Chapter VII: Preposterous!

"What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?"
R. BURNS.

"I NEVER heard anything so preposterous in all my life!" declared Madame Collier, in a muffled tone of righteous indignation.

The muffled sound was due to a physical cause, not to a mental condition. Madame Collier was putting a false hem to an old serge skirt of Jean's for lengthening purposes; and the process required a plentiful use of pins. Two or three white points protruded from each corner of her mouth. She wore her huge untrimmed garden hat, having been previously fruit-gathering; and the rusty alpaca was looped up, Dutchwoman-wise, nearly half-way to her knees, displaying ankles formed rather for strength than grace.

Marie Collier had her little vanities, like most people; as, for instance, in the matter of her name. She plumed herself on being "Madame Collier;" not plain prosaic "Mrs." In the matter of dress, she did not study the becoming. Vanity here took the opposite course, not necessarily less vain. She prided herself on a stoical indifference to appearances.

"Preposterous!" she repeated, taking a pin from her mouth, sticking it into the serge, and reaching energetically across the dining-room table for scissors. Mr. Trevelyan stood on the other side, upright and stern. "I declare the world is going crazy. General Villiers, over sixty years old—and a baby of sixteen! Preposterous!"

"Matters are bad enough without exaggeration. General Villiers is fifty-five, and Evelyn is just eighteen."

"Eighteen and fifty-five! He might be her grandfather! It is wicked! Downright wicked!" declared Madame Collier, paying off her heat of spirit into the folding and pinning. "I never heard such an idea in my life. Who told you?"

"General Villiers. I met him half-an-hour since. He seemed too much delighted to keep the thing to himself; but it is not to be known just yet."

"And Miss Devereux?"

"I gather that she is taken by surprise—"

"I should just think so!"

"But that she will offer no serious objection."

"Sybella Devereux would offer no serious objection if the world were to be turned into a cream-cheese. She hasn't the wits. Oh, she will fall in with the plan—glad to get the girl off her hands. The General can do as he likes—though how he manages to reconcile his conscience passes my understanding."

"He must decide for himself."

"He's sure to do that—and for Evelyn too. What man doesn't? He'll follow his own inclinations, of course, and sacrifice that young creature, before she understands what it all means. Why, she's an infant! What has she seen of life? Care for him! It's out of the question! Preposterous! Yes, I dare say she cares after a fashion—the way a girl cares for her grandfather. Likes to be the Lady of Dutton Park, no doubt! That's the bait. And she and Miss Devereux don't pull together. Anybody with half an eye can see! A lucky chance of escape, no doubt—but as for that child being in love with General Villiers—! I know better. The girl's an actress, if she lets him think so. But it's the General that I blame. She doesn't know what she is doing, and he does. Don't talk to me again of his goodness! I've no patience with such goodness! It's downright wickedness!" cried the Rector's sister, dropping a small shower of pins by way of climax, for anger opens the lips.

Her tone changed suddenly. "Jean! What are you doing there? You have no business to creep in and listen to what people are saying."

"I'm just come home," Jean said in self-defence. She had approached so near that Mme. Collier really had no excuse for not seeing her sooner, beyond abstraction of ideas. Jean had reached the end of the table, not creeping, but walking with her usual erect bearing and light footfall. There she had stopped, electrified by the words which reached her ears. She thought some dreadful calamity must be impending.

"Come home! Yes. But why don't you show yourself properly? I hate creeping and listening ways."

Jean grew stiff under the sense of injustice. Mr. Trevelyan's eyes travelled over her.

"Did you mean to listen, Jean?"

"No, father—" very low.

"I have a great mind to put her to bed for it," declared Marie Collier.

"Jean did not mean to listen!" Mr. Trevelyan was a strictly just man. He had never found Jean in untruth, and until he should do so he would trust her implicitly. "The door was not shut; and we might have seen her come in. How much did you hear?"

This was to Jean. A lump in the child's throat almost prevented speech. She swallowed with difficulty, and said, "General Villiers is going to do something bad."

"General Villiers is going to marry Evelyn Devereux. That is not 'something bad' in the sense you mean. Your aunt is sorry to hear it, because he is too old for such a young girl, and the thing is unsuitable. But remember, it is not your business. Unless by accident, you would not have heard it at present; and the matter must not go further. I trust to your honour."

