C.R. Coleridge (continued 7)

“O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till The night is gone.”

As he murmured the words half aloud a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up and saw Alvar standing beside him.

“Mi querido, I have been looking for you. Will you come home? I want you,” he said.

“There is something the matter,” said Cheriton quickly, as he looked at him. “What is it?”

“Ah, I must tell you!” said Alvar reluctantly. “It is bad news, indeed. Sit down again—here—I have received this.” He took a telegraph paper out of his pocket and put it into Cherry’s hand.

“Mrs Lester to Alvar Lester. “Your father has met with a dangerous accident. He wishes to see you. Come home at once. He desires Cheriton to run no risk.” Cheriton looked up blankly for a moment, then started to his feet, crushing up the paper in his hand.

“Quick,” he said, “we must go at once. When? By Madrid is the shortest way.”

“Yes—I—” said Alvar; “but see what he says.”

“I must go,” said Cheriton. “Don’t waste any words about it. I know he wants me. I’ll be careful enough, only make haste.”

But he paused, and dropping on his knees on the altar step, covered his face with his hands, rose, and silently led the way out of the cathedral.

Alvar, with his usual tact, perceived at once that it would be impossible to persuade him to stay behind, and did not fret him by the attempt, though this hasty journey and the return to Oakby in the first sharp winds of March were more on his own mind than the thought of what news might meet them at the journey’s end.

It was still early in the day, and they were able to start within a few hours, only taking a few of their things with them, amid a confusion of tears, sympathy, and regret; Don Guzman evidently parting from Alvar with reluctance, and bestowing a tremendous embrace on Cheriton in return for his thanks for the kindness that had been shown to him. Manoel, on the other hand, was evidently relieved at their early departure.

Some days later, on a wild, blustering morning in the first week of March, Jack Lester stood on the step of the front door of Oakby. The trees were still bare, and scarcely a primrose peeped through the dead leaves beneath them; pale rays of sun were struggling with the quick driven clouds, the noisy caw of the rooks mingled with the rustle of the leafless branches. Jack was pale and heavy-eyed. He looked across the wide, wild landscape as if its very familiarity were strange to him, then started, as up the park from a side entrance came a carnage and pair as fast as it could be driven, and in another minute pulled up at the door.

“Oh, Cherry, we have never dared to wish for you!” cried Jack, as Cheriton sprang out and caught both his hands. “Come in—come in! Oh, if you had but come last night!”

“Not too late—not too late altogether?” Jack shook his head, his voice choked, but they knew too well what he would tell them, and the two brothers stood just within the door, holding by each other, Jack sobbing with relief from the strain of responsibility and loneliness, and Cheriton dazed and silent, unable to utter a word.

The servants began to gather round them. “Oh, Mr Cheriton, it’s some comfort to see you back, sir!” said the butler; and—“Thank heaven, sir, you’re come to help your poor grandmother!” cried the old housekeeper; while Nettie, flying downstairs, threw herself into Cheriton’s arms, as if they were a refuge from the agony of new and most forlorn sorrow, while he held her fast with long speechless kisses.

Alvar stood still. In that instinctive mutual clinging in the first shock of their common grief he had no share, and for the moment he stood as much a stranger among them as when, more than a year before, he had come into the midst of their Christmas merry-making, and had silenced their laughter by his unwelcome presence.

Jack was the first to awaken to a sense of present necessity.

“You have been travelling all night,” he said. “Come and sit down—you must be tired out.”

“We had some breakfast at Hazelby, while we waited for the carriage,” said Alvar; and Cherry, as Nettie released her hold, unfastened his wraps, and moved over to the hall fire, sitting down in the great chair, as they began to exchange question and answer.

“What happened—how was it?”

“Didn’t you get my telegram?” said Jack.

“No; only granny’s. Where is she?”

“Asleep, I hope. The meet was at Ashrigg, and old Rob fell in taking the brook, just by Fletcher’s farm. And so—so he was thrown, and it was an injury to the spine; but he was quite conscious, and sent that telegram to Alvar. After that he didn’t often know us—till—till last night. And it was over before eleven. We did not think you could possibly get here till to-night, and we had no news of you, so I telegraphed again as soon as I got home; but I suppose you missed the message.”

“We wrote and telegraphed from Madrid,” said Alvar; “it is quite possible that there should be delay there; and in Paris and London we had hardly a moment to catch the trains. Cherry has been too anxious to feel the fatigue, but he must rest now.”

“There must be a great many things to attend to,” said Cheriton, standing up, and passing his hand over his eyes as if he were rousing himself out of an unnatural dream.

“Not yet,” said Jack, “it is so early. Mr Ellesmere will come back by-and-by.”

Cherry looked round. He noticed that a pair of antlers had been removed from one of the panels, and an impulse came to him to ask why, and then the oddest sense of the incongruity of the remark. He rather knew than felt the truth of the blow that had fallen on them, and all the different aspects of this great change, even to remote particulars, passed over his mind, as over the mind of a drowning man, but as thoughts, not as realities. Suddenly there was a bark and a scutter, and Buffer, in an ecstasy of incongruous joy, rushed into the hall, jumped upon him, yelping, licking, dancing, and writhing with rapture. He was followed by Rolla, who came slowly in, and laid his great tawny head on his master’s knee, looking sorrowfully up in his face as much as to say that he knew well enough that this was like no other home-coming.

Cheriton started up and pushed them all aside. He walked away to the window and stared out at the park, into the library and looked round it, evidently hardly knowing what he was about. Alvar, who had been standing pale and silent, roused himself too, and followed him, putting his arm over his shoulder.

“Come,” he said; “come upstairs. Jack, where is there a fire?”

Cheriton yielded instinctively to Alvar’s hand and voice, and Jack led them upstairs, saying that granny had insisted on their rooms being kept ready for them. Nettie withheld Buffer from following them, and crouched down on the rug by the hall fire till Jack returned to her.

“They have both gone to bed for a little while,” he said; “even Alvar is tired out. Nettie, you had better go to granny, as soon as she is awake, and tell her that they are here, and that Cherry is pretty well.”

“I suppose Cherry will tell us what to do,” said Nettie, as she stood up.

Discipline and absence from home had improved Nettie; she was less childish and more considerate, remembering to tell Jack that he had had no breakfast, and to order some to be ready when the travellers should want it.

Bob, who had been sent for a day or two before, now joined them. He had grown as tall as Jack, but grief and awe gave him a heavy, sullen look, and indeed they said very little to each other. Jack wrote a few necessary letters, and sent them off by one of the grooms, and telegraphed to Judge Cheriton, who was coming that same evening, the news of what he would find. But their father had been so completely manager and master, that Jack felt as if giving an order himself were unjustifiable, and as soon as he dared, he went to see if Cherry were able to talk to him.

“Come, Jack,” said Cherry, as the boy came up to him; “come now, and tell me everything.”

Jack leaned against the foot of the bed, and in the half-darkened room told all the details of the last few days. There had not been much suffering, nor long intervals of consciousness, so far as they knew. Cherry could have done no good till last night. Granny had done all the nursing. “I never thought,” said Jack, “she loved any one so much.” Mr Ellesmere had been everything to them, and had written letters and told them what to do. “But last night father came more to himself, and sent for Mr Ellesmere, and presently he fetched me, and father took hold of my hand, and said to me quite clearly, ‘Remember, your eldest brother will stand in my place; let there be no divisions among you.’ And then—then he told me to try and keep Bob straight, and that I had been a good lad. But oh, Cherry, if he had but known about Gipsy! But I couldn’t say one word then. And then Mr Ellesmere said, ‘Shall Jack say anything to Cherry for you?’ And he smiled, and said, ‘My love and blessing, for he has been the light of my eyes.’ And then he sent for Bob and Nettie, and sent messages to old Wilson and some of the servants. And he said that he had tried to do his duty in life by his children and neighbours, but that he had often failed, especially in one respect, and also he had not ruled his temper as a Christian man should; and he asked every one to forgive him, and specially the vicar, if he had overstepped the bounds his position gave him; Mr Ellesmere said something of ‘thanks for years of kindness.’ And then—we had the communion. And after a bit he said very low, ‘If my boy should live, I know he will keep things together.’ Then I think he murmured something about—about your coming—and the cold weather—and—and—you were not to fret—it was only waiting a little longer. And then quite quite loud he said, ‘Fear God, and keep His commandments,’ and then just whispered, ‘Fanny.’ That was the last word; but he lived till eleven. And poor granny, she broke down into dreadful crying, and said, ‘The light of my eyes—the light of my eyes is darkened.’ Nettie was very good with her; but at last we all got to bed—and—oh, Cherry, it isn’t quite so bad now we have you!” and Jack pressed up to his side.

Cheriton had listened to all this long, faltering tale leaning on his elbow, his wide-open eyes fixed on his brother, without interrupting him by a word. Jack cried, and he put his arm round his neck, and said, “Poor boy!” but no tears came to him.

“I never thought—” said Jack, whose natural reserve was dispelled by stress of feeling, “I never thought what a good man he was, and how much he cared.”

“Yes, he loved goodness,” said Cherry, with a heavy sigh.

It was true. With some prejudices and many weaknesses, Gerald Lester had set his duty first; he had lived such a life that those around him were the better for his existence, he had left a place empty and a work to be done. Who would fill the place—how would the work be done?

