C.R. Coleridge (continued 9)
Reading edition
“Ah!” cried Alvar, “but I do not love my neighbours! that is the difference. But I love you, oh! my brother—my brother! Is it religion that will make me what you wish? I will be religious; I will no longer be careless; but oh, caro—caro mio! if I lose you, I have no heart to change. I have grieved you. Oh! what punishment is there for me? I would do penance like Manoel. What can I do?”
Alvar flung himself on his knees, the tears started in his eyes and choked his voice. At last he was stirred to the depths, and instincts deeper than teaching or training came to the surface.
“You know Who bore our sins for us,” said Cheriton, “because He loved us.”
How much, or how little, Alvar knew, after his formal teaching, and careless, unmoved youth, would be hard to say; probably Cheriton could not conceive how little; but face, voice, and manner had moved Alvar’s soul to a great conviction, however little he realised what Cheriton had meant to say.
He called on that name which his brothers had never heard from his lips before, save in some careless foreign oath.
“I swear,” he said—“I swear that I will be a religious man, and that I will be a good squire to Oakby. I make it a vow if my brother recovers—”
“Oh, hush—hush!” interposed Cheriton. “If not—we shall meet again—and you must be good to Oakby. Let me know you will!”
“I will! I will!” cried Alvar, completely carried away. He would have thrown his arms round Cheriton, but Jack interposed—
“Alvar! Alvar! this is enough. He must not have this agitation.” Alvar yielded, but, too much overcome to control himself, rushed out of the room.
As he hurried blindly down the stairs he met Mr Ellesmere, and with a sudden impulse caught hold of his hand.
“Mr Ellesmere, you are a priest. I have sworn to him that I will change, that I will be religious. I give myself up to you. I will do whatever you wish. I swear to obey you—”
“Gently, gently!” said the astonished vicar. “You are too much agitated to know what you say. Come with me into the study; tell me what has passed. Believe me that I desire to help you in this great sorrow.”
Alvar followed him, and as Mr Ellesmere talked and listened to him, he began to hope that, in spite of an ignorance which he had hitherto had neither the conscientious desire nor the intellectual curiosity to diminish, in spite of blind impulses rashly followed, the will for good that must bring a blessing had at last been awakened, even in this strange longing for vow and penance, an instinct that seemed inherited without the faith from which it had sprung. Alvar was in the mood which might have made his Spanish ancestors vow all their worldly goods away and think to buy a blessing, and to listen to him without unduly checking his vehemence, and yet to lead his thoughts upward, was a hard task; since Alvar was left subdued and quieted, and yet with an inkling of what had been really wrong with him, it may be inferred that Mr Ellesmere succeeded better than he had hoped to do.
Meanwhile, to poor Jack, every word of Cheriton’s had thrilled with a thousand meanings. He knew that silence was imperative, and did not mean to say another word; but Cherry felt his hand tremble as he gave him some water, and looked up at him with a smile.
“You will have Gipsy soon,” he whispered, “my own dear boy.”
Jack pressed his hand. “To take pains for His sake.” With his whole heart Jack recognised this key-note. Nothing else would do. Even Gipsy could not by herself give his life the full joy of a sufficient purpose; but as he thought of all the currents through which he must steer, and knew too well which way they often set, he shuddered.
“If I had not you to talk everything out with!” he said, inadequately enough.
“Oh, Jack, if I can’t help you still, it will be because the work is done better. I don’t fancy now that everything hangs on me. I am content.”
And Jack felt that the memory of that perfect contentment could never pass away from him.
Chapter Forty Five.
My Lady and My Queen.
“Let all be well—be well.”
“So, Queenie, you see there will soon be an end of it all!”
