sweet, strong, and smiling; with a broad forehead above the grey eyes, which were full, half of mockery, half of tenderness, a touch of sadness running through both.

"Please put me down," entreated Cyril, direfully afraid of seeming girlish.

The young man obeyed very gently, as if he were handling a piece of porcelain. There was something porcelain-like in the child's look. Cyril tottered, and caught at his new friend.

"Dizzy still, poor little man? Sit on this bank."

"I mustn't. Auntie says the grass is damp to-day. And I promised."

"Whew! Quite right to do as you are told. Well; you won't find me damp. I'll be your cushion."

He threw himself down, lifted Cyril on his knee, and encircled the child with kind arms. Cyril rested his curly head on the broad shoulder, with evident relief.

"That's better, eh? Now tell me your name. Cyril! What—little Devereux? I know all about you. And is Jean a friend of yours?"

"Jean? O yes! I do love her so."

Pretty, but hardly boy-like, the young man thought.

"She's a jolly little girl, isn't she?"

"Do you know Jean?"—with great eagerness.

"Rather! I should think so! Hasn't she ever talked to you about Cousin Jem? If not, I'll pay her out."

The mocking grey eyes sparkled, then grew soft as they glanced down on Cyril's tiny white hand. Jem's oppositions of mood were almost as marked as those of Jean.

"O yes; I know. Jean told me. She said Cousin Jem was a sort of a cousin. And she likes him—you, I mean—ever so much. Next after Oswald, you know. And I think I shall like you next after Jean. And Evie said you were coming to stay with General Villiers. But—" with an elderly air—"I didn't know it was you, of course, at first: because Evie called you a boy."

Cyril was regarding, in his turn, the muscular brown hand beside his own, a hand of aristocratic outlines and powerful grasp, matching well the lithe muscular figure.

"Evie calls everybody boys."

"Does she? Who is Evie?"

"Oh, she's my sister. She's so pretty. I love Evie; only not like Jean." A pause, as if for reflection. "I mean to marry Jean, some day."

"Ah!" said Jem. "Have you told her so?"

"O no!" Cyril's voice had a sound of indignant surprise. "I haven't told anybody."

"Except me!" Jem Trevelyan was used to this. He had the indescribable power over all who came in contact with him, which causes unlimited confiding. Young as he was, other people were perpetually telling him things which they "had told nobody else." He never knew why: neither did they: but in a tête-à-tête with Jem, secrets were sure to ooze out; and Jem never abused anybody's trust.

"You won't tell Jean!"

"Not a word. You needn't be afraid. I wouldn't advise you to tell Jean either. Many a lady is lost through the gentleman speaking too soon." Jem stated this as seriously as if he had been addressing a full-grown man; and indeed the little fellow's intense seriousness hardly admitted of a joke. "Wait a while."

"How long?"

"Oh, wait—let me see—how old are you?"

"I'm just ten."

"Well, you must wait ten or twelve years at the very least. Perhaps more. Never do to speak sooner."

"Jacob waited fourteen years."

"So he did." Jem mentally contrasted the patriarch with this dainty infant, and had difficulty in keeping his lips straight. "If you have to wait fourteen years, it's nothing. Just bring you to twenty-four."

"And then I'll marry Jean."

"Supposing Jean consents. There's that little point to be considered. I'll tell you one thing—Jean will never marry a man to whom she can't look up. Do you understand? You must grow into a real man before you speak—strong and brave and good—a man she can respect and lean upon, not a twopence-halfpenny creature in a coat."

The words sank deep; deeper than Jem knew.

"Yes, I will!" said Cyril.

"And don't mind waiting. Don't be easily disheartened, or get into a tiff and throw it up, because she isn't to be had at the first go. If she's worth winning, she's worth waiting for."

Cyril heaved a sigh. Sybella was always giving vent to audible expirations of air, and the trick is infectious.

"I think Jean is just exactly like Rachel," he said. "Rachel was so beautiful, you know."

Jem's expression became comical. Had he uttered his thought, he would have said, "She's a queer little scarecrow, but she'll improve." Happily he was spared the need for a reply.

"Hallo! There she is! Wait and see if she knows me. We've not met for two years."

Jean advanced slowly, recognising Cyril, and perplexed at his position. Cyril would have struggled up, but for Jem's grasp. When Jean came near, a flash of light appeared in her eyes.

"Cousin Jem!" she cried.

Jem pulled her down on the grass beside him, and kissed her cheek.

"How d'you do, little one? Can't get up, for I'm acting bolster. Here's somebody in mortal dread of a scolding from you. Tried to get over the stones, and turned giddy."

"Cyril is always frightened," Jean said, with disdain.

"It's not fear. He can't help the dizziness."

Jean looked up in surprise. "Can't he?"

"No. The feeling isn't cowardice. If he caved in, and made up his mind to be beaten, that would be cowardice. But he won't."

"I won't, really and truly, Jean," pleaded Cyril. "I did try so hard."

Jem's hand went with a tender motion over the curly hair. Jean saw and understood, the soft side of her nature springing in response.

"You won't mind some day, Cyril."

"Not he," said Jem. "He'll be as plucky as anything! See if he isn't! You must give him time. Everything isn't easy to everybody, you know. It really is braver of Cyril to get half over, feeling as he does, than for you to run backwards and forwards fifty times. Yes, of course, much braver!"—emphatically. "Because one is hard, and the other isn't. Mind, Cyril, don't try it alone for a time or two. Take Jean's hand, and try a few stones. Do a little more every day. By-and-by you won't care a rap."

