Miss Devereux, spinster

A MIDDLE-AGED YOUNG LADY.

"Sensibility, how charming!" BURNS.

"IF only I had some one to tell me what to do!" sighed Miss Devereux, an anxious pucker wrinkling her forehead.

It was the first time in Sybella Devereux' life that she had ever had to stand alone.

The morning-room which she occupied was better fitted for summer than winter uses. Indian matting covered the floor; Indian drapery clothed the walls; light cane chairs of foreign make were scattered among tables no less fragile. This being June, a fringe of Gloire de Dijon roses peered in at the open French window. Had it been December, the morning-room would have been forsaken.

Sybella Devereux had taken one of the slight chairs, beside one of the flimsy tables. A writing-case was open, and two or three letters were outspread.

Few would have guessed her at first sight to be within a few months of forty. She had lived the sheltered life of many English daughters in easy circumstances—a life of moderate occupation, of small trouble or responsibility. Sybella had taken life as she found it. She was not a woman to carve out a career for herself in the face of circumstances. She counted herself delicate, and liked to be comfortable. If any latent force of character had existed in her originally, circumstances had tended to smother rather than to draw it out.

From babyhood she had been thought of, guarded, cared for, directed, never left to decide for herself. As an arm or leg will wither if tied up and not used, so the power of mental decision had withered in her from lack of exercise.

Years had trickled past in monotonous ease, and her girlhood had lingered long after the lawful stage, "dying hard." It was ample time for Sybella to be settling down into old maidhood; at least according to all laws of fiction. She did not, however, yet count herself to be an old maid.

There were no lines of grey in her hair; and if the cheeks were rather thin, rumpling into suspicious ridges when she smiled, that was only because she had always been "so delicate, you know!" She wore slight mourning for a sister-in-law, the wife of her only brother, who was expected home shortly from India; otherwise she would not have hesitated to sport a white dress with blue ribbons, as suited to the season.

That which marked Sybella as apart from the young ladyhood of the day was not so much any definite look of middle-age; it was rather a certain sentimentality, a self-conscious bashfulness, belonging entirely to a past generation. Girls of sixteen and eighteen growing up around Sybella were twenty times as practical, as independent, as much at their ease, as was she.

Sybella's father, Sir John Devereux, a kind-hearted and placid old gentleman, who, like his daughter, took life much as he found it, had died two years earlier. He left his small property of Ripley Brow, with the Baronetcy, to his son Theodore, a successful Indian civilian, stipulating only that his widowed sister, Mrs. Willoughby, for thirty-five years his companion and stay, should live there during the rest of her life. Theodore offered no objections to this proviso. Until the loss of his own wife broke him down, and destroyed the charm of India, he much preferred to stay there, leaving Ripley Brow to the management of his aunt and sister.

Or, rather, of his aunt. Sybella was the managed, not the manager. The loss of her father made little difference in this respect. She was still hedged round with care. She could still go on with her mild circle of occupations—her attentions to pet plants, her scraps of useless fancy work, her chit-chat calls upon neighbours, her epistolary gushes to bosom friends. The circle of occupations included also futile attempts at painting, fitful readings and copyings of poetry, dilettante dippings into social questions beyond her depth, and through all an unswerving devotion to her own health.

The controlling spirit of the household had ever been that of the stately and fascinating old lady, whose forceful nature was in marked contrast with the indeterminate outlines of Sybella's character. Mrs. Willoughby, far from accepting life as she found it, expected everything to bend to her will. Circumstances, in the shape of yielding parents, an indulgent husband, a devoted and easy brother, a submissive niece, ample means, and hosts of admiring friends, had fostered to excess a naturally wilful tendency. At the age of seventy-eight, Mrs. Willoughby could brook no contradiction. Yet she knew how to make herself ineffably charming.

Sybella was always "the child" to Mrs. Willoughby. Nothing had ever been left in her hands. She had never so much as dreamt of assuming her rightful position in her father's house. Mrs. Willoughby had managed everything. At thirty-nine, Sybella knew as much about housekeeping as an infant. She had never chosen a dress for herself unadvised. She had never written a cheque. She had never glanced into household accounts.

Now, without warning, the vigorous old lady, to whom illness was a thing unknown, had been smitten down by paralysis. The reins of government slid from her firm grasp into the helpless hands of Sybella.

She looked most helpless, seated beside the rickety table of wickerwork. Knowing nothing of real illness, though much used to cosseting of small ailments in her own person, the state of Mrs. Willoughby weighed upon her less than the immediate need for decision upon a hundred minor matters. In a few weeks, no doubt, her aunt would be up and about again. Dr. Ingram had not exactly said so, it is true; but Sybella hardly thought of any other possibility. The pressing question was—how the world could run its course meantime, without Mrs. Willoughby to direct it?

