He tried again and again to think of Emmie, to picture her confiding ways, to imagine the sweet little face at the head of his table, always by his side! In vain! Every fresh effort was a failure. Jean's face persistently rose instead, blotting out Emmie's.
Without any clear aim before his mind's eye—which indeed was fully occupied—he presently turned aside from the marshes, and made his way towards Dulveriford Rectory. He had no idea of going in or of speaking to Jean. He only went because he could not help it.
The drawing-room blinds were not drawn when he entered the garden; and he stole near, cautiously as a thief might have stolen. He was veiled in the outside darkness; while a lamp and a bright fire burnt within. Jean stood by the table, reading a letter—pale and quiet. She looked up carelessly towards the window, little thinking that Cyril was so near. Then she read a few more lines, and again looked up, as if with an uneasy consciousness of being watched. She might well feel the intense gaze which Cyril brought to bear upon her. He was conscious of power to make her feel it; and the consciousness caused a gleam of delight.
Jean stepped forward, and drew down the blind. That was at an end; and Cyril's momentary delight faded into wretchedness.
He dared not go in. He could not trust himself. She would see his trouble in his face; and there was no knowing what he might be drawn on to say. Cyril had force of will to resist the loadstone pulling, and to walk away.
Miss Devereux was offended that her nephew had not come home in time for dinner; and when he did appear, she greeted him with reproaches. It was of no consequence, of course—at least, of course she was of no consequence—but she thought he might have the civility to tell her beforehand when he meant to stay away—even though he was master of the Brow, and poor she was nobody—still she did think she had a right to be treated with at least a little proper respect.
When a man is stretched on the rack, an additional turn of the screws becomes sometimes just too much for endurance. He may have borne in silence thus far; but there is a point where silence breaks down. Cyril was on the rack, and his powers of endurance had reached their limit. One turn more became too much.
This evening's experience had changed him greatly, working in him such a revolution of thought and feeling as years are commonly needed to work. He had gone out after three o'clock, a pleasant boyish young fellow, drifting easily on life's current, well content with himself and the world in general. He had come back at eight o'clock a full-grown man; a sufferer through his own blundering haste; sharply awakened from placid satisfaction to a new knowledge of himself, a fresh understanding of life.
Had Miss Devereux been on the look-out, she must have noticed the change in his face, the tense misery of every feature; but as usual she was occupied with herself. The falling of a thunderbolt could hardly have startled her more than did his rough reply, putting down her querulous complaints with a disdain which he had never shown to her yet. She stared, protested, then collapsed into tears; and Cyril flung himself into an easy-chair.
"There! I didn't mean to put you out," he said moodily. "But what's the use of bothering one?"