"No, I won't," assented Cyril.

"It's a nasty feeling. I used to be just as bad—got into an awful funk if I had to walk along a board. Had a hard fight too, before I could master it. But it had to be mastered. If I'd given in, and been a slave to that, I should have been a slave to a hundred other fancies as well; and think what a useless fellow I must have grown. Always a bother to myself, and a hindrance to everybody else."

"I won't!" declared the little baronet, with concentrated earnestness.

"That's right. You'll conquer, never fear! Now you're better, eh? Able to stand again? Why!—Who—?"

Jem, otherwise James Trevelyan, sprang to his feet, snatching off his cap.

He had seen pretty girls in his lifetime—any number of them; and his pulse was not wont to beat fast at the sight. They did beat now, furiously. For not many "pretty girls," so called, could match the one coming at this moment across the stones.

She was tall for her age, slight and willow-like in figure. Brown hair clustered thickly about the brow; and dark curled lashes fringed the violet eyes. Other features, if not classically beautiful, were delicate, unobtrusive, and set off by a rare complexion of ivory and pale rose. One ungloved hand held a garden hat, the other guarded a crape-trimmed skirt.

In leisurely style she drew near; not troubling herself to put on the hat; not in the least embarrassed by Jem's bewildered gaze. Evelyn saw it, of course; but admiration was an everyday thing in her life. It came and was accepted, much in the same fashion that sunshine comes and is accepted.

Had admiration failed, Evelyn would have felt the loss. Having it in superabundance, she received it carelessly. While aware of her own exceptional charms, and appreciating the privileges of beauty, she was far less vain, far less occupied with her own looks, than many a girl not one tithe so fair. Evelyn was much more disposed to vanity in respect of her mental gifts than of her pretty face.

"That's Evie," announced Cyril.

"Who?"

"It's Cyril's sister—Evelyn," said Jean, wondering what had come over "Cousin Jem."

Jem stood motionless, cap off, till Evelyn quitted the last stone. Then he went forward, and offered his help for the ascent of the bank.

"Thanks!" Evelyn said, smiling, and just touching the brown hand. She needed no help, but she was too gracious a being to refuse. "Thanks!" she repeated, reaching the level path, with a kind look at Jem which finished him off completely, though it was no more than she would have given to gardener or butler for a service rendered. "Is anything wrong with Cyril?"

"He turned giddy, crossing the river," said Jem.

"But I'm going to try again, and I mean to do it," exclaimed Cyril. "He says he was just as bad, Evie, and he got over it. And I mean to be brave. Jean says I must."

"Jean says!" repeated Evelyn. It recalled Miss Devereux's perpetual citing of "dear aunt."

"He's a boy," explained Jean.

"And I'll be a man some day," cried the little baronet. "You'll see, Evie. I'll take care of Jean when I'm a man."

"Jean is more likely to take care of you at present."

"That state of things is often reversed later," observed Jem, feeling for once unaccountably shy, and striving after self-possession. He was not given to shyness commonly. "Cyril and I had to perform self-introductions. Jean was our connecting link."

"Then perhaps you are General Villiers' friend?"

"And he isn't a boy," cried Cyril, drowning Jem's assent.

Evelyn did not blush. She said, "No?" and looked straight at Jem with a soft laugh, which put him at his ease, but tightened the strings of fascination.

"I reached Dutton Park last night. General Villiers, is an old friend of some of my family. A delightful man."

The girl's eyes drooped. "He is—I don't know anyone like him!"

"A sort of modern preux-chevalier style."

"And always so gentle."

Jem wondered whether any human being could be otherwise than gentle to Evelyn. He knew little of Miss Devereux.

Evelyn made a move as if to go. "Come, Cyril—" she said; "we will walk round by the bridge. I suppose you have had enough of the stepping-stones for one day."

"There's a prettier path to the Brow up the glen—crossing the rustic bridge," observed Jem. "But of course you know."

"Oh, I know it all. I have spent so many of my holidays here—only not very lately. That is my favourite ramble. But it is supposed to be too lonely for me, with only Cyril; and somehow nobody is ever free to escort us."

"Why, I go alone anywhere," said Jean.

Jem's glance went from the one to the other. "That is different," he remarked; and then he turned again to Evelyn, audacious though embarrassed. "If you would not mind—Jean and I would gladly act escort. The glen is perfect just now. You really ought to see it. I have been the whole round this morning."

"Thanks!" in a considering tone.

"Jean and I are cousins," apologetically. "So I thought—"

"A sort of cousins," corrected Jean, trained in habits of rigid accuracy.

"My father was first cousin to Jean's father, so Jean and I are 'seconds.' It is a convenient tie where people suit; and Jean and I do suit; so perhaps—"

"Perhaps, on the strength of it, we may count ourselves acquainted."

"There is General Villiers as well to vouch for my respectability."

"Ah!"—with a smile.

"Then you really will make use of us! I'll walk behind, if you would rather."

Evelyn laughed. She found the proposal tempting, and could see no harm. "I don't think a rearguard will be needful," she said. "Thanks—if it really is not giving you trouble—"

"Trouble!!" protested Jem.