C.R. Coleridge (continued 6)

“Well, then, I shan’t tell you,” said Nettie coolly.

“I say you shall. I couldn’t have believed that my sister would be so unladylike. Just tell me how often you have met him, and what you were doing here?”

“It’s no business of yours,” said Nettie, making a sudden rush at the ladder; but Jack caught her, and a struggle ensued, in which of course he had the upper hand, though she was strong enough to make a considerable resistance; and he felt the absurdity of fighting with her as if she were a naughty child, when her offence was of such a nature.

“Now, Nettie,” he said, in a tone that she could not resist. “Stop this nonsense. I mean to have an answer. What has induced you to meet Dick Seyton in secret, and how often have you done so? You can’t deny that you have.”

“No,” said Nettie, “I have, often, and I shall ever so many times more.”

“I couldn’t have believed it of you, Nettie,” said Jack, so seriously and so mildly that Nettie looked quite frightened, and then exclaimed,—

“Jack, if you dare to venture to think that I meet Dick that we may make love to each other, or any nonsense of that kind, I’ll—I’ll kill you—I’ll never speak to you again, never!”

“Why—why what else can I think?” said Jack, blushing, and by far the more shamefaced of the two.

“Well, then, it’s abominable and shameful of you. Do you think I would be so horrid? As if I ever meant to marry any one. I shall live with Bob.”

“Don’t be so violent, Nettie. You have acted very deceitfully.”

“Deceitfully! Do you think I’d tell you a story?”

As Nettie had never been known to “tell a story” in her life, Jack could not say that he thought she would; but he replied,—

“You have acted deceitfully. You have run after Dick when we all thought you were somewhere else, and—there’s no use in being in a passion—but what do you suppose any one would think of a girl who behaved in such a manner?”

Nettie blushed, but answered,—

“I can’t help what any one thinks, Jack. I know I’m right, and I must go on doing it.”

“Indeed you won’t,” said Jack angrily; “for unless you promise never to meet him any more, I shall tell father at once that I found you here. What do you think Cherry would say to you?”

“Cherry would say I was perfectly right, and would do exactly the same thing himself,” said Nettie, triumphantly. “I am not doing any harm; and I must go on. I can’t tell you why I am doing it, because I promised not, and I’ll do it nearer home if you like it better. Bob and I quarrelled about it many a time, he knows.”

“Oh, he knows, does he? What a fool he must have been to let you do it.”

“He won’t tell of me,” said Nettie, “and he never did let me when he was at home. But I am not a silly, horrid girl, Jack, whatever you think; and I’m not flirting with Dick, nor—nor—engaged to him; and when—when—it’s right, I don’t mind people thinking so!”

But this speech ended in a flood of tears, as poor Nettie’s latent maidenliness began to assert itself.

“And pray,” said Jack, “does Dick come after you because it’s right?”

“No—no,” sobbed Nettie; “because I make him.”

“And how can you make him, I should like to know?”

Nettie made no answer but renewed tears. At last she sobbed out, “Oh, Jack, Jack, I wish you were Cherry!”

“I wish I were with all my heart,” said Jack. “Would you tell me if I were Cherry?”

“No; but I know he would be kind, and not think me horrid.”

“Well, Nettie, I’ll try to be kind; but you frighten me by all this. Now just listen. I believe I ought to tell father directly.”

“Oh, Jack! dear Jack! Don’t, don’t—it would be dreadful! Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “I believe you; but how do I know about a young scamp like Dick? You tell me the whole truth, and then I can judge, or I shall tell my father this moment. You’re my sister, and I shall take care of you. You’ve done a thing that may be told against you all your life, and nothing can make it right, say what you will.”

“But I can’t tell you, Jack; I’ve promised.”

“Well, then, I shall have it out first with Dick.”

“Oh, Jack, everything will be undone then!”

“And pray, if you don’t care about him, why does it matter to you so much about him?”

“Indeed—indeed, Jack, I’m not in love with him in the least. I never was with anybody, and I never mean to be,” said Nettie, fixing her great blue eyes full on Jack, and speaking with convincing eagerness.

“And how about him?” said Jack crossly.

“No, it’s nothing to do with it,” said Nettie; but the tone of her voice altered a little, and Jack had a sort of feeling that there was more in the matter than she herself knew, for he never thought of disbelieving her.

“Will you tell, and will you promise?” he said.

“No, I won’t,” said Nettie.

“Then you are a very naughty, disobedient girl, and you shall come home with me this minute.”

“I hate you, Jack. I’ll never forgive you,” said Nettie passionately, as she followed him; and all the way home she sobbed and pouted, with an intolerable sense of shame, while Jack, utterly puzzled, walked by her side, a desire to horsewhip Dick Seyton contending in his mind with a dread of making a row.

They came in by the back-door, and Nettie rushed upstairs at once; while Jack, virtuous and resolute, went into the study.

Resolute as the girl was, she listened trembling, till her father’s loud call of “Nettie, Nettie, come here this moment!” brought her down to the study, where were her father, her grandmother, and Jack.

“Eh, what’s all this, Nettie?” said Mr Lester. “I can’t have you running about the country with young Seyton. What’s the meaning of it?”

“Papa,” said Nettie, “I haven’t run about the country. Dick and I have got a secret; it’s a very good secret.”

“Well, what is it, then?” said her father.

“I don’t mean to tell. I never tell secrets,” said Nettie, with determination. “We have had it a long time.”

“My dear,” said Mr Lester, much more mildly than he would have spoken to any of his boys, “I must put an end to it. You have been running wild with your brothers till you forget how big a girl you are getting. Never go out with Dick again by yourself—do you hear?”

Nettie made no answer, and her father continued, more sternly,—

“I am sorry, Nettie, that you did not know better how to behave. Never let me hear of such a thing again.”

Still silence; and Jack said,—

“She won’t promise. I shall see what Dick says about it.”

“Then you’ll just do nothing of the sort, Jack,” said his grandmother, “making mountains out of mole-hills. Nettie is going to London to stay with her aunt Cheriton, and have some music and French lessons with Dolly and Kate. I’d settled it all this morning. She doesn’t attend enough to her studies here. You’ll take her up when you go to Oxford, and there’ll be an end of the matter.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr Lester. “Grandmamma and I were talking it over just now.”

“Not that it is on account of your remarks, Jack,” said Mrs Lester. “That would be making far too much of her foolish behaviour; but in London she’ll learn better.”

“To be sure,” said Mr Lester, who had been stopped on his way out riding by Jack’s appeal, and was now glad to escape from an unpleasant discussion. “Nettie will come back at Christmas, and we shall hear no more of such childish tricks.”

Nettie looked like a statue, and never spoke a word; but there was a look of fright through all her sullenness. Jack was not accustomed to think much of her appearance, but he knew as a matter of fact that she was handsome, and it struck him forcibly that she looked “grown-up.”

“You’ve done more harm than you know,” she said; “but I will not tell, and I will not promise.” And with a sort of dignity in her air, she walked out of the room.

“What does she mean?” said Jack.

“Never you mind,” said his grandmother, “and don’t you raise the countryside on her by saying a word to Dick or any one. Hold your tongue, and be thankful. The Seytons are the plague of the place, and we’ll ask them all to dinner before Nettie goes, Dick included.”

“Ask them to dinner?” said Jack.

“Yes; we’ll have no talk of a quarrel. And besides, your father finds that people are apt to think that it was Virginia’s fault that your half-brother left her in the lurch; and that’s not so, though she is a Seyton.”

“No, indeed!”

“So my son means to have a dinner-party, and to show that we are all good friends, and pay them proper attention. A bad lot they are; there’s not one of them to be trusted.”

“But, Granny,” said Jack anxiously, “what do you think about Nettie? What secret can she have?”

“Eh, I can’t tell. He may be getting her a puppy or a creature of some kind; but Nettie’s secret may be one and Dick’s another. I always blamed Cherry for encouraging the Seytons about the place.”

“Poor Cherry!” muttered Jack to himself, with a great longing to throw the burden of his difficulty on to Cherry’s shoulders.

Nettie remained sullen and impenetrable. She treated Jack with an intense resentment that vexed him more than he could have supposed. Neither her father nor her grandmother asked her any questions; but she was watched, though not palpably in disgrace, and she suffered from an agony of shame and of self-reproach which contended strangely with the motive that in her view justified the stolen meetings. Whether her womanly instincts, roughly awakened, justified the warnings given her, or whether, she merely resented the unjust suspicion, she herself scarcely knew, and not for worlds would she have explained her feelings. The dread of giving an advantage, the intense sulky self-respect that leads to an exaggeration of reserve and false shame, was in her nature as in that of all the Lesters, and if Cheriton had been present she could not probably have uttered a word to him. Being absent, she could venture to soften at the thought of him, and cried for him many a time in secret.

Chapter Thirty One.

Broken Links.

“Love is made a vague regret.”

Virginia, when she parted from Jack, walked slowly homewards through the mist and the falling leaves, and thought of the bloom and the brightness of that fair Seville which she had so often pictured to herself. How happy the two brothers would be there together, among all the surroundings which she had heard described so often! Alvar would never think of her. “At least, I should have had letters from him if I had not sent him away,” she thought; and though she did not regret the parting in the sense of blaming herself for it, she felt in her utter desolation as if she had rather have had her lover cold and indifferent than not have him at all.

