Strictly in three minutes they were off, through the garden and towards the river. They had a glimpse of the stepping-stones, standing up, solid and square; and Jean saw a little vision of a small white-faced boy, crouching thereon, with pitiful wails for help. Cyril was a great deal changed since those days! She had leisure for recollections, since Mr. Trevelyan never talked for talking's sake, but only spoke when he had something definite to say. He seemed to-day in a silent mood, yet Jean knew well that he liked to have her with him.
They struck away at a brisk pace up the path which led through the gorge. Golden-brown water flowed below; rocky banks rose sharply on either side; and a complex pattern was sketched upon the ground by sunlight through clustering leaves. Autumn colouring had begun to appear in sharp patches of rod and yellow; dying tints, beautiful in death. Jean loved this slow fair fading of foliage in autumn, because of the silent promise embedded therein of winter's quiet sleep, to be followed by spring's Resurrection.
"It is delicious here," she said, as she pressed upward with a light step; and not till they had gone some distance, did she note a movement of her father's—the taking out of his pocket-handkerchief to wipe his face. Jean looked at him in surprise. They were wont to pelt at full speed up this gorge, without "turning a hair," either of them.
"Why, father—are we going too fast?"
"No," rather breathlessly, and as if ashamed. "It is nothing. Warm day."
"I thought the weather perfect." Jean seldom thought it aught else. Sunshine and frost, storm and calm, came alike to her.
She would have slackened speed, but Mr. Trevelyan pressed forward, as if bent on proving to Jean how entirely he was his usual self. The attempt was hardly successful. Reaching the bridge, he came to a pause, leant against the wooden parapet, and actually gasped for breath.
"I don't think you ought to do so much," Jean remarked, mindful of her aunt's parting injunction. She knew better than to show any marked concern, but it was impossible to avoid seeing his condition. For some seconds, he was unable to speak: his eyes had grown dim; a livid paleness overspread his face; and when he again swept away the streaming damp, large drops started anew on his brow.
"It's all right," he said at length, breathing hard. "Nothing of consequence. I am a little out of condition, perhaps. Now I must leave you here."
"May I not come with you? I am not afraid of infection."