Through all the crush of personal grief, his two sons could not but ask themselves this question; but they could not bring themselves to speak of it to each other; and after a few minutes Cheriton said, “I think I will get up now. We must talk things over together; and I want to see granny.”

“If you have rested.”

“Oh, yes, as much as is possible. I am quite well, indeed. Go down, my boy. I will come directly.”

Jack went with a lightened heart. If Cherry were well and able to take the lead among them, everything could be borne. When Cheriton came into the library he found that Alvar had already appeared, and was eating some breakfast, for it was still only twelve o’clock, while Mr Ellesmere was standing by the fire. The vicar greeted him kindly and quietly, and Alvar poured out some coffee for him; and then Mr Ellesmere began to explain some of the arrangements he had been obliged to make, and that he had sent to their father’s solicitor, Mr Malcolm, to come in the afternoon. Cheriton thanked him, and asked a few questions; but Alvar did not seem to take the conversation to himself, till the butler, having taken away the breakfast things, paused, and after looking first at Cheriton, turned to Alvar, and said rather awkwardly,—“Do you expect the judge by the five o’clock train, sir, and shall the carriage be sent to Hazelby to meet him?”

There was a moment’s silence, the three younger brothers coloured to their very hair roots, and Cheriton made a half step away from Alvar’s side. The sudden pang that shot through him by its very sharpness brought its own remedy. He put his hand on Alvar’s arm as if to call his attention.

“The train comes in at five—we had better send, hadn’t we?” he said.

“Oh, yes!” said Alvar.

He had grown a little pale, and he turned his large black eyes on Cheriton with a look half-proud, half-appealing, and so sad as to drown all Cheriton’s momentary shrinking in self-reproach.

“Alvar,” said Mr Ellesmere, “if you will come with me, I have a message for you from your father.”

He led the way into Mr Lester’s study, and Alvar followed him to the room, of which his last vivid recollection was of the painful dispute after the breach of his engagement. He stood by the fire in silence, and the vicar said,—

“Alvar, your father desired me to tell you that, of all the actions of his life he most regretted the neglect which for so many years he showed you. He bid me say that on his death-bed he desired his son’s forgiveness.”

“My father made me every amends in his power,” said Alvar, in a low voice.

“He commended your grandmother and your sister to your protection and kindness; your brothers also, and thought thankfully of all that you and Cherry have become to each other.”

Alvar was much agitated, for some moments he was unable to speak, then he said vehemently,—

“This is my inheritance, as it was my father’s; but to my brothers I seem an interloper. This is the wrong my father did to me, he made me a stranger in my own place.”

“It was a wrong of which he deeply repented.”

“It does not become me to speak of it,” said Alvar proudly.

“You must not exaggerate,” said Mr Ellesmere. “It would be hard for Cheriton to see any one in his father’s place; but you have won from him, at any rate, a brother’s love.”

“I am his dear friend,” said Alvar; “but it is different with Jack.”

“Don’t draw these fine distinctions. Be a worthy successor to your father; live here among your people, as he did, in the fear of God, and doing your duty as an English gentleman, and be, as you have ever been, patient and kind to your brothers. Doubtless it seems a hard task to you, but I earnestly believe that by God’s blessing you may be all to them that even Cheriton might be in your place. Nay, the very differences between you may be,—nay have been—the means of good.”

“You are very kind to me, sir, and I thank you,” said Alvar courteously; but Mr Ellesmere felt as if his words had fallen a little flat. He felt sorry for Alvar, but he could not look forward to the future without uneasiness. He saw that the wrong was neither forgotten nor forgiven, and that there was in the young Spaniard’s nature a background of immovable pride that promised ill for accommodating himself to unfamiliar duties, and a want of moral insight that would be slow in recognising them.

It seemed rather inconsistent when Alvar said meekly, “Cheriton will tell me in all things what I should do,” and led the way back to the library.

Here they found the others gathered in a group by the fire; Nettie sitting on a stool at Cheriton’s feet, Jack leaning over the back of his chair, and Bob close at hand. How much alike they looked, with their similar colouring and outline, and faces set in the same sorrowful stillness and softened by the same feelings! Alvar paused and looked at them for a moment, but Cheriton, seeing him, rose and came forward.

“We have been waiting for you, Alvar,” he said. “I have been to see grandmamma, but I did not stay—she could not bear it; but now—will you come upstairs with us?” He gave a look of invitation to Mr Ellesmere also, and he followed them silently into the chamber of death.

There lay their father, all the irritable marks of human frailty smoothed away, and the grand outline and long beard giving him a likeness to some kingly monument. The twins held by each other, their grief almost overpowered by shrinking awe. Jack frowned and set his mouth hard, and wrung Cherry’s hand in his stress of feeling till he almost crushed it, while Cheriton stood quite still and calm by Alvar’s side.

“Let us pray,” said Mr Ellesmere; and as they all knelt down he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and such other words as came to him.

When they rose up again Cheriton bent down and kissed his father’s brow, and one by one the younger ones followed his example. Only Alvar stood still, till Cheriton turned to him, and taking his hand, with a look that Mr Ellesmere never forgot, drew him forward.

Alvar obeyed him, but as his lips touched his father’s face the thought suddenly struck Cheriton that it must have been for the first time—that never, even in babyhood, had a caress passed between the father and son; and then, in contrast, he thought of himself, and the grief, hitherto unrealised, broke forth at last. He hid his face in his hands, and hurried out of the room into his own, away from them all.

Part IV.

The Squire of Oakby.

“A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep, A raiser of huge melons and of pines, A patron of some thirty charities, A quarter-sessions chairman.”

The Squire of Oakby.

“A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep, A raiser of huge melons and of pines, A patron of some thirty charities, A quarter-sessions chairman.”

Chapter Thirty Six.

The Funeral.

“Wild March wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?”

It was on a wild March morning, when sudden gleams of radiant sunlight contended with heavy storm-clouds, that Mr Lester of Oakby was buried. There was no rain, but the violent wind carried the sound of the knell in fitful gusts over the mourning village, through the well-cared-for fields and plantations of Oakby, away to Ashrigg and Elderthwaite, bringing all the countryside in a great concourse to the funeral. For it was a real mourning, a real loss. Long years ago, Fanny Lester, with her bright smile, and clear, upward-looking eyes, had said to her husband, “We have a piece of work in the world given to us, Gerald; let us try and do it.” And under her strong influence the dutiful and honourable traditions of conduct to which Gerald Lester was born, widened and were drawn higher; the various offices he held were exercised with conscientious effort for the benefit of his neighbours; and his tenantry, mind, soul and body, were the better for his life among them. They could trust him, and if he sometimes made mistakes from which the wise Fanny might have saved him, her death had consecrated for him every simple duty that she had pointed out. Now, while “the old Squire” still meant his father, while he was still in the strength of his manhood, he was gone; and at the head of his grave there stood, not the son they knew, with his father’s fair face and his mother’s fair soul, but the dark, stately stranger, who—among all those north-country gentlemen, farmers, and labourers who crowded round, those “neighbours” all so well known to each other—looked so strangely out of place.

So thought another stranger who, when he had travelled northwards, had little thought to find himself present at such a scene.

The Stanforths had long since returned to London, and Gipsy found herself once more in the midst of as pleasant a home-circle as ever a girl grew up in, while her attention was claimed by numerous interests, social, intellectual, and domestic. Her mother shook her head over the story of Jack’s proposal; but she said very little about the matter, secretly hoping that Gipsy would cease to think of it on returning to another atmosphere. All the advances, she said to her husband, must now come from the other side, and she could not but regard the future as doubtful, and was slightly incredulous of the charms of the travelling companions whom she had not herself seen. But Jack, while he was at Oxford, wrote to Mr Stanforth, about once a fortnight, rather formal and sententious epistles, which did not contain one word about Gipsy, but which in their regularity and simplicity impressed her mother favourably. One long, pleasant letter arrived from Cheriton during his last weeks at Seville, and of this Gipsy enjoyed the perusal. She did not show any symptoms of low spirits, and being a girl of some resolution of character, held her tongue and bided her time. Perhaps a bright and fairly certain expectation was all she as yet wanted or was ready for. She was young in feeling, even for her eighteen years, and in truth they were “beginning at the beginning.”

Still she wished ardently that her father should accede to a request from Sir John Hubbard, that he should come down to Ashrigg Hall, and paint a companion picture of his wife to the one that he had taken of himself long ago. Lady Hubbard was infirm and could not come to London, or Sir John would not have made such a demand on Mr Stanforth’s time, now, of course, even more fully occupied than it had been ten years before.

Mr Stanforth hesitated; he did not like the notion of any possible meeting with Mr Lester, while Jack’s views remained a secret from him; but Sir John had shown him a good deal of kindness, and he felt curious to hear something of his young friends in their own neighbourhood. So the first week in March found him at Ashrigg, in the midst of a large family party, for the eldest son and his wife were staying there, and there were several daughters at home.

“We had hoped to give a few of our friends the pleasure of meeting you, Mr Stanforth,” said Sir John, after dinner, when the wine was on the table, “but our neighbourhood has sustained a great loss in the death of a valued friend of ours, Mr Lester, of Oakby.”