For life was so dreary, home so wretched, and Virginia could not mend it. Indeed in many ways a less high-minded girl with stronger spirits and more tact might have been far more useful there. Virginia held her tongue resolutely; but she could not shut her eyes. She had lost her bearings, and could not possibly understand the proportion of things. Thus even in her inmost soul she never blamed her father for his life-long extravagance, for the vague stories of his dissipated youth—these things were not for her to judge; but the conversation, which he intended to be perfectly fit for her ears, was full of small prejudices, small injustices, and trifles taken for granted that grated on her every hour. She tried very hard to be gentle and pleasant to her aunt; but she could not bring herself, as Ruth could, to laugh at scandalous stories, old or new, or even to think herself right in listening to them. And though her father and aunt so far as they knew how, respected her innocence, the latter only laughed at the ignorance that thought one thing as bad as another. For there were virtues, or at least self-denials in their lives, for which, with all her love and with all her charity, she could not possibly credit them. It was something that Mr Seyton had pulled through without utterly succumbing to debt and difficulty, it was something that when writhing under an injury which she never forgot or forgave, his sister stuck to him and kept things as straight as they were. It was a godless, idle, aimless household, above stairs and below; but it was not a scandalous one, and, with all the antecedents, it easily might have been. But the obvious outcome of this hard narrow life was a deadness to all outer or higher interests, an ignorance of the ordinary views of society, and of modern forms of thought never attained save by selfish people, an absence of restraint of temper, a delight in utter littleness, which were intensely wearying. Higher principles would have made life more interesting if nothing more. The narrowest form of belief in religion and goodness would have given a wider outlook. Virginia was sick to death of tales of little local incidents spiced with ill-nature, or incessant complaints of someone’s ill-behaviour about a fence or a cow. If she had lived at Oakby she would have heard a good deal of the same sort of thing; but there there would have been something else to fall back on, and she would not have heard small triumphs over small overreaching, which Mr Seyton did not mix enough with his kind to hear commented on.

Virginia used to wonder if she would grow like her aunt, her life was so empty. All her young-lady interests, the essay and drawing clubs, the correspondence and the art needlework, with which like other girls she had amused herself, had languished entirely during her engagement, and she did not care to resume them. She would have liked to be a resource to Dick; but she was not used to boys, and had not much faculty for amusing them, and Dick did not care for her. Her Sunday class tired her, and were naughty because her teaching was languid; the children by no means offering the consolations to her depression which they are sometimes represented as doing in fiction. The Ellesmeres, who were always kind to her, were away for their annual holiday, and the library books for which she subscribed, and which might have amused her, could never, by any chance be fetched from the station when she wanted them.

Her uncle showed his sympathy by scolding her roundly for fretting for a black-eyed foreigner, till she was almost too angry to speak to him.

Under all these circumstances Ruth’s urgent invitation had been welcome, and as she received others from her friends at Littleton, she resolved to go and try to pick up the threads that Alvar had broken. Soon after she parted with Jack she met the Parson, and told him what she knew would be welcome news, that Cherry was better.

“Ay,” said Mr Seyton, “Jack brought me a message from him that he would write me an account of a bull-fight. Wonder he’s not ashamed to go near one. Cruel, unmanly sport—disgraceful!”

“Well, uncle,” said Virginia, “I think you ought to be pleased that Cherry is well enough to go.”

“Eh? I’ll ask him if he’ll come and see a cock-fight when he comes home. Plenty of ’em here—round the corner. So you’re going to London to get a little colour in your cheeks, I think it’s time.”

“Yes, uncle; Mrs Clement will teach the children while I’m away.”

“Very well, and tell Miss Ruth she was blind of one eye when she made her choice, but I can see out of both.”

“Uncle, I shouldn’t think of telling her such a thing. What do you mean?”

“Never mind, she’ll understand me. Good-bye, my dear, and never mind the Frenchman.”

Virginia smiled, but she could not turn her thoughts away, not merely from Alvar, but from her life without him. Fain would she have refused the invitation which soon arrived to a solemn dinner-party at Oakby; but it had been accompanied by a hint from Mr Lester to her aunt which caused the latter to insist on accepting it, and they went accordingly to meet Sir John and Lady Hubbard, and one or two other neighbours. Mr Lester was markedly polite to Virginia. Mrs Lester wore her best black velvet, and a certain diamond brooch, only produced on occasions of state. Jack looked proper, silent, and bored. Every one wished to ask after the universally popular Cheriton, but felt that Alvar was an awkward subject of conversation, so that the adventures of the travellers could not be used to enliven the dulness. Nettie did not of course appear at dinner, and afterwards sat in a corner of the drawing-room in her white muslin, apparently determined not to open her mouth. Dick strolled up to her when the gentlemen came in, and was instantly followed by Jack, who stood by her silent and frowning. Nettie looked up under her eyebrows, and said, “Dick, I am going to London.”

“So I hear,” said Dick, with a smile and a slight shrug.

“I hate it, but I can’t help it. You go on.”

Dick smiled again and nodded, and then looked at Jack with an air of secret amusement, indescribably provoking. “All right,” he said, but he turned away and made no further demonstration; and Mrs Lester desired Nettie to show Miss Hubbard “Views on the Rhine,” a very handsome book reserved for occasions of unusual dulness.

Altogether the evening did not raise Virginia’s spirits, and she was half inclined to resent the special kindness shown to her by Mr Lester, as implying blame to his absent son.

It was a wonderful change of scene and circumstance, when she found herself, some few days later, sitting in Lady Charlton’s pleasant London drawing-room, full of books, work, plants, and pretty things, with Ruth, bright-eyed and blooming, sitting on the rug at her feet, ready for a confidential chatter.

She was to be married directly after Christmas, she told Virginia. Rupert did not mean to sell out of the army; she did not at all dislike the notion of moving about for a few years, and now the regiment was at Aldershot she could see Rupert often while she remained in London to get her things.

“And, Queenie, you must choose the dresses for the bridesmaids. Grandmamma will have a gay wedding. I think it will be a great bore.”

“Your bridesmaids ought to wear something warm and gay and bright, like yourself, Ruthie. Are you going to ask Nettie Lester?”

“Oh, no!” said Ruth hurriedly. “Why should I?”

“She is Rupert’s cousin, and she is so handsome.”

“I never thought of her! I am angry with them all since Don Alvar has made you miserable. My darling Queenie, I should like to stamp on him! Now, don’t be angry; but tell me how it all came about?”

“I don’t think I could ever make you understand it, Ruth. He did nothing wrong. It was only that—that I did not suit him, and I found it out,” said Virginia, with a sort of ache in her voice, as she turned her head away.

“The more—well, I won’t finish the sentence. Any way, he has spoiled your life for you; for I am afraid he is your love if you are not his,” said Ruth, scanning her sad face curiously. “Queenie, weren’t you ready to kill him and Cherry, too, when they went off comfortably together?”

“No,” said Virginia, “he could not help going—that was not it. And as for Cherry, he was the only person who understood anything about it—he was so kind! Oh, I hope he is really better!”

“I dare say he is, by this time,” said Ruth, rather oddly; “but they are all so easily frightened about him—they spoil him. I wonder what they would all say if he fell in love with a naughty, wicked siren—a female villain, who broke his heart for him—just for fun.”

“She would break something worth having,” said Virginia indignantly. “But, do you know anything about Cherry, Ruth?”

“I? I don’t believe in sirens who break hearts just for fun and vanity. And as for Cherry, if he did meet with a little trouble, he’d mend up again, heart and lungs and all. There’s something happy-go-lucky about him—don’t you think so?”

“I think Cherry is too many-sided to be left without an object in life, if that is what you mean,” said Virginia. “Besides, it is so different for a man, they can always do something.”

Then Ruth put aside the little uneasy feeling of self-reproach and doubt that had prompted her to talk about Cherry, and put her arms round Virginia, kissing her tenderly.

“My darling Queenie! You have been fretting all by yourself at Elderthwaite till things seem worse than they are.”

“No,” said Virginia; “but my life has all gone wrong. When I found that he did not love me everything seemed over for me.”

Ruth interposed a question, and at last acquired a clearer knowledge of the circumstances under which Alvar and her cousin had parted. She had a good deal of knowledge of the world, and some judgment, though she did not always use it for her own benefit, and she did not think that the case sounded hopeless. She tried an experiment.

“If you gave him up, Queenie, because you discovered that he did not come up to your notions of what he ought to be, why there’s an end of it, for he never will; but it looks to me much more like a very commonplace lovers’ quarrel aggravated by circumstances. He isn’t a bad sort of fellow in his own way; but it’s not the way that you think perfection.”

“I did not quarrel with him, and I think the failure was in myself. Why should he love me?—it does not seem as if I was very lovable.”

There crossed Virginia’s young gentle face a look that was like a foretaste of the bitterness and self-weariness that had seized on so many of her race—a sort of self-scorn that was not wholesome.

“Why should you think so?” said Ruth.

“I think I should have got on better at home if I had been.”

She spoke humbly enough, but there was utter discouragement in every line of her face and figure.

“Nonsense!” said Ruth briskly. “Nobody would get on, in your sense, at Elderthwaite. I don’t think you ought to stay there. You know it is quite in your power to arrange differently. You might make them long visits and—come fresh to every one.”

“I’ll never have it said that I could not live there,” said Virginia, colouring deeply. “And if I was away—I could not.—I would not—”

“Go back into the neighbourhood? Well, at any rate you are going to have a holiday now, and see something besides moors and mud.”