The speaker was Miss Seyton. She stood looking down at her niece with an odd quiver in lip and voice, even while her tone was not altogether a sad one. Virginia sat in dismayed silence; she had been arranging a bunch of autumn leaves and berries to brighten up the dark old drawing-room, which bore many a trace of her presence in bits of needlework and tokens of pleasant occupation, though the house was duller and quieter than ever now that Mr Seyton’s rapidly failing health gave him the habits of an invalid, and that both the boys were absent. Miss Seyton looked more faded than ever, but she was kind and friendly with Virginia, even though she could not divest her voice of its sarcastic tone as she continued,—
“You are a person of consequence, and you ought to understand the state of the case.”
“That Roland means to sell Elderthwaite?” said Virginia, slowly.
“Yes. We can’t afford, Virginia, to make pretences to each other, and we know that it will come before many months. Then what are we to do?”
However much it went against Virginia to discuss the results of her father’s death, she felt that there was some truth in her aunt’s words, that they ought to be prepared for so great a change; and she had also learnt to practise great directness in dealing with Miss Seyton.
“I have sometimes supposed that you would live at the vicarage, Aunt Julia,” she said.
“Not if I have a penny to live on elsewhere,” replied Miss Seyton. “James and I were never friends, and I’ll not see the place in the hands of strangers. Besides, I’ve had a thirty years’ imprisonment, and I’d like my freedom. Look here—when I was a girl I was just like the others; I loved pleasure as well as they did, and had it too. I was as daring as ever a Seyton of them all. However, I meant to marry and live in the south, and I was quite good enough, my dear, for the man I was engaged to. Then he quarrelled with James, and that began the breach. I didn’t marry, as you may see, and when my father died my portion couldn’t be paid off without a sale, and things were in such a mess I had no power to claim it. So here I stayed, and, let me tell you, I’ve stopped up a good many holes, and been quite as great a blessing to my family as they deserved.”
Virginia laughed in spite of herself, though her answer was grave.
“Yes, I know that, now.”
“But now, d’ye see, Virginia, I’m tired of it. I’m only fifty, and it’ll go hard if I don’t get some pickings out of the sale of the estate. Do you know, we have some old cousins living in Bath, a Ruth and Virginia of another generation? I’m inclined to think I should like to go into society—to ‘come out,’ in fact, in a smart cap, and to live within reach of a circulating library and scandal. That’s my view, and that’s what I mean to aim at when the time comes. What do you say?”
“I should like the boys to have a home somehow,” said Virginia. “Perhaps that would make some place into home for me.”
“I don’t wish to desert you,” said Miss Seyton, “but candidly I think we should be happier apart. We shouldn’t amuse each other if we lived together. But won’t James want to keep you?”
“I don’t know,” said Virginia. “I am afraid it would not be a good plan for the boys to go there for holidays—if this place is to be given up. But oh, Aunt Julia, how can we tell what will happen? I can’t make plans; I don’t feel as if it mattered; and Roland seems to want to cast us all off.”
“Yes; he’s a selfish fellow. But, my dear, just consider how much worse it would be, if we had to take him on. Thank your stars that he means to stay in India. And as for the place, with its paint and its fences and its broken glass, let it go. We’re better free of it. He is right, there. The worst part of the story is poor old James who must stay.”
“He can’t forgive Roland.”
“No—you see, Queenie, it’s wits that tell.—James hasn’t brains, and he has never thought of cutting himself loose. He couldn’t live away from Elderthwaite, any more than he could live without his skin. But when he hasn’t the family dignity to keep him up, I’m afraid he’ll go down.”
“He is so wretched now about Cheriton Lester.”
“Yes. He is the only Lester worth fretting for. As for that prig Jack, I’d like to see him make a fool of himself. I’d like to see him ‘exceed his allowance considerably.’ There’s a pretty way of putting it for you!”
With which parting shot Miss Seyton went away, and Virginia sat sorrowful and perplexed, and with something of the family bitterness in her heart. Life was very hard to her. Her love for each one of her relations was a triumph over difficulties, and the sweet spontaneous passion that had promised to make her happy had been in its turn triumphed over by the uncongeniality of her lover. The softness of early youth and of her previous training had been replaced by something of the strength that expects little and makes the best of a bad business, but at a risk, the risk of the sense that evil is inevitable. Virginia was always outwardly gentle; but she had been thrown back on herself till she had gained a self-reliance that the Seyton blood in her was ready to exaggerate into scorn. For even Ruth was slow in answering her letters, and never wrote as in her girlish days.
