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the rescue.
CHAPTER XIII.
BOULEVERSEMENT.
"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!"
No answer.
She was not Cyril's guardian now, but her mind was unable
to acquiesce in the change wrought by his coming of age.
"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."
"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.
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.
"My own dear dear dear Jean! Never, never any one but
you!"
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?
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:
"It!"
"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—"
"If you don't choose to tell me the real reason, you needn't
at least pretend—"
"At the Rectory! I've not seen Jean for days—not spoken to
her, I mean. Nothing settled yet?"
"And Jean—?"
"I can't imagine what has come over you to-day," she said.
"You look—"
"About the last thing Jean would ever stoop to do! But I
have no note from Jean."
"It is late for a call; but you will give me a few minutes," he
said. "Will you not?"
"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."
"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?"
"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—"
"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?"
"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.
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I.
DUTTON GOSSIP.
Jem looked up, and his grey eyes broke into laughter. When
absorbed in thought, he had a harassed look, too old for his
thirty-five years; but when he smiled, all was transformed;
signs of wear and tear vanished; and hollows were
mysteriously filled up.
"Oh, I like it. Not another word, please, mother. Yes, give
me the list."