“Mr Lester of Oakby! You don’t say so! Surely that is very sudden,” said Mr Stanforth, infinitely shocked. “I saw a great deal of his sons in the south of Spain,” he added in explanation.

“Indeed! They are at home now, poor fellows. They were just too late. I had this note from Jack—that’s the second son—no, the third—this afternoon.”

“I know Jack, too,” said Mr Stanforth, as he took the note. It was a very brief one, merely announcing his father’s death, and adding,—

“My brothers returned from Spain this morning. We hope that the journey has done Cheriton no harm.”

“Ah, poor Cheriton!” said Mr Stanforth. “I fear he must have run a great risk. It will be a terrible blow to him. We formed something more than a travelling acquaintance.”

“Poor Mr Lester was here only a fortnight ago, speaking with delight of Cheriton’s entire recovery,” said Lady Hubbard.

“Yes, he was much better,” said Mr Stanforth, a little doubtfully, “and full of enjoyment. But this will be indeed a startling change.”

“Yes,” said Sir John; “one does not know how to think of Alvar in his father’s shoes. It was a sadly mismanaged business altogether.”

“There is a great deal to like in Alvar Lester,” said Mr Stanforth; “but of course the circumstances are very peculiar.”

“Yes. You see while the elder brother, Robert, was alive, no one thought much of Gerald, and when this Spanish marriage came out, it was a great shock. And he was too ready to listen to all the excuses about the boy’s health. If he had come home and been sent to school in England he might have grown up like the rest, and black eyes instead of blue ones would have been all the difference.”

“I have always thought his long absence inexplicable.”

“Well, Lester hated the thought of his boyish marriage, and these other boys came, and Cherry was his darling. His wife did make an effort once, and Alvar was brought to France when he was about seven years old; but they said he was ill, and took him back again. Then when old Mrs Lester came into power she opposed his coming, and things slipped on. I don’t think he was expected to live at first, and, poor fellow! no one wished that he should.”

“The second Mrs Lester must have been a very remarkable person,” said Mr Stanforth.

“She was,” said Lady Hubbard warmly. “She was a person to raise the tone of a whole neighbourhood. She made another man of her husband, and he worshipped her. She was no beauty, and very small, but with the brightest of smiles, and eyes that seemed to look straight up into heaven. No one could forget Fanny Lester. She influenced every one.”

There was much more talk, and many side lights were cast on Mr Stanforth’s mind when he heard of Alvar’s broken engagement to Virginia Seyton, and of her pretty cousin Ruth’s recent marriage to Captain Lester, “though at one time every one thought that there was something between her and Cheriton.” He could not but think most of how his own daughter’s future might be affected by this sudden freeing of her young lover from parental control; but he was full of sympathy for them all, and the note that he wrote to Cheriton was answered by a request that he would accompany Sir John Hubbard to the funeral: “They could never forget all his kindness in another time of trouble.”

It was a striking group of mourners. Alvar stood in the midst, dignified and impassive, and by his side a tall, girlish figure, with bright hair gleaming through her crape veil, the three other brothers together, looking chiefly as if they were trying to preserve an unmoved demeanour; Rupert’s face behind them, like enough to suggest kindred, and Judge Cheriton’s keen cultivated face; Mr Seyton, pale, worn, and white-haired, and his brother’s tanned, weather-beaten countenance, ruddy and solemn, above his clerical dress. Many a fine, powerful form and handsome outline showed among the men, whose fathers had served Mr Lester’s; and behind, crowds of women, children, and old people filled the churchyard and the lanes beyond.

As the service proceeded the heavy clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunlight fell, lighting up the violet pall and the white wreaths laid on it, the surplices of the choristers, and the bent heads of the mourners. Cheriton looked up at last away from the open grave, through the break in the clouds, but with a face strangely white and sad in the momentary sunlight. Jack, as they turned away, caught sight of Mr Stanforth, and the sudden involuntary look of pleasure that lightened the poor boy’s miserable face was touching to see. When all was over, and, in common with most of those from a distance, Mr Stanforth had accompanied Sir John Hubbard up to the house, Jack sought him out, hardly having a word to say; but evidently finding satisfaction in his presence.

“Oh, we have nothing picturesque at home, but still I should like to show you Oakby,” Cheriton had said, as they walked together in the beautiful streets of Seville; but the long table in the old oak dining-room, covered with family plate, the sombre, faded richness of colouring that told of years of settled dignified life, were not altogether commonplace, any more than the pair of brothers who occupied the two ends of the table. It was not till there was a general move that Cheriton came up and put his hand into his friend’s.

“We all like to think that you have been here,” he said. “You will come again while you are at Ashrigg?”

“I will, indeed. And you,—these cold winds do not hurt you?”

“No, I think not. My uncle wishes Sir John Hubbard to hear some of our arrangements; you will not mind waiting for a little.”

He spoke very quietly, but as if there were a great weight upon him, while his attention was claimed by some parting guest.

“Well, Cheriton, good-bye; this is a sorrowful day for many. You must try and teach your poor brother to fill your father’s place. We are all ready to welcome him among us, and we hope he will take an interest in everything here.”

“You are very land, Mr Sutton,” said Cheriton, rather as if he thought the kindness too outspoken.

Then a much older face and voice took a turn.

“Good-bye, my lad. Your grandfather and I were friends always, and I little thought to see this day. Keep things going, Cherry, for the old name’s sake.”

“I shall be in London soon,” said Cherry ungraciously, for the echoes of his own forebodings were very hard to bear. Then Rupert came up with a warm hand-shake.

“Good-bye, my dear fellow. I hope we shall see you in London. Don’t catch another bad cold. I hope you’ll all get along together.”

“I dare say we shall. But thank you, it was very good of you to come just now.”

“Just off your wedding trip, as I understand?” said the old gentleman.

“Yes; we came back from Paris a few days ago, and I must get back to town to-night,” said Rupert, as Cheriton moved away to join his uncle for a sort of explanation of the state of affairs to the younger ones, and for the reading of the will, though, its chief provisions were well known to him.

Alvar, as his father had done before him, inherited the estate free from debt or mortgage, with such an income as sounded to his Spanish notions magnificent; but which those better versed in English expenditure knew would find ample employment in all the calls of such a place as Oakby. It was quite sufficient for the position, but no more. The estate, of course, still remained chargeable with old Mrs Lester’s jointure. Mr Lester had enjoyed the interest of his wife’s fortune during her life, the bulk of which had come to her from an aunt, and was secured to her daughter; her three sons succeeding to five thousand pounds apiece, and for this money Judge Cheriton, and a certain General Fleming, a relation of the Cheritons, were joint trustees. So the will, made almost as soon as Mr Lester inherited the property, had stood, and indeed most of its provisions had been made by his father. Since his illness, however, a codicil had been added, stating that Mr Lester had intended to leave the small amount of ready money at his disposal equally among his three younger sons, but that now he decided to leave the whole to Cheriton, “whose health might involve him in more expenses, and prevent him from using the same exertions as his brothers.” He also joined his two elder sons, with their uncle, Judge Cheriton, in the personal guardianship of John, Robert, and Annette. There were a few gifts and legacies to servants and dependants, and that was all.

“Nothing,” remarked Judge Cheriton, after a pause, “could be more proper than this decision with regard to Cheriton, though we hope its necessity has passed away; but under the very peculiar circumstances every one has felt that it would have been well if a somewhat larger proportion of his mother’s fortune could have come to him.”

“Of course,” said Jack, “it is all right.”

“But my father might have trusted him to me,” said Alvar.

“Such things should always be in black and white,” said the judge. “Your father has shown marked confidence both in you and in Cheriton by giving you a share in the charge of the younger ones, and this desire will, of course, naturally affect our arrangements for them. Annette’s home at least must be fixed by her grandmother’s.”

“But my grandmother will stay here,” said Alvar, in a tone of surprise. “Why should she change? It will be all the same. And the boys too, and my sister, and Cheriton—of course—we must be together.”

He spoke warmly, and crossing over to Cheriton, took his hand as he spoke.

“This is your home, my brother, always.”

“You are very good to us, Alvar, thank you,” said Cheriton, hardly able to speak.

“Most kind,” said the judge; “whatever may be decided on, your offer is suggested by a most proper feeling, of which I hope all are sensible.”

“Alvar is very kind,” said Jack shyly.

“Would you not expect that Cheriton should be ‘kind’ to you? Then why not I, as well?” said Alvar.

“Such an arrangement,” said the judge, “would not be binding on Cheriton even in your place. I am rejoiced to see so good an understanding between you. Alvar has a great deal of business before him, and it would be a pity to make any changes at present. But as for you, Cheriton, is it wise to remain here so early in the year?”

“No,” said Alvar; “I think we should go to the south for a little.”

“I think the calls upon your time—” began the judge, but Cheriton interposed.

“I don’t think I am any the worse for the weather,” he said, “and I should not like to go away now. We shall all have a great deal to do.”

Sir John Hubbard spoke a few friendly words and offered any assistance or advice to Alvar in his power, and then took his leave, as did Mr Malcolm. Alvar and Jack, with the judge, accompanied them into the hall; and no sooner had the door of the study closed than Nettie, who had been a silent spectator of the scene, suddenly burst out,—“I don’t care! I will say it! It may be very kind of Alvar, but it is horrible, horrible to think he is master and may do what he pleases with us. I hate to stay here if he is to give us leave.”

