Chapter II: Mud and Brambles

"I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head,
The child is a woman, the book may close ever,
For all the lessons are said."

"I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it,
Not one as he sits on the tree;
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it,
Such as I wish it to be."
JEAN INGELOW.

Dr. INGRAM'S house was almost outside the town, and thus far the two girls went together. At the garden-gate they stopped; Mabel ran indoors, after a hasty good-bye, and Jean pursued her solitary way.

Dutton was a good two miles from Dulveriford. Jean had permission to go to and fro, by the path through meadows and fields; not by the high road. She turned into the meadows directly after quitting the town, and went onward in a quick steadfast fashion, not dallying. This does not mean the absence of enjoyment. Jean had in her nature intense capabilities of enjoyment; and the sights and sounds of country life always thrilled her with a keen delight, which custom could not deaden.

Now and again she would pause for a few seconds to listen to the song of some little bird, to study the markings of a butterfly as it zigzagged past, to watch the contented munching of a pretty young cow. There were a good many cows in one field, and a good many horses in the next. Fear in connection with animals was a feeling unknown to Jean. She did not, however, linger long for anything.

Jean at sixteen was simply the child of nine expanded. The straight supple form was unchanged, only taller; the slim sunburnt hands were only longer and more capable. The greenish-brown eyes were serious as ever, with their old power of shining under excitement.

She was not "plain" now; the delicate straight features would admit of no such description; but neither was she beautiful; and "pretty" was a term which nobody could think of in connection with the severe simplicity of Jean's outlines, dress, and manner. People generally called her "uncommon;" a safe word which might admit of anything.

No change had taken place in Jean's manner of life. It had been a continuous going on in the old lines; the harder part of her studiously cultivated, the softer part stamped down and driven inward. She had been trained in a splendid mastery of principle over inclination; she had been taught any amount of self-repression and self-control; body and mind had been well and wisely handled. But training and cultivation of the heart's affections had not been equally prominent. Mr. Trevelyan was always just and even, always entirely high-principled; and Madame Collier was always practical. Neither of the two was in manner gentle or loving.

Had it not been for three definite outlets, Jean's softer and more affectionate side would have been walled up and subjected to a slow starvation. These three were—her passionate and absorbing love for Oswald; her quiet friendship with Cyril; her interest in the sick and needy of the parish. Jean's tenderness thus found a three-fold vent, and did not die; but at present it crept through those vents in a shamefaced and surreptitious fashion.

Jem Trevelyan might have supplied a fourth softening element. During years, however, he and Jean had seen little one of another. With her Ingram cousins, Mabel especially, Jean was on agreeable terms, and that was all; for the three girls, pleasant as they were, and popular in many quarters, touched no inner chord of Jean's being. As Mabel had said, Jean "really liked" very few people. "Really to like" in her case meant more than mere liking, and not "really to like" meant profound indifference.

Springing over her fourth stile, on the way homeward, she was arrested by an exclamation:

"Jean! That's jolly!"

"Cyril! You here!"

"I'm come to meet you—by accident."

"How did you know where I was?"

"Intuition."

"Nonsense."

"Madame Collier told me you'd gone to Dutton, so of course I knew you'd come this way. I say!—Give me that basket."

"No. Cyril, let it alone. I like to carry something."

"So do I!"—dexterously twisting the handle off her arm.

"How you bother!"

"Yes, I know. It's only for your good. What's inside the basket?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Hanks of darning cotton, I do believe. I say, Jean, you must use an uncommon lot of old socks at the Rectory. Madame Collier's one earthly occupation is turning them over. I never find her at anything else; unless it is grubbing up stones in the garden."

"Stockings, you mean; not socks."

"Two varieties of the same genus. What are you hurrying for, now?"

"Aunt Marie will want me."

"Let her! I want you more."

"I can't wait, really. She will be vexed."

"Have you got to darn? I'll come and read to you, then."

Cyril had scarcely yet overtaken Jean in height. While actually almost a year her senior, he was commonly supposed to be the younger of the two. His make was so slight as to give an appearance of fragility, not inconsistent with a certain wiry vigour, but heightened by the girlish hands and pale complexion, not to speak of a face hatchet-like in thinness. Breadth of brow gave force to the latter, but the dark hair clustered still in thick waves; and the long-lashed violet eyes, though redeemed from insipidity by any amount of fun, lent him so soft and "pretty" an expression, that it was no wonder he had earned at school the nickname of "Missy."