The change of scene could not fail to do Virginia good, though there might be something in the courtship of Ruth and Rupert to remind her, with a difference, of her own. It was sometimes breezy, for Rupert loved to tease his betrothed, and having got his will, was a free-and-easy and contented lover, not much liking to be put out of his way, and not quite coming up to Ruth’s requirements.

Ruth, though very kind to her cousin, believed that she had lost her lover in great measure through a feminine scrupulosity and desire to bring him up to her own standard. Ruth would never be so narrow and unsympathetic, she would be prepared to understand all the story of her hero’s life; and being young, and much more simple than she believed herself to be, thought that her indiscriminate reading of somewhat free-spoken novels, gave her the necessary experience. But Rupert took quite another view. He was not aware of having any particular story to tell, and had no intention whatever of telling it. He did not in the least desire Ruth’s sympathy with his past, which was quite commonplace. He was not in a state of repentance, desirous of making a confession; nor had his heart ever been withered up by any frightful experiences. No doubt he could remember much that was not particularly creditable, and which he rightly thought unfit for discussion with his betrothed. Moreover, he did not care at all for poetry, and very little for novels, and at last actually told her that one she mentioned was unfit for her to read.

Ruth was very angry, and had a sense of being put aside. Had Rupert—like herself—a secret, or was she going to be “only a little dearer than his horse?” as she expressed it to herself, and with tears to him. Rupert laughed, and then grew a little angry, and then they made it up again; but he teased her for her romance, laughed at her most muscular and strong-souled heroes, and never would put himself in a heroic attitude. Ruth quarrelled with him, made it up with him, was vexed by him, and sometimes was vexatious; but all the while she never told him about Cheriton.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Don Juan.

“I wonder if the spring-tide of this year Will bring another spring both lost and dear; If heart and spirit will find out their spring, Or if the world alone will bud and sing.”

It was a bright sunny day in December, fresh enough to make the Sevillanos pull their picturesque cloaks over their shoulders out of doors, and light scraps of wood-fire in their sitting-rooms, but with the sun pouring down in unveiled splendour over quaint painted relics of a bygone world, when the Moor employed his rich fancy in decorating the city, and over dark Gothic arches and towers that seemed to tell of a life almost equally remote from nineteenth-century England. It was a very new sort of Christmas weather for Jack Lester as he tried to find his way from the railway station to Don Guzman de la Rosa’s house. He soon discovered that he had lost it, and stopped by a fruit-stall piled with grapes, oranges, and melons to ask the brown, skinny old woman in a gay handkerchief who kept it, for some directions, hoping that she would at least understand the name of the street. So she did, but it seemed to him that she pointed in every direction at once, and Jack stared round bewildered as a young lady stepped across the street towards the fruit-stall. Jack looked at her and she looked full at him from under her straw hat, with a pair of eyes dark as any in Andalusia, but direct and clear, level and fearless, as her face broke into a smile just saved from a laugh.

“If you are looking for Don Guzman de la Rosa’s,” she said in distinct and comprehensible English, “I can direct you; but your brothers, Mr Lester, are much nearer, at my father’s, Mr Stanforth’s. Will you come there with me when I have bought some fruit?”

“Oh, thank you immensely! I—I thought I would walk up, and I couldn’t find the way. Thank you,” said Jack, colouring and looking rather foolish.

“They did not expect you to be here till to-morrow. What have you done with your things?”

“I’ve lost them, Miss Stanforth,” said Jack; “I can’t think how. You see no one understands anything, and the stations coming from Madrid are so odd.”

“Oh, I think you will get them; we had one box detained for ages. Thank you,” as he took her basket of fruit. “Shall we come?” and then, looking up at him, “Your brother is so much better.”

“I—I am very glad of that,” said Jack, in a sort of inadequate way.

He was nervous about the meeting, and felt conscious that he was dusty with his journey, and sure that he must have looked foolish staring at the old woman.

Gipsy took him down the street, and into a house with a balcony covered with gay-striped blinds, and led him upstairs till she came to a door, or rather curtain, which she lifted, putting her finger on her lip.

It was a long, low room, with the lights carefully arranged and shaded, containing drawing-boards and unframed sketches, a wonderful heap of “art treasures,” in one corner, Algerine scarves and stuffs, great, rough, green pitchers, and odds and ends of colour. Some one sat with his back to the door drawing, but Jack only beheld his brothers who were together at the further end of the room, and did not immediately see him, for they were looking at each other and appeared to the puzzled Jack oddly still and silent.

Miss Stanforth gave a little laugh, and Alvar looked round and exclaimed. Cheriton sprang up, and with a cry of delight seized on Jack, with an outburst of greetings and inquiries, in which all the surroundings were forgotten. Gipsy laughingly described her encounter to Alvar; while “father,” and “granny,” “the old parson,” “no good in having a Christmas at all at home without you,” passed rapidly between the other two.

“Come, Jack, that’s strong! But, indeed, I think you have brought Christmas here. How rude we are! You have never spoken to Mr Stanforth. Mr Stanforth, let him see the picture. Jack, do you think father will like it?”

“Yes. You look much jollier than in the photograph,” said Jack, as Mr Stanforth turned the picture round for his inspection.

It was a small half-length in tinted chalk showing Cherry seated and looking up, with a bright interested face, at Alvar, who was showing him a branch of pomegranates. The execution was of the slightest, but the likenesses were good, and the strong contrast of colouring and resemblance of form was brought out well. “Brothers,” was written underneath, and Jack looked at them as if the idea of any one wishing to make studies of them was strange to him.

“Jack is bewildered—lost, in more senses than one,” said Cherry, smiling.

“Come, it is time we went home, and then for news of every one! Mr Stanforth, we shall see you to-night.”

Jack’s arrival was an intense pleasure to Cheriton, whose reviving faculties were beginning to long for their old interests. He had recovered his natural spirits, and though he still looked delicate, and had no strength to spare, was quite well enough to look forward to his return to England and to beginning life there. Indeed the ardent hopes and ambitions, so cruelly checked in their first outlet, turned—with a difference indeed, but with considerable force—to the desire of distinction and success; and in return for Jack’s endless talk of home and Oxford, he planned the course of study to begin at Easter, and the hard work which he felt sure with patience must ensure good fortune. Cheriton was very sanguine, and since he had felt so much better, had no doubt of entire recovery; and Jack was accustomed to follow his lead, and was much relieved both by his liveliness and by his resolute mention of Rupert, and inquiry as to the arrangements for his marriage.

If Cheriton had not won the battle, he was at least holding his own in it bravely—the bitter pain was first submitted to, and then held down with a strong hand. But surely, he thought, there was something in store for him, if not the sweetness of happy love, yet the ardour of the struggle of life.

He could not say enough of Alvar’s care for him, and Jack found Alvar much more easy of access than at home, and more interested than he had expected in the details of the home life; and in the course of conversation the dinner-party to the Seytons, and its motive, came out.

Alvar coloured deeply; he was silent then, but as soon as he was alone with Cheriton he said with some hurry of manner,—

“My brother, I am ashamed. What can I do? It is not endurable to me that any one should blame Miss Seyton.”

“I suppose my father did the only thing there was to be done. When an engagement is broken people generally say that there were faults on both sides.”

“That is not so,” said Alvar. “She is as blameless as a lily. Can I do nothing? I am ashamed,” he repeated vehemently.

“Perhaps when you go home you will be able to show the world that you are of a different opinion,” said Cherry very quietly, but with difficulty suppressing a smile.

“You do not understand,” said Alvar in a tone of displeasure, turning away, and thinking that he had never before known Cheriton so unsympathetic.

Jack did not make much way with the de la Rosas, he did not like committing himself to foreign languages, and was shy, but they were very polite to “Don Juan,” a name that so tickled Cheriton’s fancy that he adopted it at once.

Jack began by somewhat resenting his brother’s intimacy with the Stanforths as a strange and unnecessary novelty, but he soon fell under the charm, and pursued Mr Stanforth with theories of art which were received with plenty of good-humoured banter. Gipsy, too, set to work to enlighten him on Spanish customs; and having rescued him from one difficulty, made it her business to show him the way he should go, so that they became very friendly, and the strange Christmas in this foreign country drew the little party of English closer together. There was enough to interest them in the curious and picturesque customs of Andalusia, but the carols which Gipsy insisted on getting up gave Cherry a fit of home-sickness; and a great longing for Oakby, and the holly and the snow, the familiar occupations, the dogs, and the skating came over him. It had been a long absence; he thought how his father would be wishing for him, and he experienced that sudden doubt of the future which people call presentiment. Would he ever spend Christmas at home again? He was beginning to weary a little of the wonder and admiration that had stood him in such good stead, and to want the time-honoured landmarks which showed themselves unchanged as the flood-tide of passion subsided.

He was quite ready, however, to enter into the plans for a tour through some of the neighbouring towns before the Stanforths should return home at the end of January. Jack’s time was still shorter; and as Cheriton himself had hitherto seen nothing but Seville, a joint expedition was proposed, with liberty to separate whenever it was convenient, as Alvar would consent to nothing that involved Cherry in long days on horseback lasting after sundown, or in extra rough living; and Mr Stanforth backed up his prudent counsels.

But Cordova, Granada, and Malaga could be managed without any extreme fatigue, and Ronda could be reached easily from the latter place. So in the first week in the new year the three Lesters, Mr Stanforth and his daughter, and Miss Weston set off together for a fortnight’s trip. Afterwards they would all separate, and Alvar and Cheriton, after returning for a few weeks to Seville, were to make their way gradually northwards, stopping in France and Italy till the spring was further advanced.

