"And so much the better!" cogitated Jean, who, like most of her countrywomen, are apt to find everything abroad a little inferior to its counterpart at home.
She turned over a pile of newspapers, her mind running on the continued cessation of letters from the absentees, and reverting with a troublesome persistence to the report about Cyril. Jean could not put that story aside. It remained as an ever-present consciousness; not mastering her moods, for she was equably cheerful; but never out of sight.
Lilias Mackenzie! A pretty name: and a pretty girl. Dark-eyed and small, like Emmie Lucas! Well: why not? He might do worse. It was true that she had heard Cyril express a particular admiration for dark eyes—to Jean herself, whose eyes were not dark, but pale brown with spokes of green. He had made the remark at the Academy, when looking at some black-orbed dame on canvas.
Then she recalled her last parting with Cyril: the prolonged pressure of her hand: the expression of his face! More than that, the evening interview not long before, when he had resolutely declared that he never could or would marry anyone but Jean. Would he not? How much were such assertions worth? Time alone could show . . . Jean remembered how he had since devoted himself to the care of her father; how he had nursed the sick man like a daughter; how he had taken Mr. Trevelyan at his own cost for a trip to the South Sea Islands; how he had written to her, constantly and fully, week by week; how he had done or appeared to do all in his power to prove himself worthy of her confidence. And now, at the first break in their correspondence, at the first breath of gossip, Jean's trust threatened to fail.
"But it shall not," she said firmly to herself. "He deserves something better. I will not doubt him, till I have real reason."
The old lady, watching from a distance, wondered what had brought so fair a glow to the girl's singular eyes. She was greatly interested in Jean. Jean, unconscious of being observed, and forgetful of another's presence, drew from her pocket a letter always carried here—the first received from her father, after his long illness in Melbourne. In it, he told briefly what Cyril had been to him through that trying time.
"I have not really known the boy till now," he wrote; "yet I thought I did—after all these months together. Jean herself could hardly have done more. I have never been allowed to want a thing. It was no use to suggest his leaving me more to the nurse, and taking his pleasure. She was no great shakes, certainly, and Cyril did not trust her. He was with me most of the day, and often at night; and if I remonstrated, his answer was, 'For Jean's sake!' Strange to say, he, never seemed overdone. Womanly gentleness is beautiful, but when conjoined with manly strength, it is past praise. He is growing into a fine fellow—a thorough man, body and mind."
This was not quite the Cyril of Jean's knowledge—the coddled pet of Sybella, ready always to take care of himself.
"But Jem has often said there was more in Cyril than appeared. It is not fair to doubt him, without full proof—and I will not!" she repeated resolutely.
The glow of renewed confidence lent at once a different aspect to life.