This did not imply contempt or unpopularity. More than five years back, on first leaving Ripley Brow, with its enervating influences and unlimited petting, for the rougher world of school, Cyril had suffered much, and had had a hard battle to fight. Miss Devereux little guessed how much of real distress had been entailed upon the timid child by her previous policy, or how he might justly have blamed her for long months of misery. Happily, the check of a more invigorating atmosphere came in time to prevent life-long enfeeblement.

He had struggled through the worst long ago. He had now been for years a boy among boys; to all appearance as spirited and careless as any of them, when at school. If to some extent he suffered still from want of nerve, the fact was usually veiled. But it was odd how, immediately he came home for the holidays, he would relapse more or less into his old ways, responding to Sybella's petting. As of yore, his affectionate and clinging disposition, together with an easy sweetness of temper, made him malleable; and also as of yore, the chief bracing element in his Dulveriford life was—Jean.

Jean had not yet lost the impulse to take care of him, to lead, and to expect that he should follow. Growth thus far had been faster with her than with him. There was marked promise of intellectual power in Cyril, but in almost all respects he was still behind his age. Jean remained the stronger, the swifter, the more fearless, the keener in perception, the quicker in understanding, actually the elder, so far.

It was a singular friendship between the two. Each cared greatly for the other, but not after the same mode. While Cyril's happiness was bound up in Jean, Jean's happiness was bound up in Oswald. Cyril cared for no human being as he cared for Jean. Love for her had grown with his growth, winding itself in and out with the very strands of his being. Jean was fond of Cyril, and she missed his companionship when he was away, but she gave him no passionate affection. That was reserved for Oswald.

"Why are you not at Dutton Park this afternoon?" asked Jean.

"Because I'm here."

"Mrs. Villiers must want you."

"Mrs. Villiers isn't Jean, and I'm not Oswald. Why don't you call her 'Evelyn'?"

"I don't know. When did you go last?"

"When? Oh, to-day's Friday. Monday evening I was there—and Wednesday. Tuesday she came to us. Often enough, surely. She's got a lot to do, settling in. I'll go again soon, of course; perhaps to-morrow morning."

"It ought to be to-day."

"I'll see. What a lot you do think of Evelyn, to be sure!"

"Anyone would! If I had such a sister—"

"Well! If you had?"

"I would—Cyril, what's that?"

"Where? What are you looking at?"

"There! Don't you see?"

They had reached the next stile, and Jean stood not far from it, gazing across a wide muddy ditch upon the bank below the hedge.

"A bird—look! It's a robin. I can see its red breast. It has been hurt."

"It's not a nestling. Too big."

"Then some horrid boy has thrown a stone. Hark! You can hear it 'peep.' Poor little thing! It is almost too weak to move. I must get it."

"You can't; just look at that slush."

"Slush! I'm not afraid of wet feet."

The touch of scorn was enough. Before Jean could move, Cyril was down, ankle-deep, in the very middle of the wet slush, which indeed proved to be of the nature of thick watery mud.

"Cyril! How absurd! I didn't mean you to go. I meant to do it myself. I should have gone to the stile, and climbed along the bank."

"You couldn't. It's all brambles."

Jean nearly said, "I don't mind scratches," but forbore. Had she uttered the words, he would certainly have charged the brambles, to gain scars honourable in her eyes.

"I'll come too." Jean loved a scramble.

"No, don't. Stop! It's no use. Such a mess! Wait a moment. Here he is—poor little chap! There, don't peck! What do you mean to do with him? I believe his leg's broken."

"Oh, bring him to me."

"All right, I'm coming."

Jean bent over to receive the fluttering bundle of feathers, and examined it tenderly, while Cyril sprang up on terra firma. Furtively, he endeavoured to wipe his boots on the grass; not openly, for fear Jean should count him effeminate. He had not yet learned that a love of cleanliness is not in essence unmasculine.

"Where's the basket? I'll make a soft bed of grass. Yes, please gather some. You poor little thing! Fancy if we had not found you! It's certainly a broken leg. We must get home as fast as possible, and aunt Marie will know what to do."

"You'll have to tie up the leg in a splint."

"Yes. I'll see. A bit of match, perhaps. Aunt Marie is so clever at that sort of thing. Cyril, your boots are soaking! You ought to go straight home and change them."