The tour prospered, and in due time they found themselves at Ronda, and strolling out together in the lovely afternoon sunshine, reached the new bridge across the river; Jack and Gipsy engaged in an endless discussion on the expulsion of the Moors, lingering while they talked, and looking down into the deep volcanic chasm that divides the old town of Ronda from the new, while nearly three hundred feet below them roared, dashed, and sparkled the silvery waters of the Guadalvin. On either side were the picturesque buildings of the two towns, fringed with wood—in front, miles of orchards, and beyond, the magnificent snow-crowned mountains of the Sierra; while over all was the sapphire blue, and sun, which, though the year was but a fortnight old, covered the ground with jonquils, and hung the woods with lovely flowers hardly known to our hothouses.

They had marvelled at the Alhambra, and Cheriton had disclaimed all sense of feeling himself in the Crystal Palace. They had noticed and admired the mixture of Moorish and Christian art in Granada and Cordova, and had discussed ardently all the difficult questions of the Moorish occupation and expulsion—discussions in which Gipsy’s fresh school knowledge, and Jack’s ponderous theories, had met in many a hearty conflict. They had sketched, made notes, collected curiosities, or simply enjoyed the beauty according to their several idiosyncrasies, and had remained good friends through all the ups and downs of travel; while Cheriton had stood the fatigue so well that he had set his heart on riding with the others across country to Seville, and could afford to laugh at the discomforts incidental to eating and sleeping at Ronda. There was much to see there, and they did not mean to hurry away. Cherry remarked to Alvar that Jack had improved, and was less sententious than he used to be; but the cause of this increased geniality had struck no one. Every one laughed when Gipsy reminded him of things that he had forgotten, talked Spanish for him because he was too shy to commit himself to an unknown tongue, and stoutly contradicted many of his favourite sentiments. Writing an essay, was he? on the evil of regarding everything from a ludicrous point of view. There were a great many cases in which that was the best point of view to look at things, and Gipsy wrote a counter essay which afforded great amusement. But no one perceived when Gipsy’s sense of the ludicrous fell a little into abeyance; and when she ceased to contradict Jack flatly, and began to think that she received new ideas from him, still less did his brothers dream of the new thoughts and aspirations that were rushing confusedly through the boy’s mind; he was hardly conscious of them himself.

The pair were a little ahead of their companions, who now came up and joined them.

“Well, Jack,” said Alvar, “I have been making inquiries, and I find that we can take the excursion among the mountains that you wished for. Mr Stanforth prefers making sketches here, and it would be too rough for the ladies, or for Cherry.”

“I suppose the mountains are very fine?” said Jack, not very energetically.

“Jack found the four hundred Moorish steps too much for him. He has grown lazy,” said Cherry. “For my part, I think the fruit market is the nicest place here; it has such a splendid view. I shall go there to-morrow and eat melons while you are away.”

“Miss Weston and I are going to buy scarves and curiosities in the market,” said Gipsy; “but they say we should have come here in May to see the great fair; that is the time to buy beautiful things.”

“Yes,” said Alvar, “and Mr Stanforth might have studied all the costumes of Andalusia. But, I think, since we ordered our dinner two hours ago, it is likely now to be ready. I hope the ladies are not tired of fried pork, for I do not think we shall get anything better.”

“Oh!” said Gipsy, “I mean to get mamma to introduce it at home; it is so good.”

“Do you, my dear?” said her father. “I am inclined to think that with the ordinary accompaniments of clean tablecloths and silver forks it might be disappointing.”

Without a table-cloth and with the very primitive implements of Ronda, the fried pork was very welcome; and when their dinner was over, as it was too dark to go out any more, they went down into the great public room on the ground floor of the inn, where round a bright wood-fire were gathered muleteers, other travellers and natives, both men and women.

It was a wonderful picturesque scene in the light of the fire, and Mr Stanforth’s sketching so delighted his subjects that they crowded round him, only anxious that he should draw them all, while the “English hidalgos” were objects of the greatest curiosity. The men came up to Jack and Cheriton, examining their clothes, their tobacco pouches and pipes; and one great fellow in a high hat, and brilliant-coloured shirt, looking so much like an ideal brigand that it was difficult to believe that he was only an olive-grower, after looking at Cheriton for some time, put out a very dirty hand, and touched his hair and cheek as if to assure himself that they were of the same substance as his own. Gipsy’s dress and demeanour interested them greatly, and one or two of them made her write her name on a bit of paper for them to keep.

The next day’s ride was fully discussed, and much information given as to route and destination. Then, at Cherry’s request, some of the muleteers sang to them wild half-melancholy airs, and one of the men danced a species of comic dance for their edification, and then the chief musician diffidently requested them to give a specimen of their national music. Gipsy laughed and looked shy; but her father laid down his pencil, and in a fine voice, and with feeling that told even in an unknown language, sang “Tom Bowling,” and then, as this gave great satisfaction, began “D’ye ken John Peel,” in the chorus of which his companions joined him.

“That,” he explained, “was a hunting song. Now he would give them a really national air;” and in the midst of this strange audience, he struck up the familiar notes of “God save the Queen.”

The English rose to their feet; the men lifted their hats, and all joined in and sang the old words with more patriotic fervour than at home they might have thought themselves capable of; and the Spaniards, with quick wit and ready courtesy, uncovered also, and when they had finished the musician picked out the notes on his guitar.

The weather next morning proving all that could be wished, Alvar and Jack, with a couple of guides, set off before daybreak on their ride into the mountains, intending to ascend on foot a certain peak from which the view was very fine, and which was accessible in the winter. The expedition had been entirely planned for Jack’s benefit, and perhaps he was not quite so grateful as he might have been. The others had no lack of occupation. They went down to the “Nereid’s Grotto,” a cave filled with clear emerald water, near which stand an old Moorish mill, built on rocks, fringed with masses of maidenhair fern. Mr Stanforth remained there sketching the building, white with a sort of dazzling eastern whiteness, the strange forms of cactus and aloe crowning the cliffs, and the washerwomen in gay handkerchiefs and scarlet petticoats kneeling on the flat stones by the river. Cheriton, with the ladies, went on their shopping expedition to find presents that might be sent home by Jack, and having found some silk handkerchiefs for his father, a wonderful sash for Nettie, and a striped rug for his grandmother, to whom Alvar intended to despatch some Spanish lace already bought in Seville, he helped Gipsy to choose a present for each of her numerous brothers and sisters, and himself hunted up smaller offerings for his friends of all degrees.

This occupied a long time, especially as the children followed them wherever they went, “as if one was the pied piper,” said Cherry; and afterwards they bought bread and fruit, and ate it for luncheon, and Gipsy reflected that in three weeks’ time she would be back in Kensington, very busy and rather gay, and would probably never buy pomegranates and melons in Ronda again in all her life.

Cheriton employed himself in the evening in writing to his father, while the Stanforths went down again to the mixed company below. He did not expect his brothers till late, and was not giving much heed to the time, when he looked up and saw Gipsy cross the room.

“Have they come back?” he said.

“No,” said Gipsy. “Don’t you think they ought to be here soon?”

Cherry glanced at his watch.

“Nine o’clock? Yes, I suppose they will be here directly, for the guides told us eight. People never get off mountains as soon as they expect they will. I’ll come down. I have finished my letter.”

Some time longer passed without any sign of an arrival, and the landlord of the inn, and some of the muleteers, began to say that either the Ingleses must have changed their route, or that something must have detained them till it was too dark to get down the mountains, so that they must be waiting till daylight to descend. Cheriton did not take alarm quickly; he knew that a very trifling change of path or weather would make this possible, and he was the first to say that they had better go to bed, and expect to see the wanderers in the morning; and Mr Stanforth, very anxious to avoid frightening him, chimed in with a cheerful augury to the same effect. But when Cheriton had left them, he said, anxiously,—

“I don’t like it; I am sure Alvar would not delay if he could help it—he would not cause so much anxiety.”

“But some very trifling matter might have detained them till after dark,” said Miss Weston.

“Oh, yes; I trust it may be so.”

Gipsy said nothing; but before her mind’s eye there rose a vision of more than one little wayside cross which she had been shown on their ride to Ronda, with the inscription, “Here died Don Luis or Don Pedro,” and the date.

These were erected, she was told, where travellers had been killed by saltiadores or brigands; but there were very few of such breakers of the law in Andalusia now. Still, their party had thought it right to carry arms. What if they had been driven to use them?—what if—? Even to herself Gipsy could not finish the sentence; but she lay awake all night listening for an arrival, till her ears ached and burnt with the strain; till she heard in the night-time, that had hitherto seemed to her so silent, sounds innumerable; till she felt as if she could have heard their footsteps on the mountain side. And all the time the worst of it was that she heard nothing. And for fear that Miss Weston would guess at her terror, for speaking of it seemed to remove it from the vague regions of her imagination and give it new force, and also for fear of missing a sound, she lay as still as a mouse, till, spite of an occasional doze, the night seemed endless, and the most welcome thing in the world was the long-delayed winter dawn.

