“It was not exactly for the cure; at least I have stayed on—for other reasons.”
“Pardon me if I seem inquisitive,” said John Trevanion. “It was you, was it not, whom I met in the village at Highcourt two years ago?”
“Yes, it was I.”
“That was a very unlikely place to meet; more unlikely than Aix. I must ask your pardon again, Mr. Everard; you will allow that when I find you here, almost a member of my sister’s family, I have a right to inquire. Do you know that there were very unpleasant visitors at Highcourt in search of you after you were gone?”
The young man looked at him with eyes expanding and dilating—where had he seen such eyes?—a deep crimson flush, and a look of such terror and anguish that John Trevanion’s good heart was touched. He had anticipated a possible bravado of denial, which would have given him no difficulty, but this was much less easy to deal with.
“Mr. Trevanion,” Everard said, with lips so parched that he to moisten them before he could speak, “that was a mistake, it was indeed! That was all arranged; you would not put me to shame for a thing so long past, and that was entirely a mistake! It was put right in every way, every farthing was paid. A great change happened to me at that time of my life. I had been kept out of what I had a right to, and badly treated. But after that a change occurred. I can assure you, and the people themselves would tell you. I can give their address.”
“I should not have spoken to you on the subject if I had not been disposed to accept any explanation you could make,” said John Trevanion; which was but partially true so far as his intention went, although it was impossible to doubt an explanation which was so evidently sincere. After this there ensued a silence, during which Everard, the excitement in his mind growing higher and higher, turned over every subject on which he thought it possible that he could be questioned further. He thought, as he sat there drawn together on his defence, eagerly yet stealthily examining the countenance of this inquisitor, that he had thought of everything and could not be taken by surprise. Nevertheless his heart gave a great bound of astonishment when John Trevanion spoke again. The question he put was perhaps the only one for which the victim was unprepared. “Would you mind telling me,” he said, with great gravity and deliberation, “what connection there was between you and my brother, the late Mr. Trevanion of Highcourt?”
CHAPTER LII.
The moon was shining in full glory upon the lake, so brilliant and broad that the great glittering expanse of water retained something like a tinge of its natural blue in the wonderful splendor of the light. It was not a night on which to keep in-doors. Mrs. Lennox, in the drawing-room, after she had left her protégé to the tender mercies of John, had been a little hysterical, or, at least, as she allowed, very much “upset.” “I don’t know what has come over John,” she said; “I think his heart is turned to stone. Oh, Rosalind, how could you keep so still? You that have such a feeling for the children, and saw the way that poor young fellow was being bullied. It is a thing I will not put up with in my house—if it can be said that this is my house. Yes, bullied. John has never said a word to him! And I am sure he is going to make himself disagreeable now, and when there is nobody to protect him—and he is so good and quiet and takes it all so well,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a great confusion of persons, “for our sakes.”
Rosalind did her best to soothe and calm her aunt’s excitement, and at last succeeded in persuading her that she was very tired, and had much better go to bed. “Oh, yes, I am very tired. What with my bath, and the trouble of removing down here, and having to think of the dinners, and all this trouble about Johnny and Amy, and your uncle that shows so little feeling—of course, I am very tired. Most people would have been in bed an hour ago. If you think you can remember my message to poor Mr. Everard: to tell him never to mind John; that it is just his way and nobody takes any notice of it; and say good-night to him for me. But you know you have a very bad memory, Rosalind, and you will never tell him the half of that.”