Here she made a little pause, in which for the first time there was a consciousness of guilt, or, if not of guilt, of imprudence. John might think that a young person who made things more cheerful for Rosalind required credentials. John might look as gentlemen have a way of looking at individuals of their own sex introduced in their absence. Talk of women being jealous of each other, Aunt Sophy said to herself, but men are a hundred times more! and she began to wish that Mr. Everard might forget his engagement, and not walk in quite so soon into the family conclave. Rosalind’s mind, too, was disturbed by the same thought; she felt that it would be better if Mr. Everard did not come, if he would have the good taste to stay away when he heard of the new arrival. But Rosalind, though she had begun to like him, and though her imagination was touched by his devotion, had not much confidence in Everard’s good taste. He would hesitate, she thought, he would ponder, but he would not be so wise as to keep away. As a matter of fact this last reflection had scarcely died from her mind when Everard came in, a little flushed and anxious, having heard of the arrival, but regarding it from an opposite point of view. He thought that it would be well to get the meeting over while John Trevanion was still in the excitement of the reunion and tired with his journey. There were various changes in his own appearance since he had been at Highcourt, and he was three years older, but on the other side he remembered so well his own meeting with Rosalind’s uncle that he could not suppose himself to be more easily forgotten. In fact, John Trevanion had a slight movement of surprise at sight of the young intruder, and a vague sense of recognition as he met the eyes which looked at him with a mixture of anxiety and deprecation. But he got up and held out his hand, and said a few words of thanks for the great service which Mr. Everard had rendered to the family, with the best grace in the world, and though the presence of a stranger could scarcely be felt otherwise than as an intrusion at such a moment, Everard himself was perhaps the person least conscious of it. Rosalind, on the other hand, was very conscious of it, and uncomfortably conscious that Everard was not, yet ought to have been, aware of the inappropriateness of his appearance. There was thus a certain cloud over the luncheon hour, which would have been very merry and very pleasant but for the one individual who did not belong to the party, and who, though wistfully anxious to recommend himself, to do everything or anything possible to make himself agreeable, yet could not see that the one thing to be done was to take himself away. When he did so at last, John Trevanion broke off what he was saying hurriedly—he was talking of Reginald, at school, a subject very interesting to them all—and, turning to Rosalind, said, “I know that young fellow’s face; where have I seen him before?”
“I know, Uncle John,” cried Sophy; “he is the gentleman who was staying at the Red Lion in the village, don’t you remember, before we left Highcourt. Rosalind knew him directly, and so did I.”
“Yes,” said Rosalind, faltering a little. “You remember I met you once when he had done me a little service; that,” she said, with a sense that she was making herself his advocate, and a deprecating, conciliatory smile, “seems to be his specialty, to do people services.”
“The gentleman who was at the Red Lion!” cried John Trevanion with a start. “The fellow who——” and then he stopped short and cast upon his guileless sister a look which made Mrs. Lennox tremble.
“Oh, dear, dear, what have I done?” Aunt Sophy cried.
“Nothing; it is of no consequence,” said he; but he got up, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, and walked about from one window to another, and stared gloomily forth, without adding any more.
“But he is very nice now,” said Sophy; “he is much more nicely dressed, and I think he is handsome—rather. He is like Johnny a little. It was nice of him, don’t you think, Uncle John, to save the children? They weren’t anything to him, you know, and yet he went plunging into the water with his clothes on—for, of course, he could not stop to take off his clothes, and he couldn’t have done it either before Rosalind—and had to walk all the way home in his wet trousers, all for the sake of these little things. Everybody would not have done it,” said Sophy, with importance, speaking as one who knew human nature. “It was very nice, don’t you think, of Mr. Everard.”
“Everard! Was that the name?” said Uncle John, incoherently; and he did not sit down again, but kept walking up and down the long room in a way some men have, to the great annoyance of Mrs. Lennox, who did not like to see people, as she said, roving about like wild beasts. A certain uneasiness had got into the atmosphere somehow, no one could tell why, and when the children were called out for their walk Rosalind too disappeared, with a consciousness, that wounded her and yet seemed somehow a fault in herself, that the elders would be more at ease without her presence.
When they were all gone John turned upon his sister. “Sophy,” he said, “I remember how you took me to task for bringing Rivers, a man of character and talent, to the house, because his parentage was somewhat obscure. Have you ever asked yourself what your own meaning was in allowing a young adventurer, whose very character, I fear, will not bear looking into, to make himself agreeable to Rosalind?”
“John!” cried Mrs. Lennox, with a sudden scream, sitting up very upright in her chair, and in her fright taking off her spectacles to see him the better.