Gipsy was thankful to get up and dress and find out what was going on, and as soon as possible she ran downstairs and went out to the front of the inn. Her father was just before her, and Cheriton was standing talking to a group of guides and muleteers. He turned round and came up to them saying,—

“I have been making inquiries, and they say that if they kept to their intended route—and I feel sure that they would not change it—there is no reason to fear any dangerous accident such as one hears of on Swiss mountains. And the men all laugh at the notion of any brigandage nowadays. What I think is, that one of them may have got some slight hurt, twisted his foot, for instance, and been unable to get on; and if they don’t turn up in an hour or so I think we ought to go after them.” Cherry looked anxiously at Mr Stanforth as he spoke, as if, having worked up this view for his own benefit, he wanted to see others convinced by it also.

“Yes,” said Mr Stanforth, “I have been thinking of the possibility of strained ankles too.”

“You see,” said Cherry, “they must have left their mules somewhere; at least we shall fall in with them.”

“Ah—ah! they are coming,” cried Gipsy, with a scream of joy, as the sound of hoofs were heard along the street.

Cherry dashed forward, but as the party came into sight he stopped suddenly, then hurried on to meet them; for only Pedro, one of the mule-drivers who had accompanied them, appeared, riding one mule and leading the other.

In the sudden downfall, Gipsy’s very senses seemed to fail her; as she saw Cherry lay his hand on the mule as if to support himself, and look up, unable to frame a question; she could hardly hear the confusion of voices that followed.

Soon, however, she gathered that no terrible news had come—no news at all. Don Alvar and Don Juan had ascended the mountain with their guide José, and had never returned; and, after waiting for their descent in the early morning, Pedro had come back without them. What could have happened? They might have gone a long way round, in fact a three days’ route—there was no other, or they might have fallen from a precipice.

“In short, you know nothing about them. We must go and see,” interrupted Cherry, briefly; “at least, I will. What mules have you? Who is the best guide now in Ronda?”

“My dear boy,” said Mr Stanforth gently and reluctantly, “you must not try the mountain yourself. You know it must be done on foot, and the fatigue—”

“How can I think of that now? What does it matter?” said Cherry, with the roughness of excessive pain. “It is far worse to wait.”

“Yes, but depend upon it, they are as anxious as you are. Certainly I shall go, and the guides; but, you see, speed is an object.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t cough and lose my breath now!” said Cherry. “Indeed, I can walk up hill.”

Mr Stanforth could hardly answer him, and he went on vehemently,—

“You know Alvar is much too fidgety; he thinks I can do nothing. But, at least, let us all ride to the foot of the mountain; perhaps we shall meet them yet.”

“Yes, that at any rate we will do. Give your orders, and then come and get some chocolate.”

Miss Weston had taken care that this was ready, and Cherry sat down and ate and drank, trying to put a good face on the matter before the ladies.

After they started on their ride he was very silent, and hardly spoke a word till they came to the little inn where the mules had been left the day before. Then he said very quietly to Mr Stanforth,—

“Perhaps I had better wait—I might hinder you.”

“I think it would be best,” said Mr Stanforth, with merciful absence of comment, for he knew what the sense of incapacity must have been to Cherry then.

The kindest thing was to start on the steep ascent at once. Miss Weston, in what Gipsy thought a cold-blooded manner, took out her drawing materials, and sat down to sketch the mountain peaks, Cheriton started from his silent watch of the ascending party, and asked Gipsy to take a little walk with him: and as she gladly came, they gathered plants and talked a little about the view, showing their terror by their utter silence on the real object of their thoughts. Then he exerted himself to get some lunch for them; so that the first hours of the day passed pretty well. But as the afternoon wore on, he sat down under a great walnut-tree, and watched the mountain—the great pitiless creature with its steep bare sides and snowy summits. He gave no outward sign of impatience, only watched as if he could not turn his eyes away; and Miss Weston, almost as anxious for him as for the missing ones, thought it best to leave him to follow his own bent.

No one was anxious about poor Gipsy, who wandered about, running out of sight in the vain hope of seeing something on the bare hill-side on her return.

At last, just as the wonderful violet and rose tints of the sunset began to colour the white peaks, Cheriton sprang to his feet, and pointed to the hill-side, where, far in the distance, were moving figures.

“How many?” he said, for, in the hurry of their start, they had left the field-glasses, which would have brought certainty a little sooner, behind.

“Oh, there are surely a great many,” said Gipsy.

Cheriton watched with the keen sight trained on his native moorlands; while the ladies counted and miscounted, and thought they saw Jack’s white puggaree.

“No,” said Cherry, “there are only Mr Stanforth and the two guides. I cannot wait,” he added, impetuously, and began to hurry up the hill, till he stopped perforce for want of breath.

“There can have been no accident; we have found no one—nothing whatever,” cried Mr Stanforth, as soon as he came within speaking distance. “They must have gone the other way; there is no trace.”

He spoke in a tone of would-be congratulation, but an ominous whisper passed among the guides, bandidas, and the utter blank was almost more terrifying than direct ill news.

“We must go back to Ronda, and see what can be done to-morrow.”

“But,” said Cherry, rather incoherently, “I don’t know—you see, I must take care of Jack.”

“Yes,” said Mr Stanforth, “but any little detention would not hurt either of them, and they must not find that you are knocked up. We can consult the authorities at Ronda.”

“Yes, thank you; I hope you are not over-tired,” said Cherry, half dreamily. “I? oh, no; I am quite well; but I can’t help being anxious.”

“No, it is very perplexing; but I feel quite hopeful of good news myself,” said Mr Stanforth.

But somehow the necessity of this assurance struck a sharper pang to Cherry’s heart than his own vague forebodings.

End of Volume Two.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Civis Romanus Sum.

“The mightiest of all peoples under Heaven!”

“I tell you, you stupid, blundering blockheads, that he is my brother; and we are Englishmen, and we know nothing whatever of your Carlist brigands, or whoever they are! We are British subjects, and you had better let us go, or the British Government will know the reason why,” thundered Jack Lester, in exceedingly bad Spanish, interspersed with English epithets, at the top of his voice.

“Gentlemen, it is true; our passports are at Ronda; conduct us thither, if you will. We are travelling for pleasure only, and have no concern with any political matters at all,” said Alvar, in far more courteous accents.

The scene was the mountain side, the time evening, and Alvar and Jack were just beginning their descent, when they were confronted by an official, and surrounded by a small troop of soldiers in the government uniform. They had been suddenly encountered and stopped, and desired to produce their passports, and, these not being forthcoming, their account of themselves was met with civil incredulity, and they were desired to consider themselves under arrest.

“But—but don’t you see that you’re making an utter fool of yourself,” shouted Jack, in a fury. “I tell you this gentleman is my brother, and we are the sons of Mr Lester, of Oakby Hall, Westmoreland, and have nothing to do with your confounded Carlists. I’ll knock the first fellow down—”

“Hush, Jack! Keep your temper,” whispered Alvar, in English. “Señor, I am the grandson of Señor Don Guzman de la Rosa, of Seville, well known as a friend to the government, and this is my half-brother from England.”

“One of the De la Rosas, señor, is exactly what we know you to be; but as for this extraordinary falsehood by which you call yourself an Englishman—and the brother of this gentleman—why, you make matters worse for yourselves for attempting it.”

“Ask the guide,” said Alvar.

“Ah, doubtless; the fellow was known as having been engaged in the late war. Come, señores, you may as well accompany me in silence.”

“Will you send a message by the direct route to Ronda, asking for our passports, and informing our friends of our safety?” said Alvar.

No, informing their friends was the last thing wished for. In the morning they would see.

“Do not resist, Jack,” said Alvar; “it is quite useless; we must come.”

“Don’t you hear he is talking English to me?” said Jack, as a last appeal, and, of course, a vain one.

“I am sure they haven’t got a magistrate’s warrant,” said Jack, as his alpenstock was taken away from him, and, closely guarded, he was made to precede Alvar down the hill, in a state of offended dignity and incredulous indignation. He was very angry, but not at all frightened; it was incredible that any Spanish officials should hurt him. Indeed, as he cooled down a little, the adventure might have been a good joke, but for the certainty that Cherry would be imagining them at the bottom of a precipice.

After walking for some way along a different road from the one they had come by, they stopped at a little wayside tavern, where they were given to understand that they were to pass the night.

“But it’s impossible; they can’t keep us here,” cried Jack. “Isn’t there a parish priest, or a magistrate, or a policeman, or some one to appeal to?”

“No one who could help us,” answered Alvar. “I do not think there is anything to be afraid of for ourselves; we can easily prove that we are English when we get to some town; it is of Cherry that I think—he will be so frightened.”

“You don’t think they’ll go and take him up?”

“Oh, no; I hope they will send to Ronda for our passports in the morning. But, Jack, do not fly in a passion. We must be very civil, and say we are quite willing to be detained in the service of the government.”

“I’m hanged if I say anything of the sort,” muttered Jack, whose prominent sensation was rage at the idea that he, an Englishman, a gentleman, a man with an address, and a card—though he had unluckily left it at home—should be subjected to such an indignity, stopped in his proceedings by a dozen trumpery Spaniards!

Alvar was not so full of a sense of the liberty of the subject; he felt sure that he was mistaken for Manoel, and more than suspected that the government might have been justified in detaining his cousin. He did not, however, wish to confide this to Jack, of whose prudence he was doubtful, and knew that if the worst came to the worst, his grandfather could get them out of the scrape.

There might be no danger, but it was very uncomfortable, and provisions being scarce in the emergency, the captain—who looked much more like a bandit than an officer—gave his prisoners no supper but a bit of bread. Alvar was Spaniard enough to endure the fasting, but Jack, after his day of mountain climbing, was ready to eat his fingers off with hunger; and as the hours wore on, began really to feel sick, wretched, and low-spirited, and though he preserved an unmoved demeanour, to wonder inwardly what his father would say if he knew where he was, and to remember that the Spaniards were a cruel people and invented the Inquisition! And then he wondered if Gipsy was thinking of him.