“I told you, Nettie,” said Bob, with masculine prudence, “that no one ought to say those things.”

“Nor feel them, I hope,” said Cherry. “Nettie, my dear child, you must not make it worse for us all. We feel our great loss; but you know the future will not be easy for Alvar himself.”

“I know,” sobbed Nettie, with increasing vehemence, “that he will not be like—like papa. I can’t bear to think that the dear place all belongs to him, and the things, and the animals even, and the horses. He doesn’t love them, nor the place, and ice do!”

“Be silent, Nettie,” said Cheriton, with unusual sternness; “I will never listen to one word like this. There is nothing wrong about it. Think of all that Alvar has done for me, and then say if such words are justifiable.”

The severity of the tone silenced Nettie—it was meant to silence poor Cheriton’s own heart. He was stern to his sister because he felt severely towards himself; but Nettie thought him unjust, and only moved by partiality for Alvar. He saw complications far beyond her childish jealousy, and yet he shared it. And above all was the anguish of a personal loss, a heavy grief that filled up all the intervals of perplexing anticipations and business cares.

The twins went away together, and Cherry sat down in his father’s chair and leaned his head back against the cushion of it. It was all over, all the love that had had so many last thoughts for him, and, alas! no last words. They had indeed parted for ever in this life; but how differently from what he had expected last year. Over! and the future looked difficult and dark. “He does not love them, and we do.” It was too true. Cherry was tired out with the long, hasty journey, the succeeding strain of occupation, and with the sorrow that weighed him down—a sorrow that only now seemed to come upon him in all its strength. He was not conscious of the passing of time till a hand was laid on his shoulder, and Alvar’s voice said softly, “I have been looking for you, Cherito mio.”

“Oh, I am very tired,” said Cherry.

How strange it was to rouse himself from thoughts in which Alvar’s image brought such a sense of trouble and perplexity, to feel the accustomed comfort of his presence! How strange to shrink so painfully from the thought of his foreign brother’s rule in his father’s place, and yet to feel the fretting weariness soothed insensibly by the care on which he had learned to depend. He could not think this crooked matter straight, he could not even feel compunction for his own fears. He was tired and wretched, and Alvar knew just what was restful and comforting to him.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

The New Master.

“Against each one did each contend, And all against the heir.”

By the next morning Cheriton’s thoughts had cleared themselves, and matters began to take some shape; he could make up his mind to a certain line of conduct, or at least could place a distinct aim before him. He had often before been forced to acknowledge that Alvar’s character, as well as his position, had its own rights; they must take him as they found him; neither his faults nor his excellencies were theirs—and how much Cherry owed to those very points in Alvar which had come on them like a surprise! Was it not the height both of ingratitude and of conceit to think of him as of one to be altered and influenced before he could be fit for his new station? Why would not Alvar’s gentleness, honour, and courtesy, his undoubted power of setting himself aside, make him as valuable a member of society as industry, integrity, and regard for those about him had made of his father? It was his misfortune, not his fault, that he was a square man in a round hole; and what could Cherry do but try to round off a few angles or poke a few corners for them to stick into? Was it prejudice and unworthy jealousy that made him unable to accept this view, or was there something in Nettie’s vehement disapproval, however unkindly and arrogantly it was expressed? If Alvar chose he could make a very good Squire Lester. Yes, if—There was the question. The English Lesters sometimes did right, and sometimes—some of them very often—did wrong; but they one and all recognised that doing right was the business of their lives, and that if they did wrong they must repent and suffer. They certainly believed that “conduct is nine-tenths of life,” in other words, that they must “do their duty in that state of life to which they were called.”

But in Alvar this motive seemed almost non-existent. He did not care about his own duty or other people’s. Only such a sense, or the strong influence of the religion from which in the main it sprang, or a sort of enthusiasm equally foreign to him, could have roused an indolent nature to the supreme effort of altering his whole way of living, of caring for subjects hitherto indifferent to him—in short, of changing his entire self. No doubt Alvar would think something due to his position, and something more to please Cheriton, but he would not regard shortcomings as of any consequence; in short, it was not that Alvar’s principles were different from theirs, but that as motives of action he had not got any; not that he had Spanish instead of English notions of property, politics, or religion, but that he did not care to entertain any notions at all.

Cheriton understood enough now of the shifting scenes of Spanish life to understand that this might be their effect on an outsider who saw many different schemes of life all produce an equally bad effect on society; but it was none the less peculiarly ill-adapted to an owner of English property; and he took leave to think that if Spanish gentlemen in past generations had administered justice in their own neighbourhoods, mended their own roads, and seen to the instruction of their own tenants, a happier state of things might have prevailed at the present time in the peninsula. Anyhow, to him, as to his father, the welfare of Oakby was very dear—dearer now than ever, for his father’s sake. One thought had troubled Mr Lester’s last hours, that by his own conduct he had allowed Alvar to become unfit to succeed him: all, therefore, that Cheriton could do to remove that unfitness was so much work done for his father’s sake; all, too, that made Alvar happy, was an undoing of the wrong that he had suffered. There was no real discord between what was right by Alvar and by Oakby and by his own sense of right. To make the best of Alvar, to allow for all his difficulties, to help him in every possible way, was not only due to that loving brother, but was the right way to be loyal to his father’s higher self, and to clear his memory from those weaknesses and errors which cling to every one in this mortal life—was, too, the only way to see his work carried on.

This “high endeavour” came to Cheriton, indeed, as “an inward light” to brighten the perplexed path before him. Sorrow, he had already learnt, could be borne, difficulties might be overcome, now that his inmost feelings were at peace.

Certainly he had enough on his hands. Much of the correspondence with old friends fell naturally to his share. English “business” was unintelligible to Alvar without his explanations, and though the new Squire showed himself perfectly willing to receive from Mr Malcolm an account of the various sources of his income, and submitted to go through his father’s accounts, and to hear reports from farmers and bailiffs, he always insisted on Cheriton’s presence at these interviews; and though he was too easily satisfied with the fact that “my brother understands,” no one could have expected him to find it all quite easy to understand himself.

Cherry apologised for putting his finger in every pie.

“Oh,” said Alvar cheerfully; “I could not make the pie if I put in both my hands.”

But Cheriton knew perfectly well that the parish and the estate believed themselves to be entering on the reign of King Log. Any breakers, however, in this direction were still far ahead; but within doors difficulties and incongruities came sooner to a point, and Alvar was by no means always to blame for them.

On the day after the funeral, Mrs Lester resumed her place in the family; but her son’s death had aged her much, and to see Alvar in his place was gall and wormwood to her. She accepted his offer of a home, and thanked him for it with dignity and propriety; but she did not attempt to conceal from the young ones that she grudged him the power to make it.

The household arrangements went on as usual, and Alvar’s behaviour to her was irreproachable in its courtesy and consideration, nor did she ever clash with him, but reserved her fears and her disapprobations for Cherry’s benefit.

Nettie had come back from London at Christmas, and nothing more had been heard of Dick Seyton, who was then absent from home; but the recollection of that episode prompted Mrs Lester to give a ready consent to Judge Cheriton’s proposal that she should go at Easter to school for a year. Bob, too, who had been taken away from school at Christmas, where his career had not lately been satisfactory, was at present reading with a clergyman at Hazelby, and was to be sent to a tutor by-and-by. In the meantime, both he and Nettie were as unhappy as young creatures can be when their world is all changed for them; with their hearts yearning towards what they already called old times. And all the force of their natures concentrated into a sort of fierce, aggressive loyalty to every practice, opinion, and tradition of the past, and to this code they viewed Cherry as a traitor. It was a cruel offence when he happened to say that he liked to drink chocolate, and when Alvar made a point of his having some; when Alvar now and again used Spanish expressions in speaking to him, when he pronounced Spanish names in Spanish fashion, or, worst of all, regretted Spanish sunshine; when he yielded to Alvar’s care for his health, or seemed to turn to him for sympathy—a hundred such pin-pricks occurred every day. And yet the foolish twins scrupulously did what they thought their duty. That Alvar owned their father’s horses cost Nettie floods of tears; but she insisted on Bob asking his permission before he took one to ride to Hazelby, and she always showed him a kind of sulky deference.

“How can you be so silly, Nettie?” said Jack, in answer to a pettish remark. “Do you want Cherry to quarrel with Alvar?”

“No,” said Nettie; “but I didn’t think he would have liked Spain, and have talked so much about the pictures and things. Last night he asked Alvar to play to him.”

“I should think you might be glad to see him pleased with anything; he looks wretched enough.”

“Well, I like what I’m used to,” said Nettie, in a choked voice. “I don’t care to hear about all the stupid people you met in Spain.”

“The friends we made in Spain,” said Jack, in high indignation, “were people with whom it was a privilege to associate.”

“I daresay,” said Nettie; “but old acquaintances are good enough for me; and old weather and everything. Yes, Buffer, I’ll take you out, if it is a nasty cold morning.”

And Nettie went off, with a train of dogs behind her, angry with all her brothers, for even Bob had had the sense to grumble out “that people must do as they pleased, and she had better let Cherry and Alvar alone,” and feeling as if she only were faithful to the dear home standard.

