WHETHER he had simply lost his way in the storm, and had wandered to and fro among the marshes, finding himself again and again turned back by intercepting dykes, till so exhausted that when he slipped and fell, he had no strength to rise; or whether some undetected heart-weakness, rendering him unfit to cope with the icy gale, had resulted in sudden failure of the heart's action, who of those present could say? All was over, long before they found him.
He had died, it would seem, a painless death, even though in some measure, a death of suffocation. He had met the great change suddenly, quietly, in pursuit of duty, in an act of unselfish kindness. The look in the dead face was not as of one conquered, but as of one victorious. To such a man as General Villiers, living habitually in the presence of his God, death, however unexpected, could not in effect be sudden, since he was always ready for it.
Jean would never in future years forget those few minutes, when she stood alone beside the lifeless body. She had not, it is true, any very strong liking for the General personally. He had been kind to her in a ceremonious fashion, and she had looked upon him as the inevitable appendage to his wife, whom she passionately loved—not in all respects a satisfactory appendage, viewed with Jean's fastidious eyes, because she privately counted that he did not fully appreciate Evelyn.
Perhaps the parting between husband and wife, witnessed by her that afternoon, had somewhat shaken this aspect of matters. In any case, the General had been a familiar figure in Jean's life; a fine figure always, manly and gentlemanly; and to see him thus was terrible—lying dead on the cold white snow, bathed in the cold white moonlight, with the cold white marshes around—while not another human being was near. There lay the pull. We are so constituted that the mere fact of somebody near, at such a moment, is a help—even though the somebody may be powerless to assist.
Had a mere child stood by, the chill of that icy solitude would not have entered, as it did, into the very depths of Jean's organisation. Her actual grief was, indeed, for Evelyn, not for herself; but nine-tenths of what Jean suffered in life always had been and always would be for others: and the suffering was no whit less keen on that account. Rather, it was more keen, because more pure and noble in kind.
Evelyn's fainting fit did not last long, and when she rallied, the native force of her character at once asserted itself. Instead of giving way to a display of grief, adding to others' difficulties, she stood resolutely up, insisted on walking, and decisively set Mr. Trevelyan free, as well as Walters and Adams—the latter having returned—for the heavy task before them. Ricketts had been sent to the cottage to procure a shutter, and if possible, additional help. To convey such a weight over such ground would be no light matter; and a man lodging there, but seldom back till late, would probably be in by this time. The lad's own lameness rendered him of small avail.
"Jean will give me her arm. I want nothing more," Evelyn said steadily. "Only Jean, please. I shall not faint again. You must not think of me at all. We will go on, and—you will bring him home—quickly, please!" with unutterable entreaty.
Even Mr. Trevelyan's stoicism was not proof against her look.
"If—if anything can be done—" But she did not finish her sentence, for she knew as well as he that it was too late, that nothing whatever could be done.
The Rector's eyes were full, nay, wet all round.