Moreover, it was very cold, and they were of course tired to begin with, so that, when at length the morning dawned, Alvar was startled to see how like Jack looked to Cheriton after a bad night, and made such representations to the captain that Englishmen could not bear cold and hunger, that he obtained a fair share of bread and a couple of onions—provisions which Jack enjoyed more than he would have done had he guessed what Alvar had said to procure them.

“I’m up to anything now,” he said. “If they would only let us put a note in the post for Cherry, it would be rather a lark after all.”

“I do not know where you will find a post-office,” said Alvar disconsolately, as they were marched off in an opposite direction to Ronda. “If Cherry only does not climb that mountain to look for us!”

“I should like to set this country to rights a little,” said Jack.

“That,” said Alvar dryly, “is what many have tried to do, but they have not succeeded.”

The prisoners were very well guarded, and though Alvar made more than one attempt to converse with the captain, he got scarcely any answer. Still, from the exceedingly curious glances with which he regarded them, Alvar suspected that he was not quite clear in his own mind as to their identity. After a long day’s march they struck down on a small Moorish-looking town, called Zahara, built beside a wide, quick-rushing river.

And now Alvar’s hopes rose, as here resided an acquaintance of his grandfather, a noted breeder of bulls, who knew him well, and had once seen Cheriton at Seville. Besides, the authorities of Zahara might be amenable to reason.

However, they could get no hearing that night, and were shut up in what Jack called the station-house, but which was really a round Moorish tower with horseshoe arches. Here Alvar obtained a piece of paper, and they concocted a full description of themselves, their travelling companions, and their destination, which Alvar signed with his full name,—

“Alvaro Guzman Lester, of Westmoreland, England,” and directed to El Señor Don Luis Pavieco, Zahara, and this he desired might be given to the local authorities. He also tried hard, but in vain, to get a note sent to Ronda.

They hoped that the early morning might produce Don Luis, but they saw nothing of any one but the soldier who brought them their food, which was still of the poorest.

Alvar’s patience began to give way at last; he walked up and down the room.

“Oh, I am mad when I think of my brother!” he exclaimed. “My poor Cheriton. What he will suffer!”

“Don’t you think they’ll let us out soon?” said Jack, who had subsided into a sort of glum despair.

“Oh, they will wait—and delay—and linger. It drives me mad!” he repeated vehemently, and throwing himself into a seat he hid his face in his arms on the table.

“Well,” said Jack, “it’s dogged as does it. I wish I hadn’t used up all my tobacco though.”

Early the next morning their door was opened at an unusual hour, and they were summoned into a sort of hall, where they found “el Capitano,” another officer in a respectable uniform, and, to Alvar’s joy, Don Luis Pavieco himself.

The thing was ended with ludicrous ease. Don Luis bowed to Alvar, and turning to the officer declared that Don Alvar Lester was perfectly well known to him, and that the other gentleman was certainly his half-brother and an Englishman. The officer bowed also, smiled, hoped that they had not been incommoded; it was a slight mistake.

“Mistake!” exclaimed Jack; “and pray, Alvar, what’s the Spanish for apology—damages?”

Alvar turned a deaf ear, and bowed and smiled with equal politeness.

“He had been sure that in due time the slight mistake would be rectified. Were they now free to go?”

“Yes;” and Don Luis interposed, begging them to come and get some breakfast with him while their horses could be got ready. Their guide?—oh, he was still detained on suspicion.

“Well,” ejaculated Jack, “they are the coolest hands. Incommoded! I should think we have been incommoded indeed!”

In the meantime no hint of how matters had really gone reached the anxious hearts at Ronda. The authorities had scouted the idea of brigands, and had revealed the existence of a dangerous ravine, some short distance from the mountain path. Doubtless the darkness had overtaken them, and they had been lost. The guides declared that nothing was more unlikely, as it was hardly possible to reach the ravine from the path, the rocks were so steep. A search was however made by some of the most active, it need not be said, in vain. Cheriton, afterwards, never could bear a reference to those days and nights of suspense—suspense lasting long enough to change the hope of good tidings into the dread of evil tidings, till he feared rather than longed for the sounds for which his whole being seemed to watch.

Nothing could exceed Mr Stanforth’s kindness to him, and he held up at first bravely, and submitted to his friend’s care. On the third morning they resolved that Don Guzman should be written to, and Cherry, who had been wandering about in an access of restless misery, tried to begin the letter; but he put down the pen, turning faint and dizzy, and unable to frame a sentence.

“I cannot,” he said faintly. “I cannot see.”

“You must lie down, my dear boy; you have had no rest. I will do it.”

“My father, too,” Cheriton said, with a painful effort at self-control. “I think—there’s no chance. I must try to do it; but—oh—Jack—Jack!”

He buried his face on his arms with a sob that seemed as if it would tear him to pieces.

“You must not write yet to your father,” said Mr Stanforth. “I do not give up hope. Courage, my boy!”

Suddenly a loud scream rang through the house, and an outburst of voices, and one raised joyously,—

“My brother—my brother—are you here?—we are safe!” and as Cherry started to his feet Alvar, followed by Jack, rushed into the room, and clasped him in his arms.

“Safe! yes, the abominable, idiotic brutes of soldiers! But we’re all right, Cherry. You mustn’t mind now.”

“Yes, we are here, and it is over.”

“Thank Heaven for His great mercy!” cried Mr Stanforth, almost bursting into tears as he grasped Alvar’s hand.

“Bandits, bandits?” cried half-a-dozen voices.

But Cherry could not speak a word; he only put out his hand and caught Jack’s, as if to feel sure of his presence also.

“Mi querido,” said Alvar in his gentle, natural tones, “all the terror is over—now you can rest. I think you had better go, Jack. I will take care of him,” he added.

“Yes,” said Mr Stanforth; “this has been far too much. Come, Jack—come and tell us all that has chanced.”

Chapter Thirty Four.

Jack on his Mettle.

“Lat me alone in chesing of my wyf, That charge upon my bak I wol endure.” Chaucer.

That same morning, when Jack and Alvar had ridden hurriedly up to the hotel, looking eagerly to catch sight of those who were so anxiously watching for them, their eyes fell on Gipsy’s solitary figure, standing motionless, with eyes turned towards the mountain, and hands dropped listlessly before her. Jack’s heart gave a great bound, and at the sound of the horses’ hoofs, she turned with a start and scream of joy, and sprang towards them, while Jack, jumping off, caught both her hands, crying,—

“Oh, don’t be frightened any more, we’re come!”

“Your brother!” exclaimed Gipsy, as she flew into the house; but her cry of “Papa! papa!” was suddenly choked with such an outburst of blinding, stifling tears and sobs, that she paused perforce; and as they ran upstairs, Mariquita, the pretty Spanish girl who waited on them, caught her hand and kissed her fervently.

“Ah, señorita, dear señorita; thanks to the saints, they have sent her lover back to her. Sweet señorita, now she will not cry!”

A sudden access of self-consciousness seized on Gipsy; she blushed to her fingertips, and only anxious to hide the tears she could not check, she hurried away, round to the back of the inn, into a sort of orchard, where grew peach and nectarine trees, apples and pears already showing buds, and where the ground was covered with jonquils and crocuses, while beyond was the rocky precipice, and, far off, the snowy peaks that still made Gipsy shudder. Unconscious of the strain she had been enduring, she was terrified at the violence of her own emotion, for Gipsy was not a girl who was given to gusts of feeling. Probably the air and the solitude were her best remedies, for she soon began to recover herself, and sat up among the jonquils. Oh, how thankful she was that the danger was over, and the bright, kindly Cheriton spared from such a terrible sorrow! But was it for Cheriton’s sake that these last two days had been like a frightful dream, that her very existence seemed to have been staked on news of the lost ones? No one—no one could help such feelings. Miss Weston had cried about it, and her father had never been able to touch a pencil. But that foolish Mariquita! Here Gipsy sprang to her feet with a start, for close at her side stood Jack. At sight of him, strong and ruddy and safe, her feeling overpowered her consciousness of it, and she said, earnestly,—

“Oh, I am so thankful you are safe! It was so dreadful!”

“And it was not dreadful at all in reality, only tiresome and absurd,” said Jack.

“It was very dreadful here,” said Gipsy, in a low voice, with fresh tears springing.

“Oh, if you felt so!” cried Jack ardently; “I wish it could happen to me twenty times over!”

“Oh, never again!” she murmured; and then Jack, suddenly and impetuously,—

“But I am glad it happened, for I found out up in that dirty hole how I felt. There was never any one like you. I—I—could you ever get to think of me? Oh, Gipsy, I mean it. I love you!” cried the boy, his stern, thoughtful face radiant with eagerness, as he seized her hand.

“Oh, no—you don’t!” stammered Gipsy, not knowing what she said.

“I do!” cried Jack desperately. “I never was a fellow that did not know his own mind. Of course I know I’m young yet; but I only want to look forward. I shall work and get on, and—and up there at school and at Oakby I never thought there was any one like you. I disliked girls. But now—oh, Gipsy, won’t you begin at the very beginning with me, and let us live our lives together?”

Boy as he was, there was a strength of intention in Jack’s earnest tones that carried conviction. Perhaps the mutual attraction might have remained hidden for long, or even have passed away, but for the sudden and intense excitement that had brought it to the surface.