"Fudge!"

"What would Miss Devereux say?"

"Anything she likes."

"And you may catch cold."

"I'm not going!"

Such an opportunity to assert his manliness was not to be lost. Jean might think it her duty to uphold Miss Devereux, but he knew that if he went, she would—well, perhaps not despise, but undoubtedly she would pity him. To be pitied by Jean was more than Cyril could stand.

"If you catch cold—"

"I shan't catch cold."

"Well, I have warned you."

"All right."

In two minutes Jean forgot all about his boots, in attention to her feathered invalid. Cyril by no means forgot, for their soaked condition and outward muddiness both meant discomfort, but he never thought of giving way.

As they reached the Rectory door, Mr. Trevelyan came out.

"Jean, just back? What are you after?" This question did not mean displeasure. It only meant that he always expected everybody to be "after" some definite object, and that he wished to hear specified the precise end and aim of Jean's existence at that moment.

"I'm going in to see if aunt Marie wants me. And this bird—"

"A robin—broken leg," said Mr. Trevelyan, touching the little creature with kind fingers. "No, your aunt doesn't want you. Give over the bird to her, and come with me to Dutton Park."

"Now?"

"I met the General, and he mentioned that Mrs. Villiers particularly asks an early call."

"Wouldn't aunt Marie like to go?"

"No, she prefers that I should take you."

Jean's eyes shone: her usual sign of pleasure. She never thought of telling her father that she had already walked to Dutton and back. The fact would have made no difference, if he counted it her duty to go now.

"I've not seen Evelyn for a day or two," remarked Cyril, the wistful look which always strengthened his likeness to Evelyn creeping into his eyes.

Its effect upon Mr. Trevelyan was to bring the question, "Would you like to go with us?"

Cyril's answer, if short, was unequivocal. He had not entirely lost a certain boyish fear of Mr. Trevelyan, but Jean was a more than counterbalancing attraction.

They went by the road this time—a somewhat shorter route than by the fields. Mr. Trevelyan walked fast and steadily, with long swinging strides, and the other two kept pace with him as best they might: Jean easily, from long practice; Cyril less easily, though he would on no account have admitted the fact. He was better at fast running than at fast walking; and the weight of his soaked boots pulled him back.

Outside Dutton they saw the "Brow" carriage approaching, Sybella seated therein with state and dignity.

"I say!" muttered Cyril in foreboding accents.

The carriage drew up, and Sybella bent forward to shake hands with Mr. Trevelyan, whom she did not exactly recognise as her Pastor, although she lived in his Parish, since their views differed on certain points. A puckered forehead showed discontent. She was never pleased to see Cyril with the Trevelyans; and, considering how Cyril haunted Jean, it was remarkable that her eyes should be so seldom vexed with the vision. Perhaps an explanation lay in the fact that Miss Devereux loved high roads and shops, while Jean detested both; wherefore their orbits were seldom entangled.

"How do you do? A very fine day. I hope Madame Collier is well. Really I must call upon her one day soon—but so many engagements, you know—always something turning up. Cyril, my dear boy, I could not imagine where you were. I was so anxious to take you to the Park. I have had really quite to apologise. Two whole days since you went; and you know it must seem strange. Where can you have been?"

"I am going to Evelyn now."

"But I could have saved you the long walk. Such a hot day! I am not sure whether I had not better turn back—" Sybella hesitated, debating with herself whether, in that case, it would not be needful to give the Trevelyans a lift also.

She could hardly pick up her nephew, and leave them trudging in the dust. But Mr. Trevelyan was not approved of by some of her friends, and to be seen by certain of them driving through Dutton side by side with him—by old Lady Lucas, for example, or by Colonel Atherstone—such a juxtaposition of representative individuals was not to be thought of!

"I am afraid, though, that I cannot well spare the time. My dear boy, you had really better put off till another day, and come back with me. I am sure you are fatigued. This hot sun is enough to give anybody a headache. Quite too much for him," she added reproachfully to the Rector.

"Is it hot?" asked Mr. Trevelyan. He looked down and up, and around, as if studying Nature for a reply.

"Exceedingly hot! Most oppressive! Surely you—But people are so differently constituted," sighed Sybella, with an audible little puff of exhaustion. "Now I feel to-day quite incapable—really quite feeble and spiritless. I assure you, I could not walk a mile to save my life."