As Jack stood by the hall fire, heavy-hearted enough himself, in spite of his rebuke to his sister, there was a ring at the bell, and the cloud cleared from his brow as he started forward to greet Mr Stanforth with an eagerness unusual with him.

He was too unaffectedly pleased to be embarrassed, and began almost at once,—

“My uncle Cheriton comes back to us to-night. He had to leave us on the day after we saw you; Cherry has promised to speak to him, that we may come to an understanding before I go back to Oxford.” Mr Stanforth smiled a little.

“When do you come of age, Jack?” he said.

“I shall be twenty next week,” said Jack, in a tone of humiliation. “If I take a fair degree, I shall try for a mastership in one of the public schools. I should like that, and—and it is suitable to getting married,” concluded Jack blushing.

“Very well,” said Mr Stanforth. “Then you shall come and tell me of your intentions for the future in a year’s time from next week. Wait a bit,” as Jack looked exceedingly blank. “If circumstances had not so sadly changed, no other decision would have been possible for you. I have no objection, in the meantime, to see you occasionally at my house, as I think you should both have every opportunity of testing the permanence of such quick-springing feelings.”

Mr Stanforth smiled as he spoke; but Jack said after a moment,—

“You mean that I must earn her? Well, I will.”

There was a solemn abruptness in Jack’s manner that provoked a smile; but his self-confidence was tempered by a look of such absolute honesty and sincerity in his bright blue eyes, he looked such a fine young fellow in all the freshness and strength of his youth, that it would have been difficult to doubt either his purposes or his power of carrying them out.

“Don’t you think you might have asked Mr Stanforth to take off his coat and come into the library before entering on such an important subject?” said Cheriton, joining them.

“I beg your pardon,” said Jack. “Please come in; I was not thinking—”

“Of anything but your own affairs? No, that’s very unfair, for I am sure you have taken heed to every one else’s,” said Cherry, as he led the way into the library, where on the table was a great accumulation of papers, looking like the materials for a heavy morning’s work.

Cherry sent Jack to find Alvar, and told him to order some wine to be brought into the library, apologising to Mr Stanforth for not asking him to lunch, as their grandmother was unequal to seeing a stranger; and then, in Jack’s absence, he listened to Mr Stanforth’s ultimatum, and owned that it was a great relief not to have to startle his relations just now with what would seem an incongruous proposal; but praising Jack’s sense and consideration in their trouble, and speaking of him with a kind of tender pride, unlike the tone of one so nearly on the same level of age, and whose life also was but beginning. He said that he should come to London at Easter, but that in the meanwhile there was much to be done at home. English affairs were naturally puzzling to Alvar, and a great deal of the business concerned them all.

“You must remember that you ought to be still taking holiday,” said Mr Stanforth.

“Oh, yes. At least Alvar and Jack never let me forget it. But, indeed, I am quite well, and though I feel the cold, I don’t think it means to hurt me. It is better to have plenty to do.”

Cherry’s manner was not uncheerful, and though he looked pale and delicate, there was no longer the appearance of broken health and spirits which had marked him at their first acquaintance; but the quick, changeable brightness was gone also. He was like one carrying a load which took all his strength; but he carried it without staggering.

Alvar now came in with Jack, looking bright and cordial.

“My brother is teaching me how to be the Squire,” he said to Mr Stanforth, with a smile, as he put aside the papers to make room for the tray that had been ordered; “but I am not a good scholar.”

“You must go regularly to school, then,” said Mr Stanforth.

“Ah,” said Alvar; “I must know, it seems, about rents, and tenants, and freeholds—so many things. But there is something that we wish to ask of Mr Stanforth, is there not, Cherry?”

“Yes—we spoke of it.”

“It is that he will try to make a drawing of our father for us, for there is none that my brothers like.”

“I will try with pleasure, but I am afraid likenesses, under the circumstances, are rarely quite satisfactory. You have a photograph?”

Jack produced a very bad daguerreotype, and a photograph taken for Cheriton before he left home.

“This is a good likeness,” he said; “but Cherry thinks it wants fire and spirit.”

“I will take both,” said Mr Stanforth, seeing that Cherry had turned aside from the photograph, and took no part in the discussion. “I will make a little sketch, and when you are in London you can tell me what you wish about it. And now I think I must be getting back to Ashrigg; to-morrow I go home.”

Jack eagerly said that to-morrow he was going to London on his way to Oxford, and received the longed-for permission to call at Kensington. Poor boy! he could not keep himself from looking ecstatically happy even while he told Mr Stanforth, as he walked through the park with him, how sorry he was to leave Cheriton with so much on his hands.

Cheriton himself would gladly have kept Jack beside him. He was capable of seeing both sides of the difficult question, and was, moreover, so individual and independent in his modes of thought, that home matters were less personal to him. He had, too, his own hopes, and had chalked out his own career, so that, young as he was, he was a support to Cherry’s spirits, even while more than half the reason why his own were less overpowered was that the brother who was all in all to him was still left. His presence did not always conduce to peace with Bob, for he had grown away from him, and was disposed to lecture him; but though he departed with more good advice to his family than was necessary, he left another gap, and Cherry, trying to rouse himself from the added feeling of loneliness, went over to Elderthwaite to see the old parson. He had been away so long that every familiar place brought fresh associations, and he tried to get the first sight of each one over quickly and alone.

He could not walk past the stables and through the farm-buildings without the image of his father meeting him at every turn. Here they had planned a new fence together, in this direction the very last walk he had had strength for before leaving home had been taken. How well he remembered then sitting on that bench under the stable wall, and watching his father with a sad wonder if he should ever sit there again. This was the short way from the station by which he used to come home from school. Here his father used to meet him—nay, suddenly he recollected, with a memory that started into life after lying asleep for years, here he had parted for the last time from his mother, and the long-past grief seemed to come back in the light of the new one. He said to himself that he ought to rejoice in the thought that his parents were once more together; but in the strangest way he longed for this long-lost mother to comfort him in the new grief of his father’s death.

And then he walked on through the fir plantation, across the bit of bare, bleak fell, into the woods of Elderthwaite. And as he walked he thought of Jack’s bright hopes, and of that sweet and promising future that was to make up to him for all that the past had taken from him. Here, by the broken stile and ruinous wall, all hope of such a future had been dashed away from Cheriton’s heart. This memory had no sweetness to temper its pain; and he hurried on through the plantation and down the lane that led to the vicarage. As he passed the church he saw that some one was trimming the ivy round the windows, and it struck him that they had been cleaned, and that the whole place had a somewhat improved appearance. A little girl made him a curtsey; she wore a smart red flannel hood, and had a clean face; he thought that he had never seen an Elderthwaite child look so respectable. Nay, as he passed one of the larger cottages, it shone upon him resplendent with whitewash, and looking in at the open door he beheld a row of desks, and sundry boys and girls seated thereat, and with curiosity much excited by this evidence of reform, he hastened on towards the vicarage.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

Plans and Experiments.

“I am sick of the hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main.”

Virginia Seyton had spent her Christmas at Littleton, and after returning to London for her cousin Ruth’s marriage, had come home again at the end of January. At Littleton, more than one old friend had advised her to reconsider her resolve to live at Elderthwaite; but Virginia did not feel herself tempted by any proposal of cottage, however charming, or companionship, however congenial. She had been lonely, unhappy, and forlorn at Elderthwaite; but somehow it pulled at her heart-strings. She could not rejoice over all the well-ordered services at Littleton, much as they refreshed her spirits, as she did over the new hymn which she and Mrs Clements drilled into the Elderthwaite children; and she found herself believing, when receiving the correct answers of her former scholars, that there was after all “something” in the north-country intellect, however untrained, that was superior in quality, if not in quantity, to that of the south. When she went back to London, common acquaintances brought her into contact with the Stanforths. She and Ruth went to an evening party at their house, just as Mr Stanforth and Gipsy returned from Spain, and were invited to come afterwards and see the Spanish sketches. Ruth was glad to make all the business that pressed on her an excuse for refusing; but Virginia went, and was happier than she had been for months in hearing Alvar spoken of, and spoken of in terms of praise. Neither girl was conscious of the other’s interest in this meeting—how Gipsy listened to “some one who had known Jack all his life,” how Virginia watched Alvar’s recent companion; but Gipsy’s blushes came in the right place, and in spite of her extreme amaze at the idea of Jack in this new capacity, Virginia guessed where the spark had been lighted, and so could listen fearlessly to the story of the adventures at Ronda, and could look with pleasure at the sketches of which Alvar’s figure was a picturesque element. It was a pleasant peep at a new life linked with her old one.

