"Mr. Trevelyan is ordered to Australia. Dr. Ingram wants him to stay away two years. I believe he starts in a fortnight."
"And Jean—?"
"Jean will be at Dutton Rectory. He can't afford to take her too. I call it a wild scheme. As likely as not, he will die out there, all alone—not a soul near—and Jean will never see him again. But, of course, it is no concern of ours. I only wish one could hope that the locum tenens would be the sort of man I could approve of, but of course his views—"
Cyril heard no more, though he was dimly conscious that Miss Devereux continued talking. She was apt to continue talking indefinitely so long as anybody was present to listen. A sudden idea had come to him, of so startling and brilliant a nature, that it nearly took away his breath. He had desired something definite to do; and here it was. Something for Jean too!—There was the charm of the notion. True, it would mean a long separation. But if all the while, he were acting for Jean, living for Jean—what then, though his waiting should grow to the Patriarch's fourteen years? Cyril felt that they would seem short, for the love that he bore to Jean. He stood in the centre of the room, lost in thought, his eyes sparkling with so remarkable a scintillation that Sybella stared.
"I can't imagine what has come over you to-day," she said. "You look—"
"Never mind my looks. Aunt, don't stay up for me. I am going out."
"Again! You have been out the whole day."
"I must see Jean."
"What for? Really, Cyril, it is too absurd. There is something underneath all this. Something you have not told me. To go after Jean Trevelyan to-night—Just look at the clock—! And when you have not been well! I know you were not well, by the way you left the dining-room after dinner! Something has disagreed with you, I am quite sure. And if you get a chill upon that, from the night air—! It is perfectly crazy! Perfectly mad! As if you could alter things! Dr. Ingram says Mr. Trevelyan must go; so, of course, he must. He says it is as much as his life is worth to stay through another winter in England. Nobody will care for your opinion . . . But perhaps that note was from Jean, after all—though I don't see why you should make such a mystery of it. I dare say she got somebody else to write the address, so that I should not know the handwriting."
"About the last thing Jean would ever stoop to do! But I have no note from Jean."