“Won’t you—won’t you?” reiterated Jack; and Gipsy said “Yes.”

They stood in the glowing sunshine, and Jack felt a sort of ecstasy of unknown bliss. He did not know how long was the pause before Gipsy, starting, and as if finishing the sentence, went on,—

“Yes—but I don’t know. What will they all say? Isn’t it wrong when we are so young?”

“Wrong! as if a year or two made any difference to feelings like mine!” cried Jack. “If I were twenty-five, if I were thirty, I couldn’t love you better!”

“Yes—but—” said Gipsy, in her quick, practical way. “You are young, and—and—papa—If he says—”

“Of course I shall tell him,” said Jack. “I am not going to steal you. If you will wait, I’ll work and show your father that I am a man. For I love you!”

“I’ll wait!” said Gipsy softly; and then voices sounded near, and she started away from him, while Jack—but Jack could never recollect exactly what he did during the next ten minutes, till the thought of how he was to tell his story sobered him. Practical life had not hitherto occupied much of Jack’s mind; he had had no distinct intentions beyond taking honours, and if possible a fellowship, till he had been seized upon by this sudden passion, which in most lads would probably have been a passing fancy, but in so earnest and serious a nature took at once a real and practical shape. But when Jack thought of facing Mr Stanforth, and still worse his own father, with his wishes and his hopes, a fearful embarrassment seized on him. No, he must first make his cause good with the only person who was likely to be listened to—he must find Cherry. However, the first person he met was Mr Stanforth, who innocently asked him if he knew where his daughter was. Jack blushed and stared, answering incoherently,—

“I was only looking for Cherry.”

“There he is. I heard him asking for you. Perhaps Gipsy is in the orchard.” Jack felt very foolish and cowardly, but for his very life he could not begin to speak, and he turned towards the bench where Cherry sat in the sun, smoking his pipe comfortably, and conscious of little but a sense of utter rest and relief.

“Well, Jack, I haven’t heard your story yet,” he said, as Jack came and sat down beside him. “I don’t think you have grown thin, though Alvar says they nearly starved you to death.”

“Where is Alvar?” asked Jack.

“I got him to go to the mayor, intendant, whatever the official is called here, and see if anything could be done for poor Pedro. His mother was here just now in an agony. Jack, I think the ‘evils of government’ might receive some illustrations.”

“Cheriton,” said Jack, with unusual solemnity, “I’ve got to ask your advice—that is, your opinion—that is, to tell you something.”

“Don’t you think I should look at it from a ludicrous point of view?” said Cherry, whose spirits were ready for a reaction into nonsense.

“I don’t know,” said Jack; “but it is very serious. I have made up my mind, Cherry, that I mean to marry Miss Stanforth, and I shall direct all my efforts in life to accomplish this end. I know that I am younger than is usual on these occasions; but such things are not a question of time. Cherry, do help me; they’ll all listen to you.”

Cheriton sat with his pipe in his hand, so utterly astonished, that he allowed Jack’s sentences to come to a natural conclusion. Then he exclaimed,—

“Jack! You! Oh, impossible!”

“I don’t see why you should think it impossible. Anyhow, it’s true!”

“But it is so sudden. Jack, my dear boy, you’re slightly carried off your head just now. Don’t say a word about it—while we’re all together at least; it wouldn’t be fair.”

“But I have,” answered Jack, “and—and—” in a different tone, “Cherry, I don’t know how to believe it myself, but she—it is too wonderful—she will.”

Cherry did not answer. He put his hand on Jack’s with a sudden, quick movement.

“I suppose you think I ought to have waited till I had a better right to ask her,” said Jack presently.

A look of acute pain passed over Cheriton’s face. He said doubtfully, “Are you quite sure?”

“Sure? Sure of what?”

“Of your own mind and hers?”

“Did I ever not know my own mind? I’m not a fool!” said Jack angrily. “And, if you could have seen just the way she looked, Cherry, you wouldn’t have any doubts.”

“I am afraid,” said Cherry very gently, and after a pause, “that you have been very hasty. I don’t think that father, or Mr Stanforth either, would listen to you now.”

“I want you to ask them,” said Jack insinuatingly. “Father would do anything for you now; and, besides, we are young enough to wait, and I’ve got the world before me, and I mean to keep straight and get on. Why should Mr Stanforth object? I feel as if I could do anything. You don’t think it would make me idle? No, I shall work twice as hard as I should without it.”

“Yes,” said Cherry quietly; “no doubt.” Something in his tone brought recent facts to Jack’s remembrance, as was proved by his sudden silence. Cherry looked round at him and smiled.

“You know, Jack, I wasn’t prepared to find the schoolboy stage passed into the lover’s. I’ll speak to Mr Stanforth, if that is what you want, and even if things don’t fit in at once, if you feel as you say, you won’t be much to be pitied with such an aim before you!”

“I’m not at all ashamed of telling my own story,” said Jack, “but—”

“But there is Mr Stanforth coming out of the house, so if you mean to run away you had better make haste about it.”

Jack rose, but he paused a moment, and as Mr Stanforth came towards them, said bluntly,—

“Mr Stanforth, I want Cheriton to tell you about it first;” then deliberately walked away.

Poor Mr Stanforth, who had little expected such an ending to his tour with his favourite little daughter, was feeling himself in a worse scrape than the lovers, and though he had romance enough to sympathise with them, was disposed to be angry with Jack for his inconsiderate haste, and to feel that “What will your mother say?” was a more uncomfortable question to himself than to his daughter.

Cheriton, on his side, would have been very glad of a few minutes for reflection, but Mr Stanforth began at once,—

“I see I have not brought news to you.”

“No,” said Cherry. “Jack has been talking to me; I had no idea of such a thing. But, Mr Stanforth, there is no doubt that Jack is thoroughly in earnest,” as a half smile twinkled on the artist’s perplexed countenance.

“In earnest, yes; but what business has he to be in earnest? What would your father say to such a proceeding? What can he say at your brother’s age, and of people of whom he knows nothing, and of a connexion of which, knowing nothing, he probably would not approve?”

Cheriton blushed, knowing that this last assertion contained much truth.

“But he does know,” he said, “of all your kindness, and he will know more—and—and when he knows you, he could not think—”

“Excuse me, my dear fellow, but he will think. He will think I have thrown my daughter in the way of his sons—for which I have only my own imprudence, I suppose, to thank. And he would no doubt dislike a connexion the advantages of which, whatever they may be, are not enumerated in Burke’s ‘Landed Gentry.’”

Mr Stanforth smiled, though he spoke with a certain spirited dignity, and Cheriton could not contradict him; for though Mr Stanforth had not risen out of any romantic obscurity, he certainly owed his present position to his own genius and high personal character. He had himself married well, and all would depend on the way in which it was put to a man like Mr Lester, slow to realise unfamiliar facts. Cheriton could not take the liberty of saying that he thought such an objection would be groundless, or at least easily overcome; but he was afraid that his silence might be misconstrued, and said,—“But on your side, Mr Stanforth, would you think it wrong to give Jack a little hope? I think he has every prospect of success in life. And he is a very good fellow. Sudden as this is, I feel sure that he will stick to it.”

“As to that,” said Mr Stanforth, “I like Jack very well, and for my part I think young people are all the better for having to fight their way; but whatever may take place in the future I can allow no intercourse till your father’s consent is obtained. That will give a chance of testing their feelings on both sides. Gipsy is a mere child, she may not understand herself.”

“I think,” said Cheriton, “that if Jack writes to my father now, or speaks to him when he gets home, that no one will attend to him. But if it could wait till we all go back, I could explain the circumstances so much better. It is always difficult to take in what passes at a distance.”

“Well,” said Mr Stanforth, “all I have to say is that when Jack applies to me, with his father’s consent, I will hear what he has to say, not before. Come, Cheriton,” he added, “you know there is no other way of acting. This foolish boy has broken up our pleasant party, and upset all our plans.”

“Perhaps I ought to have made more apologies for him,” said Cherry, with a smile. “But I want things to go well with Jack. It would be so bad for him to have a disappointment of that kind just as he is making his start in life.”

Mr Stanforth noticed the unconscious emphasis, “I want things to go well with Jack,” and said kindly, “Jack couldn’t have a better special pleader, and if he has as much stuff in him as I think, a few obstacles won’t hurt him.”

“Oh, Jack has plenty of good strong stuff in him, mental, moral—and physical, too,” added Cherry hurriedly.

Mr Stanforth was touched by the allusion, which was evidently intended to combat a possible latent objection on his part.

“Jack is excellent—but inconvenient,” he said, thinking it better not to make the subject too serious. “The thing is what to do next.” As he spoke, Jack himself came up to them, and Mr Stanforth prevented his first words with, “My dear fellow, I have said my say to your brother, and I don’t mean to listen to yours just yet.”

“I believe, sir,” said Jack, “that I—I have not observed sufficient formalities. I shall go straight home to my father, and I hope to obtain his full consent. But it is due to me to let me say that my mind is, and always will be, quite unalterable. And I’m not sorry I spoke, sir—I can’t be!”

“No,” said Mr Stanforth; “but I must desire that you make no further attempt at present.”

“I hope, Mr Stanforth, that you don’t imagine I would attempt anything underhand!” cried Jack impetuously.

“I shall have every confidence in you,” said Mr Stanforth gravely; “but remember, I cannot regard you as pledged to my daughter by anything that has passed to-day.” Jack made no answer, but he closed his lips with an expression of determination.