"That might prove a potent incentive," suggested Mr. Trevelyan, with another look at the tree-tops.

His irony was lost upon Sybella.

"Robust people do not suffer in the same way, I believe. So fortunate for them! But dear Cyril is always so very easily knocked up—and his poor head, you know—"

Cyril grew furiously red at having to endure this, with Jean standing by.

"My dear boy, you are quite flushed, you are indeed—quite overheated. It makes me so anxious. I really cannot possibly allow this sort of thing to go on. I am sure you have a headache."

"No, aunt!" Cyril's voice was seldom so gruff.

"No? But you are tired—fatigued. I am certain you will be overdone. If I—Cyril!!"

Mr. Trevelyan lifted his eyebrows, and Jean's lips twitched. Miss Devereux pointed with an agonised forefinger at Cyril's feet.

"Oh, I just got a little muddy. I'm all right."

"It's my fault," Jean said promptly.

"Boys don't mind a trifle of mud," quoth Mr. Trevelyan, with a solemn smile, perhaps not realising the extent to which the "trifle of mud" went.

"Mud! His boots are wet through and through! I can see it for myself. Boys in general are different. Cyril is not like other boys. He must take care. It is absolutely necessary. To go about with wet feet—I shall have him laid up all the holidays. Another attack on his chest like the last would—I assure you, the Brighton doctor told me, he could not answer for the consequences," gasped the agitated lady. "My dear boy, get at once into the carriage. I must drive you home as fast as possible. As fast as possible, Grimshaw!" raising her voice.

And Grimshaw touched his hat.

"You must change your boots and stockings the very moment we arrive, and I must give you something hot to drink."

Had the Trevelyans not been there, Cyril would no doubt have yielded without resistance. He might have felt a certain boyish dislike to the fuss—a dislike which had for some time been growing upon him; yet mere force of habit would have won the day. To be petted and coddled by his aunt was so much a matter of course, that hitherto he had submitted.

Jean's presence made all the difference. Cyril was fond of his aunt, and he liked to please her; indeed, he liked to please everybody, whether or no fondness came into the question. But his love for Jean, his desire to stand well in Jean's eyes, his dread of being pitied by Jean, were overwhelming motives. To step into the carriage, and be driven home for the purpose of changing his boots, while Jean stood looking on, was too much. For almost the first time, Sybella's petted darling refused to answer to the pull of her rein.

"Nonsense, aunt. I'm all right. I'm going on to see Evelyn."

"If I may advise, I should not recommend a drive with damp boots," said Mr. Trevelyan. "Exercise is safer than sitting still; and he can dry them, if needful, at the Park."

This was reasonable. But to expect Sybella to hear reason from Mr. Trevelyan would mean a dire ignorance of human nature.

"I beg your pardon. I think I am the best judge as to that," she said, reddening. "Cyril, my dear boy—No, I could not possibly run the risk!" to Mr. Trevelyan. "Cyril, my dear boy, you really must—Cyril, I insist! You must come home with me at once. Evelyn will understand. I will explain to her. I could not allow you to go on with your feet in such a condition. My dear boy, it is only for your own good—Pray make haste, and get in! Every moment's delay increases the risk. My dear boy, I assure you—Really, Cyril, I am very much surprised—this is not like you! I am afraid it is the consequence of—Cyril, if you do not come at once, I shall have—Not of course that I expect you to prefer to be with me, rather than with—It is only for your own sake! Cyril, this is really too much! I insist upon obedience!"

Cyril held resolutely back, thus far.

Mr. Trevelyan moved a step nearer.

"My boy, the more manly part will be to yield," he said very low; not too low for Jean as well as Cyril to hear.

The lad grow white, and looked at Jean.

"Yes, do go!" she said gently, pityingly.

Cyril could better have done without the pity: but Mr. Trevelyan's words took effect.

"I must beg of you, Cyril, not to delay. For your own sake as well as mine. I cannot wait any longer, and I insist upon your coming," Miss Devereux went on with querulous repetition.

"Good-bye," said Mr. Trevelyan.

He took Cyril's hand, with a warm grasp which spoke volumes: and from that hour, he had a hold upon the young baronet. "Come and see us again soon."

Cyril crimsoned to the roots of his hair, and stepped in.

"Poor boy: it is hard upon him," muttered the clergyman, as they drove off, Sybella talking still.