Ruth’s was a very brilliant wedding. Everything was arranged by her grandmother, and bridesmaids, dresses, breakfast, and even church, were all chosen with exact regard to the correct fashion of the moment. Ruth wished it all to be over that she might find herself away with Rupert; then perhaps she would feel at rest. As it was, their rapid, interrupted surface intercourse tantalised her almost as much as their occasional interviews in the days of secrecy and silence. And when they were alone, Ruth was afraid to go deep. Often had she said, “In my love there shall be perfect confidence; there shall be nothing between my soul and his.” And now her past transgression, however excusable it might seem, erred against this perfect confidence. And Rupert’s “soul” was not at all ready to display itself to her, or to himself either, partly because he was not serious in his emotions, any more than in his principles, but partly also because he not unnaturally considered that when his deeds were satisfactory to Ruth, it was quite unnecessary to analyse his feelings. So she had no encouragement to confidence, and the perfect union for which she had longed, disappointed her, partly through her past falsity, but more from the want of any common aim or principle to unite them. Ruth was fairly happy; but she was the same Ruth still, with a nature that could never be satisfied without earnestness equalling her own, an earnestness from the purity and simplicity of which she had turned aside to seek a sort of consecration of life which only a man of high principle and strong purpose could really have helped her to find, in a love which she thought more powerful because it was more regardless of duty, in which view she did but follow much teaching and many writers.

Ruth did not make the confession which would have set her right with herself if not with Rupert, she had practised too much self-pleasing to find the courage for it. She married; and as life went on her aspirations would either die into the commonplace she had despised, or she might be driven to satisfy them elsewhere than with Rupert.

And Virginia, who equally with Ruth idealised life and its relations, and who also found her ideal unfulfilled—unfulfilled, but not destroyed. She had lost her lover, but the good and holy life which she had thought to lead with him, though its beauty took a sterner cast, was possible without him. Life was not purposeless, though it was very difficult, and poor Virginia was diffident of her own powers, and was, moreover, in many ways ill-fitted to live with those whose views of life were uncongenial to her.

“If I had more tact I should get on better at home; if I had had more patience, more charity, I should not have quarrelled with Alvar,” she thought, and with some truth. But when she came back to Elderthwaite it was coming home. Dick and Harry were glad to see her; her father said it looked cheerful to have her about again; the little housemaid, whom she had taught for an hour on Sundays, was enchanted, and had written copies and learnt hymns in her absence; while she could not but be welcome to her aunt, whom she found suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism, which confined her to her room. Virginia had no natural skill in nursing, and Miss Seyton was not fond of attentions. But, though she was severely uncomplaining, Virginia’s companionship was enlivening, and, moreover, while she was incapacitated, her niece was obliged to manage the house. She had bought enough bitter experience now not to be frightened and startled at the state of things, and she perceived how much Miss Seyton had done to keep things straight. But the young, fresh influence brightened up the old dependents, and she managed, too, to introduce some little comfort. But a piece of home work really within her powers came to her in an unexpected quarter. Dick’s examination was to take place in about six weeks, and she found from Harry that he had been really reading for it, and to her great surprise and pleasure he did not resent her interest in it. Her French, and history, and arithmetic were quite enough in advance of Dick’s to make her aid valuable to him, and finding how much he was behindhand, spite of some honest though fitful efforts, she gave him some lessons with the tutor at Hazelby to whom Bob Lester was sent, and as Dick always brought his papers to her afterwards, there was no question that he actually availed himself of the opportunity.

As for the old parson, he greeted her with a perfect effusion of delight. He had come to love her better than anything in the world except Cheriton, whose illness had been a real sorrow to him. The little improvements had not been allowed to languish—indeed others had been projected. Mr Clements had not been idle. A poor widow, whose continued respectability had certainly been partly owing to her attachment to Mr Seyton’s rival or assistant, “the old Methody,” had a niece who had been trained as a pupil-teacher in a parish belonging to a friend of Mr Ellesmere’s, and, her health failing, the girl had come to live with her aunt. Hence a proposal for a little day-school; and actually a subscription set on foot by Mr Clements.

(This of course took place before the passing of the Education Act.)

“So you see, Miss Seyton,” he had said, “we have not been quite idle in your absence.”

“Indeed,” said Virginia, smiling, “you seem to have done better without me.”

“No, Miss Seyton, whatever better things we may succeed in doing in Elderthwaite in the future, it is your doing that the wish to improve had been awakened.”

Virginia blushed at this magnificent compliment; but it was true. High principle, recommended by gentleness and humility, must in the end win its way.

These various changes formed a safe subject of conversation in a meeting that could not fail on many accounts to be trying, when Cheriton, as he came up to the vicarage, met Virginia going in there also. He did not want to talk about his own health or home difficulties, she could not fail to be conscious; but the parson was only restrained, or not restrained, by her presence from lamentations over Alvar’s succession, and looked unspeakably wicked when Cherry implied that they were getting on smoothly. So the new school came in handy, and Parson Seyton talked about a “Government grant,” and winked at Cherry over his shoulder.

“It’s all getting beyond me, Cherry,” he said; “I’m not the man for these new lights.”

“You’ll have to get a curate, parson,” said Cherry.

“Nay—nay!” said the parson sharply. “I’ll have no strangers prying into all our holes and corners, and raking out the dust. I don’t like curates—hate their long coats and long faces.”

“You might put in the advertisement ‘round and rosy preferred,’” said Cherry.

“Nay, nay, my lad; no curates for me, unless you will apply for the situation.”

“Cherry has a very long coat on,” said Virginia, smiling and pointing to his “ulster.”

“And not too round a face nowadays, eh? Never mind, if he came here I’d let him wear—”

“A cassock, perhaps,” said Cheriton. “I feel all the force of the compliment. But I think Queenie is the best curate for Elderthwaite at present.”

Virginia’s heart danced at the familiar brotherly name by which Cheriton had learned from Ruth to call her in the days of her engagement, but which had never become her home appellation, and something in her face made him whisper under his breath as she rose to take leave,—

“Though Oakby grudges her to you.” Virginia hurried away, but she was presently overtaken by Cheriton as she paused at a cottage door, and they walked up the lane together, and talked of the Stanforths; and when Virginia praised Gipsy, neither could help a smile of implied comprehension and sympathy.

It was a bright, pleasant day, the puddles and ditches of the Elderthwaite hedgerows sparkled in the spring sunshine, the blackthorn put out its shy blossoms on each side. Virginia smiled and looked up gaily, and Cheriton’s voice took its natural lively tone as he related some of the humours of their Spanish journey.

“I must turn off here,” said Cherry, as they came to a stile. But Virginia did not answer him, for, leaning against the fence, stood Alvar, watching them as they approached. A hayrick and tumble-down cart-shed, and a waggon with its poles turned up in the air, formed a strangely incongruous background for his graceful figure, his deep mourning giving him an additional air of picturesque dignity.

There was no escape for Virginia. She turned exceedingly pale, but with a self-command that, in Cheriton’s opinion, did her infinite credit, she bowed—she had not courage to put out her hand—and said timidly,—

“Good morning.”

Alvar’s olive face coloured all over; he bowed, for once utterly and evidently at a loss, while Cherry plunged into the breach.

“Hallo, Alvar, have you come to look for me? I have been to see Parson Seyton. You have no idea what grand doings there are now in Elderthwaite.”

“I did not come to look for you,” said Alvar, with some emphasis.

“Well, I was coming home.”

Then Alvar turned, and with a sort of haughty politeness hoped that Mr and Miss Seyton were well; and Virginia, in the sweet tones unheard for so many months, replied to him, and after shaking hands with Cheriton, walked away down the sunny lane, from which she could not turn aside, and which afforded no shelter from any eyes that might choose to follow her.

Alvar, however, turned away, and Cherry following, said,—

“I think a little light will dawn on Elderthwaite one day, thanks to Virginia.”

Alvar did not make any answer, and Cheriton was not at all sorry to see how much the meeting had disturbed him.

He never alluded to it again, but whether from any feelings connected with it or from the worries of his new position, he was less even-tempered than usual.

There was much to try him. So many matters pressed on him, and he was so very much at fault as to the way of dealing with them. Mr Lester had kept a considerable portion of his property in his own hands; he had also been a most active magistrate, sat upon innumerable county committees, and had united in his own person the chief lay offices of the parish. In all these capacities he had done a considerable amount of useful work, and though no one expected Alvar to take up the whole of it, he ought to have endeavoured to make himself master of the more necessary parts.

But the real defect of Alvar’s nature—the intense pride, that made the sense of being at a disadvantage hateful to him—worked at first in a wrong direction. The great effort of bending himself to learn to do badly what those around him could do well, was beyond one who had never felt the need of repentance, never acknowledged an error in himself; nor did the sense of duty to his neighbour, that counteracted this tendency in others of his name, appeal to the conscience of one who inherited the selfish instincts of the Spanish grandee. After the very first he grew impatient of the tasks that were so new to him, and yet resentful of any comment on his behaviour. He resented the standard to which he would not conform, all the more because an unspeakable soreness connected it with Virginia’s rejection of him.

Perhaps this was more hopeful than his former good-humoured indifference, but it was with exceeding pain that Cheriton, before Easter came, began to perceive that though Alvar would let him please himself in any special instance, his hopes of exerting any general influence were vain, and that Alvar would resent the attempt even from him.

“Did you expect to make the leopard change his spots by the force of your will, Cherry?” said Mr Ellesmere to him, when some instance had brought this prominently forward. “You cannot do it, my boy, and excuse me for saying that I think you should not try.”

“I only wanted to help the leopard to accommodate his coat to our climate,” said Cherry, with rather a difficult smile.