When Alvar came back, having succeeded in instituting an inquiry into the merits of Pedro’s character, there was a discussion of plans, which ended in the three brothers agreeing to go by the shortest route to Seville, whence Jack could at once start for England; while the Stanforths followed them by a longer and more picturesque road, and after picking up their own property, would also go home via Madrid some week or two later. Alvar was not nearly so much astonished as the others, nor so much concerned.

“It was natural,” he said, “since Jack’s heart was not preoccupied, and would doubtless pass away with absence.”

Jack was so excessively indignant that he did not condescend to a reply, only asking Cherry if he was too tired to start at once.

This proposal, however, was negatived by Mr Stanforth, who remarked that he did not want to hear of any more adventures in the dusk; and it was agreed that both parties should start early on the following morning. In the meantime the only rational thing was to behave as usual. Jack was, however, speechless and surly with embarrassment, and stuck to Cheriton as if he was afraid to lose sight of him; while Gipsy bore herself with a transparent affectation of unconsciousness, and, though she blushed at every look, coined little remarks at intervals. Miss Weston kindly professed to be seized with a desire to inspect the Dominican Convent, and carried her and Alvar off for that purpose; while Jack held by Cherry, who was glad to rest, though this startling incident had one good effect, in driving away all the haunting memories of the late alarm.

The next morning all were up with the sun, Gipsy busily dispensing the chocolate and pressing it on Cheriton as he sat at the table. Suddenly she turned, and, with a very pretty gesture, half confident, half shy, she held up a cup to Jack, who stood behind.

“Won’t you have some?” she said, with a hint of her own mischief in her eyes and voice. Jack seized the cup, and—upset it over the deft, quick hands that tendered it to him.

“Oh, I have burnt you!” he exclaimed, in so tragic a voice that all present burst out laughing.

“No,” said Gipsy, “early morning chocolate is not dangerously hot; but you have spoiled my cuffs, and spilled it, and I don’t think there’s any more of it.”

“Jack’s first attention!” said Cherry, under his breath; but he jumped up and followed Alvar, who had gone to see about the mount provided for them. Miss Weston was tying various little bags on to her saddle.

“I say, Mr Stanforth,” called Cherry, “there’s such a picturesque mule here; do come and see it.”

He looked up with eyes full of mischievous entreaty as Mr Stanforth obeyed his call. “Well,” said the latter with a smile, “I may ask you to come and see me at Kensington, for I must get the picture finished.”

“That was a much prettier picture, just now,” said Cheriton; “and I’m sure Jack would be happy to sit for it any time.”

When Gipsy, long afterwards, was pressed on the subject of that little parting interview, she declared that Jack had done nothing but say that he wouldn’t make love to her on any account; but however that might be, she soon came running out, rosy and bashful; while Cheriton put her on her mule and gave her a friendly hand-squeeze and a look of all possible encouragement. Mr Stanforth went into the house and called Jack to bid him a kind farewell. After the party had set off, Gipsy looked back and saw the crowd of mule drivers and peasants, the host and hostess, with Mariquita kissing her hands, and the three brothers standing together in the morning sunshine, waving their farewells. As they passed out of sight, her father touched her hand and made her ride up close to his side.

“My little girl,” he said, “this is a serious thing that has come to you; I do not know how it may end for you. I am sure that it will bring you anxiety and delay. Be honest with yourself, and do not exaggerate the romance and excitement of these last few days into a feeling which may demand from you much sacrifice.”

Gipsy had never heard her father speak in this tone before—she was awed and silenced.

“Be honest,” repeated her father, “for I think it is a very honest heart that you have won.”

“Papa,” said Gipsy, “I am honest, and I think I know what you mean. But I don’t mind waiting if I know he is waiting too. He said ‘begin at the beginning’ with him.”

“Well,” said Mr Stanforth with a sigh, “Che sará sará;” but with a sudden turn, “He is young, too, you know, and many things may happen to change his views.”

“I cannot help it now, papa,” said Gipsy, who felt that those days and nights of terror had developed her feelings more than weeks of common life. She gave her father’s hand a little squeeze, and looked up in his face with the tears on her black eyelashes. She meant to say, “I love you all the better because of this new love which has made everything deeper and warmer for me,” but all she managed to say was—“There! There are all the things tumbling out of your knapsack! I’m not going to have that happen again even if—if—whatever should take place in the future.”

“I hope, my dear, that nothing more will happen, at least till we are at home again,” said Mr Stanforth meekly; but Gipsy put the things into the knapsack, and after a little silence they fell into a conversation on the scenery as naturally as possible.

Chapter Thirty Five.

A Summons.

“Once from high Heaven Is a father given. Once—and, oh, never again!”

After Jack returned home, with the understanding that the disclosure of his holiday occupation should await his brother’s return, and after the Stanforths had also left Seville, Alvar and Cheriton spent several weeks there without any adventures to disturb their tranquillity. Alvar was a good deal with his grandfather, whose health was not at this time good, but who had evinced great curiosity as to the details of their detention on the mountains. He used also to go to the different clubs and meet acquaintances, where they talked politics and scandal, and played at cards, dominoes, and billiards. It was an aimless existence, and Cheriton sometimes fancied that Alvar grew restless under it, and would not be sorry to return to England. This, however, might have been owing to Cheriton’s own decided dislike to the young Sevillanos, who struck him as almost justifying his grandmother’s preconceived theory of Alvar’s probable behaviour.

“Ah, they do not suit you, that is not what you like,” Alvar said cheerfully; but he never said, “It is not good, this sort of life does not make a nation great or virtuous.”

Manoel was of another type, and perhaps a more respectable one; but they saw very little of him. Cheriton liked the ladies, who were kind, and possessed many domestic virtues; and at Don Guzman’s country place there was something exceedingly pleasant in the cheerfulness and gaiety of the peasants. He would have liked to have found out something of the working of the Church, of the views of the clergy, and how far they differed, not only from those of an Anglican, but of an intelligent Roman priest in more civilised countries, but on these subjects no one would talk to him. He heard mutterings of hatred towards the priests in some quarters, and a good deal of chatter about processions and ceremonies from the young ladies, but nothing further. He did not want for occupation. He could now read and speak Spanish easily; and although the Cid, Ferdinand and Isabella, the Armada, and the Inquisition had been about the only salient points in his mind previously, he made a study of Spanish history, without much increase of his admiration for the Spaniards. He was able, also, to do much more sight-seeing than at first, and of the cathedral he never tired, and never came to the end of its innumerable chapels, each with some great picture, which Mr Stanforth had taught him how to see; never ceased to find something new in the mystery and solemnity of its aisles with their glory of coloured lights.

These quiet weeks formed a sort of resting-place, during which he was able to think both of the past and of the future; he could dare now to look away from the immediate present. Cheriton’s eyes were very clear, his moral sense very keen, and he saw that he had been under a delusion, that Ruth and he were as the poles asunder, that her deliberate deception, her want of any sense of honour, had marked a nature that never could have satisfied his. Love in his case was no longer blind, but it was none the less passionate, and, whatever else life might hold for him, the memory of all his first, best hopes could never bring him anything but pain. This pain had been as much as he could bear, but others, he thought, had suffered as keenly, and had led lives that were neither ignoble nor unhappy. Because one great love had gone out of his life was nothing else worthy or dear? “Nothing” had been the answer of his first anguish, but Cheriton’s nature was too rich in love for such an answer to stand. The help for which he had prayed had been sent to him, and it came in the sense that home faces were still dear—how dear his late alarm had taught him—home duties still paramount, that he could be a good son and brother and friend still. And he thought with a sort of surprise of the many pleasant and not unhappy hours he had passed of late; how much, after all, he had “enjoyed himself.” He hardly knew that his quick intelligence was a gift to be thankful for, or that his unselfish interest in others brought its own reward. On another side of his nature, also, he resisted the aimlessness of his lost hopes. The thought of Ruth had sweetened his success at Oxford, but he would not be such a coward as to give up all his objects in life, he would make a name for himself still, and show her that she had not brought him to utter shipwreck. This motive was strong in Cheriton, though it ran alongside with much higher ones.

One picture in the cathedral exercised a great fascination over Cheriton’s mind. It hangs in the Capella del Consuelo, over a side altar, dedicated to the Angel de la Guarda, and is one of the many masterpieces of Murillo to be found in Seville. It represents a tall, strong angel with wide-spread wings, and grave, benevolent face, leading by the hand a child—a subject which has been of course repeated in every form of commonplace prettiness. But in this picture the figure of the angel conveys a sense of heavenly might and unearthly guardianship which no imitation or repetition could give. It is called the “Guardian Angel;” but Cheriton had been told by one of the priests that the name given to it by the painter himself was “The Soul and the Church,” which for some reason or other had been changed by the monks of the Capuchin Convent, to whom the picture had originally belonged. It was a thought and a carrying out of the thought which, seen among such surroundings, was full of suggestion, how and why that Divine Guidance seemed here in great measure to have gone astray, how the great angel’s finger had not always pointed upward, and yet how utterly helpless and rudderless the nation was when it cast off the Guide of its fathers. Then his thoughts turned to his own life and to the Hand that held it, to the Guidance that was sometimes so hard to recognise, so difficult to yield to, and yet how the sense of a love and a wisdom above his own, speaking to him, whether in the events of his own life, the better impulses of his own heart, or in the visible forms of religion, was the one light in the darkness.