"She will go and talk to Cyril the first thing. I know what children are."

Mr. Trevelyan looked searchingly into the troubled eyes of his little daughter. They met his, clear and resolute, though pained.

"Can I depend on you, Jean?"

"Yes, father."

"It is not to be mentioned again, unless somebody speaks first to you. And then the less said the better. You will not repeat what you heard us say."

"No!"

A slight dry smile crept into the grim lines round Mr. Trevelyan's mouth.

"Marie, you need not be afraid. That child is trustworthy."

Jean's face changed. Any word of praise was rare in her little life. She hardly knew what to make of it. Mr. Trevelyan, watching still, did not quite know what to make of her. He knew well the Trevelyan half of Jean: but the sensitive loving Ingram half was commonly veiled from his sight: he scarcely recognised its existence. The sudden radiance of response in her eyes, and then the quiver of her lips, surprised him. He did not know what he had said to bring about such results.

Before he could speak, Jean was gone. She felt a rush of tears coming, and fled wildly away to a retired corner of the garden, there to sob her little heart out, not knowing what made her cry.

"Why, Jean!"

Jem's voice startled her to her feet; and tears were checked by a mighty effort. To be found in such a condition was in Jean's opinion a dire disgrace. She stood bolt upright, herself again, though with wet cheeks.

"Please don't tell," she begged.

"Not I! Don't you know me better? What is it all about, little woman?"

No answer came, and he did not press the question, shrewdly suspecting that sharp words from Madame Collier or rough ones from Oswald lay below her distress.

He was not far wrong: though indeed Jean would have found it hard to analyse the different ingredients which went to the making up of that distress. The actual last straw had been the softening touch of her father's unwonted praise; but further back was the aunt's displeasure; and further back still another grief. This was the last afternoon of her short holiday, and Oswald had chosen to spend it away from her.

She was a lonely little being, commonly. Her fervent love had a scant return: her thoughts and feelings were not understood. Few guessed what a sensitive organisation underlay the somewhat curt exterior. With her brother, the child's heart was always craving for a show of affection which never came. No doubt Oswald loved Jean after a fashion: but he loved himself much more; while Jean's love for him was a rapt devotion.

A woman too often lavishes gold, only to receive copper in exchange. Jean was learning early the sense of loss entailed by such barter. At times the vague loneliness would take shape in a thirst for her mother. When Oswald had treated her to a boyish rebuff, she would lie awake at night, clasping her pillow with both arms, and wondering how it would feel to have a mother's arms thus folded tightly round her. The Ingram part of Jean did so cry out for love and gentleness: while the Trevelyan part was ashamed, and tried to stand independently aloof.

With Jem she had a sense of placid satisfaction, unknown in other quarters. She did not pour upon him the frantic devotion which she poured upon Oswald: but there was happiness in his companionship. She could trust his unvarying kindness; and she felt herself to be understood by him. This consciousness often drew Jean on to open her mind to Jem, as to no other human being.

"Where is Oswald this afternoon?" Jem asked. "Cricket! Ah, that's unfortunate. And you couldn't get there to look on. What a pity you are a girl, as girls can't join! I say, Jean, suppose you come for a walk with me up the gorge. I'm all alone; and I want somebody."

Which was true—for Jean's sake. He had not wanted somebody for his own sake, unless it were a somebody unattainable.

Jem loved to haunt the gorge these days, for Evelyn's sake. He would always associate one particular turn in the glen with her face.

They were in the wildest part of the gorge, more than an hour later, beyond the "point of the V," and in the second arm of it. Return could be either along that branch and across divers meadows, or else it could be back the way they had come. Jem decided on the latter, and when they reached the rustic bridge at the Point, he took Jean's hand for a race down the path, resolved to shake the gravity out of her.

He had found the child a pleasant companion, fearless in climbing, untirable in walking, full of quaint simplicity and intelligence. He had exerted himself to interest and amuse her, till all traces of the little trouble were gone; and she had poured out her ideas with a rare frankness. But she had been sober throughout—a slim solemn upright child.