“He must do that himself when stress of weather shows him the need. If he had married, such an influence as your mother’s might have come into his life; but, my dear boy, even that could not have sufficed, unless it had appealed to something higher.”

“I know,” said Cherry slowly. “I know what you mean about it. No man ought to stand dictation as to his duty, and we all lay down the law to each other. But I cannot break myself of feeling that matters here are my own concern.”

“I think that is a habit of mind common to a great many people hereabouts,” said Mr Ellesmere kindly; “and, after all, what I said was only meant as a warning.”

“Much needed! But I believe Alvar will find things out in time; and we none of its make half enough allowance for him.”

Jack came home for a few days at Easter, and there was a final discussion and arrangement of plans, which resulted after all in a general flitting. Alvar declared that Oakby was too dull without his brother, and that he should himself go to London for some time. No one could exactly find fault with this scheme, and if he had exerted himself hitherto to get his new duties in train, they would have welcomed it, as his resolute avoidance of the Seytons produced social difficulties, and Jack thought Cheriton’s London life so much of an experiment as to be glad that he should not have to carry it out entirely alone. But they both knew that without any difference that would strike outsiders, there was just the essential change from good to bad management, from care to neglect, in every matter with which the master of Oakby was concerned.

Nettie was to go to a London boarding-school for a year. This was the express desire of Mrs Lester, who thought this amount of “finishing” essential. Lady Cheriton was choosing the school, and the brothers of course consented, though Cheriton felt that it was like caging a wild bird, and Alvar remarked with much truth,—

“My sister is a woman; it is foolish to send her to school.”

Nettie wept torrents of tears over Rolla, Buffer, her pony, nay, every living creature about the place; but she did not resist, it was part of the plan of life to which she was accustomed.

If Mrs Lester herself had not insisted on sending Nettie away, the others would have made no proposal which involved a separation; but to the surprise of them all, she proposed spending the ensuing three months at Whitby. Lady Milford would be there, and it had always been an occasional resort of Mrs Lester’s, and with her old favourite maid, she declared that she should be perfectly comfortable there; and if she was dull, she would ask Virginia Seyton to stay with her.

One other member of the family remained to be disposed of, and while Cheriton and Jack were consulting with each other what they could say to their uncle with regard to Bob, he took the matter into his own hands, and as he walked across the park with Cheriton to view some drainage operations which had been begun by their father, and which Alvar was very glad to let them superintend, he remarked suddenly,—

“Cherry, I wish you would let me go to Canada, or New Zealand, or some such place, and take land. It is the only thing I’m fit for.”

Cheriton was taken by surprise, though the idea had crossed his own mind.

“Do you really wish it?” he said.

“Yes,” said Bob. “I’m not going to try my hand in life at things other fellows can beat me at.”

“I’m afraid that rule would limit the efforts of most of us!”

“Well,” said Bob, “I hate feeling like a fool; and besides, I don’t see the good of Latin and Greek. But I mean to do some thing that’s some use in the world. I approve of colonising.”

“Really, Bob,” said Cherry, “I don’t think you were ever expected to go in for more Latin and Greek than would prevent you from feeling like a fool. There’s a great deal in what you say; but have you thought of a farm in England or Scotland?”

“Yes; but I think that is generally a fine name for doing nothing. Now, I shall have some capital, and I’m big and strong, and can make my way. Cherry, don’t you think I should have been allowed to go?”

“Yes, Bob, I think you would; but you are too young to start off at once on your own resources.”

“Well, I could go to the agricultural college for a year, and there are men out there who take fellows and give them a start. You can talk it over with Uncle Cheriton, and if you agree, I don’t care for the others.”

“Does Nettie know about it?”

“Yes,” said Bob; “she wouldn’t speak to me for a week, she was so sorry. But she came round, and says she shall come out and join me. Of course she won’t—she’ll get married.”

They had reached a little bridge which crossed a stream, on either side of which lay the swampy piece of ground which they had come to inspect. Looking forward, was the wide panorama of heathery hills, known to them with life-long knowledge; looking back, the wide, white house, in its group of fir-trees, with the park stretching away towards the lake. All the woods were tinted with light spring green, and the air was full of the song of numberless birds, and with that cawing of the rooks, which Cheriton had once said at Seville was to him like the sound of the waves to a person born by the sea.

“Of course,” said Bob, “if one went a hundred thousand miles, one would never forget this old place.”

“No,” said Cheriton; “nor, I sometimes fancy, if one went a longer journey still!”

“But I hate it as it is now, and I shall come back when you’re Lord Chancellor, and Jack, Head Master of Eton.”

“Well, Bob,” said Cherry, “wherever we may any of us go, or whatever we may be, I think we cannot be really parted, while we remember the old place, and all that belongs to it.”

Chapter Thirty Nine.

The Dragon Slayer.

“Life has more things to dwell on Than just one useless pain.”

There are few places where the charm of a bright June day is felt more perfectly than in a London garden. The force of contrast may partly account for this; but The Laurels, as the Stanforths’ house was called, was a lovely place in itself, dating from days before the villas by which it was now almost surrounded. Within its old brown sloping walls flourished white and pink acacias, magnolias, wisterias, and quaint trees only found in such old gardens; a cork-tree, more curious than beautiful; a catalpa, which once in Gipsy’s memory had put out its queer brown and white blossoms; and a Judas-tree, still purple with its lovely flowers. The house, like the garden-walls, was built of brown old brick, well draped with creepers; and Mr Stanforth’s new studio had been so cunningly devised that it harmonised wonderfully with the rest. That garden was a very pleasant place in the estimation of a great many people, who liked to come and idle away an hour there, and was famous for pleasant parties all through the summer; while it was a delightful play-place for the little Stanforths, a large party of picturesque and lively-minded children, who, in spite of artistic frocks and hats, and tongues trained to readiness by plenty of home society, were very thoroughly educated and carefully brought up. They were a great amusement to Cheriton Lester, who was always a welcome guest at The Laurels, and felt himself thoroughly at home there.

Cheriton’s London life was in many ways a pleasant one. He found himself in the midst of old friends and schoolfellows, he could have as much society as he wished for, he was free of his uncle’s house and of the ‘Stanforths’, and he had none of the money anxieties which troubled many of those who, like him, were beginning their course of preparation for a legal life. He saw a good deal, in and out, of Alvar, who had established himself in town, and was an exceedingly popular person in society; and as the obligations of his mourning, which he was careful to observe, diminished, was full of engagements of all sorts, enjoyed himself greatly, and thought as little of Oakby as business letters allowed. Lady Cheriton thought that he ought to have every opportunity of settling, “so much the best thing for all of them,” and arranged her introductions to him accordingly; but Alvar walked through snares and pitfalls, and did not even get himself talked of in connexion with any young lady. Cheriton was much less often to be met with; he found that he could not combine late hours and anything like study, and so kept his strength for his more immediate object—an object which, however, was slowly changing into an occupation. Cheriton soon found out that the pleasures and pains of hard and successful labour were no longer for him; that though he did not break down in the warm summer weather, the winter would always be a time of difficulty, and that his strength would not endure a long or severe strain—in short, that though reading for the bar was just as well now as anything else for him, and might lead the way to interests and occupations, he could not even aim at the career of a successful lawyer. Besides, London air made him unusually languid and listless.

“Yes, he is a clever fellow, but he is not strong enough to do much. It is a great pity, but, after all, he has enough to live on, and plenty of interests in life,” said Judge Cheriton; and his wife made her house pleasant to Cherry, and encouraged him to come there at all hours, and no one ever said a word to him about working, or gave him good advice, except not to catch cold; while he himself ceased to talk at all about his prospects, but went on from day to day and took the pleasant things that came to him. And sometimes he felt as if his last hope in life was gone—and sometimes, again, wondered why he did not care more for such a disappointment. But now and then, in these days that were so silent and self-controlled, there came to him an indifference of a nobler kind, an inward courage, a consoling trust, the reward of much struggling, which a year ago he could never have brought to bear on such a trial.

Mr Stanforth’s presence always gave him a sense of sympathy, and he spent so many hours at The Laurels, that his aunt suspected him of designs on Gipsy, though Jack’s secret, preserved in his absence, was likely to ooze out now that the end of the Oxford term had brought him to London for a few days, previous to joining a reading party with some of his friends.

The Laurels, with its pretty garden, might be a pleasant resting-place for Cheriton, but it was a very Arcadia, a fairy-land to Jack, when he found his way there late on one splendid afternoon, so shy that he had walked up and down the road twice before he rang the bell, happy, uncomfortable, and conscious all at once, looking at Gipsy, who had just come home from a garden party, in a most becoming costume of cream colour and crimson, but quite unable to say a word to her, as she sat under the trees, and fanned herself with a great black fan, appealing to Alvar, who was there with Cheriton, whether she had quite forgotten her Spanish skill. Gipsy was very happy, and not a bit shy as she peeped at her solemn young lover over the top of the fan, and laughed behind it at Jack’s look of disgust when Cherry remarked that he had grown since Easter.

“Don’t be spiteful, Cherry,” said Mr Stanforth, with a smile. “Shall we come and see the picture?”

Jack and Gipsy were left to the last as they came up towards the house, and she made a little mischievous gesture of measuring herself against him.

“Yes, I think it’s true!”