"If only I had some one to tell me what to do!" sighed Sybella. "Just now especially—such an awkward time! A month later it would not have been so bad. Dear Theodore will be at home, and men always know about everything. Till he comes, I really have nobody to turn to. And so many things ought to be arranged."

She drew another plaintive breath, looked towards the bookcase, and felt tempted to solace herself with Mrs. Heman's "Songs of the Affections."

"I suppose I ought not. These letters have to be answered; and I don't in the least know what to say. If there were some one whom I could consult. I am so at a loss where to turn. Mr. Kennedy—I am sure he would do anything in his power. But then he is not exactly businesslike. Dear aunt always says that he is not. Only last week she was so vexed because he forgot to acknowledge that subscription. And yet he is such a good man; and he does preach such beautiful comforting sermons! Still I am afraid he might not know what to advise about the lawyer's letter, and that is what I need most. Besides, dear aunt never quite likes Mrs. Kennedy. I am sure she would be vexed if any of our private affairs came before her. And Mr. Kennedy is so forgetful, poor dear man! He might repeat things to his wife—men so often do. That is the worst of being married."

Sybella twiddled her ivory pen-handle in an aimless way, as she reviewed the situation.

"Then there is Mr. Trevelyan. If only he were a different sort of man! It would seem so natural to turn to him—living in his Parish. Quite impossible, of course—dear aunt disapproving of his views as she does. And if there is one man I do dislike more than any other, it is Mr. Trevelyan! That manner is so unbearable. Of course, not going to his Church, one could not very well ask his help, even if dear aunt would approve. We have kept well aloof from the Trevelyans till now—happily. Besides, even if there were no other objections, he is a widower."

A blush mantled in Miss Devereux' cheeks.

"One has to be careful, especially in a place like Dulveriford. Everything is so talked about. People might say—but, of course, Mr. Trevelyan is out of the question . . . Then there is Dr. Ingram. He will come in presently, and I might get his advice—perhaps—but I am not sure. He is such a new acquaintance—and then he is so shy! If only our dear old Dr. Symonds were here, he would do anything in the world for me. Dr. Ingram is different. They say he is much cleverer than Dr. Symonds; but I can't quite make him out. One does not feel at one's ease with him, somehow. I should think he could be sarcastic. Besides, he is a widower too. So, of course, I have to be careful. It is extraordinary, the number of widowers in this neighbourhood—and rather tiresome! I do think clergymen and doctors ought not to be unmarried, for the sake of other people. It makes things so uncomfortable."

Sybella, leant her cheek pensively on her hand. She was given to attitudinising in a mild fashion. A tap, twice repeated, was unheard; and the door opened.

"If you please, Miss—"

"Pearce! Yes; do you want anything?"

"General Villiers desires to see you, Miss."

Sybella started up in a flutter.

"General Villiers! Not from India! My brother's friend! Impossible! It must be somebody else. General Villiers would never have left Sir Theodore to come by an earlier mail; unless, indeed, they have come together. Sir Theodore there too? No! But you are sure it is General Villiers, of Dutton Park?"

Pearce signified that there could be no mistake. He was an old retainer. General Villiers was well known to him, not only as Sir Theodore's intimate friend, but as the present owner of Dutton Park, a neighbouring property. The estate had been left to General Villiers some two years earlier by an aged relative, and he had not yet been home to inspect it. He was expected to arrive three weeks later, with Sir Theodore and little Cyril.

"I don't understand. It is so strange," Sybella went on excitedly. "If my dear aunt—" and there was an unhappy recollection that she must act for herself. "Perhaps I had better see him in here," she said uncertainly.

"Yes, Miss!" and Pearce vanished.

A soldierly man entered, tall, upright as a dart, and slender still, despite his more than fifty-five summers. He had bronzed handsome features, and his hair was variegated with gray. Close behind walked a small boy, white-faced and pretty.

Miss Devereux had not seen the General for fifteen years. She came forward in a hesitating manner, to be met by a courtly bow and warm hand-clasp.

"I am grieved to hear of Mrs. Willoughby's illness. Pardon my intrusion at such a time. Unhappily there is reason," the General said in a deep, moved voice.

"Yes; oh, pray take a chair." Miss Devereux glanced round in search of a support not too ethereal for six feet two of human length. The General relieved her anxiety by depositing himself with care upon a fragile construction of cane. Fortunately he was not stout.

"If my dear aunt were here, she would—" Miss Devereux began, and paused. "Yes, she is ill. I hope and trust she will soon be better. Dr. Ingram seems to think—"

Another break. Sybella's lack of decision often showed itself in unfinished sentences. Her words ran ahead of her ideas, and had to be pulled up.

"Not Dr. Symonds?"