It was the face of one to be not only loved, but leant upon. You might be sure, so leaning, that Jean would not give way beneath the strain. Giving way is commonly far more a matter of weak will, than of weak muscle, bodily or mental. Jean might break, but she would not bend. It is the feeble natures that bend. The strong hold out, and rather die than yield.
Jean studied Jem in return; not quite able to make him out. A certain burden pressed upon him, which he failed to hide. The grey eyes were troubled beneath their pleasant sparkle, and a weight on the forehead drew the brows often together. Jean had seen him burdened before, and she always had a theory ready to account for it. True, the weight to-day was something new, since for years past his life had seemed to be full of sunshine, yet she reverted at once to her old explanation. Was it Evelyn again?—Evelyn Villiers, disturbing his peace? Had he somehow heard that after nearly four years abroad, she was returning to Dutton Park?—Nay, that she might already be in London?
"I shall leave you to amuse one another," Mr. Trevelyan said, rising. "Don't expect me till seven. You will dine with us, of course, Jem."
Then he was gone, and they made their way river-wards; Jean with her old sense of repose under Jem's protection, and her old trust that he was sure always to do right. It was a confidence soon to have a rude shake.
"I'm perfectly happy, left to myself. There's no need to talk to me."
Jem looked round, smiling. They had secured good stern-seats, near the wheel, and apart from other people.
"Some occult meaning underlies that assertion. I don't fathom it."
"I only thought you might feel bound to amuse me; and I am not one of the people who need to be amused."
"Profoundly true. But how if I want to hear Dulveriford news?"
"Evelyn!" flashed anew through Jean's mind.