“Well,” said Jack gruffly, though his eyes sparkled, “I shall leave off growing some time, I suppose. I say, are you going to dine at my aunt’s to-morrow?”

“Yes,” said Gipsy. “Lady Cheriton has been here, and she brought your sister. How handsome she is; but she was so silent. I was afraid of her. I wonder if she liked me,” said Gipsy, blushing in her turn.

“Shy with Nettie?” exclaimed Jack. “You might as well be shy of a wild cat. She doesn’t like any one much but Bob and her pets.”

“All, young ladies grow as well as young gentlemen,” said Gipsy. “Next year—”

“Yes; next year—” said Jack; but Gipsy opened the studio door, and ended the conversation.

Mr Stanforth’s studio was arranged with a view more to the painting of pictures than to the display of curtains, carpets, and china; but it was still a pretty and pleasant place, with a few rare works of art by other hands than those of its owner. There were few finished pictures of Mr Stanforth’s there then; but one large canvas on which he was working, and, besides various portraits in different stages, the drawing of Mr Lester, which Jack had not hitherto seen. Mr Stanforth brought it forward, and asked him to make any comment that occurred to him. It was a fine drawing of a fine face, and brought out forcibly the union of size and strength with beauty which none of the sons fully equalled, though there might be more to interest in all their faces. For, after all, the little imperfections of expression, that which was wanting as well as that which was present in the coming out and going in, the pleasures, the duties, and the failures, the changes of mood and temper, the smiles and the frowns of daily life, had made the individual man, and could not be shown in a likeness so taken. It was a picture that would satisfy them better as the years went by. Indeed Alvar thought it perfect, and Jack could hardly say that he saw anything wanting; but Cherry, after many praises and some hesitation, had said, “Yes, it is very like, but it is as if one saw him from a distance. Perhaps that is best.”

After this picture had been put away, Jack began to look round and to relieve the impression made on him by a little artistic conversation, evidently carefully studied from the latest Oxford authorities. He looked at the pictures on the wall, found fault so correctly with what would have naturally been pleasing to him, and admired so much what a few months before he would have thought hideous, that Cheriton’s eyes sparkled with fun, and Alvar, for once appreciating the humour of the situation, said,—

“We must ask Jack to write a book about the pictures at Oakby;” while Gipsy, seeing it all, laughed, spite of herself.

“Ah, Gipsy, he is carrying his lady’s colours, like a true knight,” said Cherry softly, as Jack faced round and inquired,—

“What are you laughing at?”

“Who lectures on art at Oxford, Jack?” said Cherry. “What a first-rate fellow he must be!”

“Ah, he is indeed a great teacher,” said Alvar, “who has taught Jack to love art.”

“A mighty teacher,” said Cherry, under his breath.

“Of course,” said Jack, “as one sees more of the world, one comes to take an interest in new fields of thought.”

“Why, yes,” said Gipsy, recovering from Cherry’s words, and flying to the rescue, “we all learned a great deal about art at Seville.”

“My dear,” said Mrs Stanforth, “aren’t you going to show them the knights?”

For she thought to herself that if a year was to pass before Jack’s intentions could meet with an acknowledgment, his visits had better be few and far between, especially in the presence of Cherry’s mischievous encouragement. “Mr Stanforth himself being as bad,” as she afterwards remarked to him.

Now, however, Mr Stanforth turned his easel round and displayed the still unfinished picture for which he had begun to make sketches in Spain, when struck with the contrast of his new acquaintances, and with the capabilities of their appearance for picturesque treatment.

The picture was to be called “One of the Dragon Slayers,” and represented a woodland glade in the first glory of the earliest summer—blue sky, fresh green, white blossoms, and springing bluebells and primroses, all in full and yet delicate sunshine—a scene which might have stood for many a poetic description from Chaucer to Tennyson, a very image of nature, the same now as in the days of Arthur.

Dimly visible, as if he had crawled away among the brambles and bracken to die, was the gigantic form of the slain dragon, while, newly arrived on the scene, having dismounted from his horse, which was held by a page in the distance, was a knight in festal attire—a vigorous, graceful presentment of Alvar’s dark face and tall figure—who with one hand drew towards him the delivered maiden, a fair, slender figure in the first dawn of youth, who clung to him joyfully, while he laid the other in eager gratitude on the shoulder of the dragon slayer, who, manifestly wounded in the encounter, was leaning against a tree-trunk, and who, as he seemed to give the maiden back to her lover, with the other hand concealed in his breast a knot of the ribbon on her dress; thus hinting at the story, which after all was better told by the peculiar beaming smile of congratulation, the look of victory amid strife, of conquest over self and suffering—a look of love conquering pain, which was the real point of the picture.

Jack stood looking in silence, and uttering none of his newly-acquired opinions.

“Is it right, Jack?” said Mr Stanforth. “Yes, I know,” said Jack briefly; and then, “Every one will know Alvar’s portrait. And who is the lady?”

“She is a little niece of mine—almost a child,” said Mr Stanforth; while Cheriton interposed,—

“It is not a group of photographs, Jack. Of course the object was the idea of the picture, not our faces.”

“Well, Cherry,” said Mr Stanforth smiling, “your notion of sitting for your picture partakes of the photographic. You did not help me by calling up the dragon slayer’s look.”

“That was for the artist to supply,” said Cherry; “but it seems to me exactly how the knight ought to have looked.”

“For my part,” said Alvar, “I should not have liked to have been too late.”

“It is very beautiful,” said Jack; “but I don’t think I approve of false mediaevalism. At that date these fellows would have fought, and the best man would have had the girl.”

“Pray, at what date do you fix the dragon?” said Cherry.

“Jack is as matter-of-fact as the maiden herself,” said Mrs Stanforth, “who will not be happy because her uncle will not tell her if the knight got well and married somebody else.”

“No—no, mamma,” said one of the Stanforth girls, “he did no such thing; he was killed in King Arthur’s last battle. We settled it yesterday—we thought it was nicer.”

“You don’t think he gave in to the next dragon?” said Cherry, half to tease her.

“No, indeed, that knight never gave in. Did he, papa—did he?”

“My dear Minnie, I am not prepared with my knights’ history. There they are, and I leave them to an intelligent public, who can settle whether my object was to paint sunlight on primroses, or a smile on a wounded knight’s face—very hard matters both.”

“Don’t you really like it?” said Gipsy aside to Jack.

“Oh, yes,” said Jack uneasily, “I have seen him look so. I know what your father means. But I hate it. I’d rather have had a picture of him as he used to be, all sunburnt and jolly. Yes, I know, it’s the picture, not Cherry; but I don’t like it.”

Gipsy demurred a little, and they fell into a long talk in the twilight garden. Jack kept his promise, he did not “make love” to her, but never, even to Cheriton, had he talked as he talked then, for if he might not talk of the future, he could at least make Gipsy a sharer in all his past. When Cheriton came out upon them to call Jack away, they looked at him with half-dazzled eyes, as if he were calling them back from fairy-land.

The dinner-party at Lady Cheriton’s offered no such chances, though it was a gathering together quite unexpected by some of the party. Lady Cheriton, when the question of a school for Nettie had been discussed, had renewed her offer of having her to share the studies of her younger daughters; and Cheriton, who thought that Nettie in a London boarding-school would be very troublesome to others and very unhappy herself, had succeeded in getting the plan adopted. So here she was, dignified and polished, in her long black dress, and bent, so said her aunt, in a silent and grudging fashion, on acquiring sufficient knowledge to hold her own among other girls. She was wonderfully handsome, and so tall that her height and presence marked her out as much as her intensely red-and-white complexion and yellow hair. There, too, were Virginia and her brother Dick, Cherry being guilty of assuring his aunt that there was no reason why Alvar should not meet them. For Dick’s examination had at length been successfully passed, and an arrangement had been made that he should board with some friends of Mr Stanforth’s, and Virginia had availed herself of an invitation from Lady Cheriton to come to London with him.

“You did not tell me she was coming,” said Alvar angrily to Cheriton.

“It is impossible that you should avoid so near a neighbour,” replied Cherry.

“I do not like it,” said Alvar; and the effect on him was to shake his graceful self-possession, make him uncertain of what he was saying, and watch Virginia as she talked to Cherry of Dick’s prospects, with a look that was no more indifferent than the elaborate politeness of Jack’s greeting to Miss Stanforth. She was more self-controlled, but she missed no word or look. But if Cheriton had played a trick on his brother, he himself received a startling surprise when Mr and Mrs Rupert Lester were announced. “You cannot avoid meeting your cousins” was as true as his excuse to Alvar; but he could not help feeling himself watched; and as for Ruth, her brilliant, expressive face showed a consciousness which perhaps she hardly meant to conceal from him as she looked at him with all the past in her eyes. Ruth liked excitement, and the situation was not quite disagreeable to her; but while her look thrilled Cheriton through and through, the fact that she could give it, broke the last thread of his bondage to her. She made him feel with a curious revulsion that Rupert was his own cousin, and that she had tried to make him forget that she was his cousin’s wife; and as, being a man, he attributed far too distinct a meaning to the glance of an excitable, sentimental girl, it repelled him, though the pain of the repulsion was perhaps as keen as any that she had made him suffer. He did not betray himself, and it was left to Jack to frown like a thunder-cloud.