Down they came now, full swing; Jem's light run well matched by a speed of foot in Jean which few children of eight or nine could emulate. Jem of course hung back for her sake, yet not so much as might be expected. Jean hung on his strong hand, like a bird, rushing beside him with a glow of pleasure, for once perfectly natural and childlike.

Jem was delighted. He had not seen her so before. Looking down into the eager face, and at the steady shine of the greenish-brown eyes, he asked himself again, "Will she be so plain?" Jem began to think she would not. "But I wish the poor little mite had a brighter existence."

Faster and faster they descended the rough path, as he saw her enjoyment. Soon they passed at a run the open space which had vividly awakened Evelyn's admiration. Reaching an acute bend beyond, they dashed round, glowing and laughing, to find themselves unexpectedly face to face with another couple, slowly ascending the glen.

Jem took in the situation at a glance. A light shock darted through his whole nervous system.

For Evelyn Devereux was there—Evelyn, by the side of General Villiers. Her hand was through his arm; her face was upturned with a sweet confidingness to his; and the General's head was bent from its superior height towards the fair girl, with a fatherly—no, not a fatherly—interest. Something altogether different from a fatherly interest. Jem saw this. He saw the General's momentary embarrassment, and the soft flush on Evelyn's cheek.

Jem dropped Jean's hand, and stood like one struck dumb. Evelyn's first view of him, had been a surprise to her. She had seen him before in a shy and admiring mood; but Jem's real nature was better shown in his vigorous rush down the gorge. The sure free step, the well-proportioned lithe figure, the dancing grey eyes, and the kind care of the little child—all these came before Evelyn as a flash, unexpectedly.

General Villiers could not have pelted down the steep glen at such a pace for any consideration. He suffered from slight rheumatism of the knees; not enough to spoil his military walk, but enough to prevent violent exercise; besides, joints stiffen after fifty.

In one moment, Jem's career was checked. A sudden gravity crept into the warm face, and the grey eyes, emptied of their sunshine, looked earnestly, questioningly, at Evelyn.

"Nonsense!" Jem was saying to himself, putting aside a sick fear. "Nonsense! Absurd! It can't be!"

But General Villiers, embarrassed no longer, looked smilingly at the small hand on his arm, then at Jem.

"I meant to tell you this evening," he said in a deep tone of happiness. "You have found us out sooner. My darling—she is mine now!" He glanced at Jean, who had moved delicately away, with a child's sense of being de trop. "My own!" the General repeated. "Who could have dreamt that such happiness would be for me?"

The healthy glow was gone from Jem's face. He looked grave, dignified—taller and older too than Evelyn had imagined him. One hand, hanging by his side, clenched itself till the nails almost pierced the skin, but except in his sudden paleness, no sign of pain was allowed to appear. Not all Jem's force of will could control the rush of blood to the heart, as he spoke a few words of formal congratulation.

The General, wrapped up in his own delight, did not see: but Evelyn, far more widely awake, noted at once the change. She could not fail to conjecture its cause: and, knife-like, the question shot through her mind—

"Have I made a mistake? Have I been too quick?"

Too late for that now! Evelyn smothered down the thought, with a voiceless "No! No!" and clung more closely to the General's arm. His attention was drawn by the pressure.

"Yes; we will go on—we have not too much time. I shall be back by-and-by," to Jem. "Good-bye, for an hour or two. Yes, I know you congratulate me. Everybody must!"

A few more meaningless words, and they parted. Evelyn had not much to say during the remainder of the walk, but the General had plenty, so her silence mattered less. He had reached an age when most men like a good listener. Evelyn could safely follow her own train of thought, while clinging to his arm. She had to follow it, had to stamp down the questioning which threatened to disturb her peace.

Not that Evelyn was in love with Jem. Nothing of the kind. It was only that his look had been a revelation to her. It was only that she had awakened to the realisation of another manner of life, upon which she had shut the door.

Too late now, she told herself firmly. She had promised, and she would keep her promise.

Then she found the General saying something—what was it? About—how soon?

Evelyn flushed, and her eyes filled. "Oh, soon—the sooner the better!" she said. "Why should we wait? I belong to you now."