As she sat musing a note was brought to her. It was from Mrs Lester, containing Cheriton’s imperative request that she would come and see him. Would she come at once?
Virginia’s cheeks flamed as if the missive had been from Alvar himself. She got up and put the note in her pocket, dressed herself, and leaving word with one of the servants that she meant to take a walk, set forth without delay for Oakby, walking through the plantations, across the fell, and through the fir-wood, as she had scarcely ever done alone before. She remembered going as Alvar’s betrothed to ask for Cheriton during his first illness, and Alvar’s absorption and indifference to her presence. Now that would be natural enough. Still she could scarcely think of Cheriton in her dread and wonder as to who might greet her, as she rang at the bell, and asked for Mrs Lester, who came forward into the hall to receive her.
“My dear,” she said, “I do not know what Cherry wants with you; but we can’t refuse him. Will you come at once?”
Virginia was afraid to ask questions, she followed the old lady’s slow progress up the dusky staircase, and into Cheriton’s room.
The daylight was now fast fading, but its last rays fell on Cheriton’s wide-opened eyes and flushed face.
He took hold of her hand, and said with extreme difficulty,—
“Thank you—my love to the parson. Ask Jack what I meant to do—and then tell him. Tell him—I say—he must reform Elderthwaite for my sake. He must do it himself. I know he can. Don’t let him be one of the abuses. Don’t get into despair.” He paused for breath, and then with an accent and smile that through all the suffering had something of his old playful daring, “I mustn’t say anything else to you, but that will come right too.”
“I will tell him,” faltered Virginia, awed, bewildered, and yet with a strange sense of encouragement; she let herself be drawn away, heard Mrs Lester say that it was too dark for her to go home alone, she should send Jack with her to get a breath of air, while Cherry was suffering less. He was so fully himself it was hard to believe in the danger, but the attacks of coughing were most exhausting, and he could hardly take anything, she was very hopeless, and “my grandson”—this always meant Alvar—thought badly of him. “Come in here, my dear, and I will fetch Jack.”
As Mrs Lester put her into the library, and left her there alone in the dusk, the tears that she had hitherto restrained broke forth.
She thought that she was crying for Cheriton, but all her own sad future, all her yearnings for the lost past, mingled together, and she wept the more because, she knew not how, Cheriton had given her a sort of indefinite comfort.
She did not hear the study door open, nor see Alvar come through the room, nor did he see her in the dim light, till he heard her sobbing.
“Who is it?” he exclaimed, becoming aware of a woman’s figure near the fire. She started up, and with her first movement he knew her. “Mi dona!” he cried in his astonishment.
“Cherry asked to see me,” she faltered. “He is so ill—I could not help crying.”
“Ah, no!” said Alvar; “and I may not comfort you!”
But he came close and stood by her side, and she saw that he too was greatly agitated. She wanted to speak about Cheriton, but she could not command her voice, nor think of a word to say.
Suddenly Alvar turned and clasped her hand.
“Ah!” he cried, with such vehemence as she had never seen in him before. “My heart is breaking! Can you never forgive? I love you; I have always loved you. When you sent me from you, it was my pride that let me submit! In my own country I knew that for your sake I was English—English altogether. I am not worthy, but I repent. I have confessed. Help me, and I will be a good Englishman! For I have now no other country, and I cannot live without you. Give me your hand once more!”
Alvar poured forth this torrent with such burning eagerness, such abandonment of entreaty, that he did not see how weak were the defences he was attacking.
“Indeed,” she whispered, “it was not that—not that I thought you were—not good—I thought you did not love me—much.”
“I did—I do love you—I love you as my life! But you?”
“I have always loved you. I could not change,” she said, with something of her old gentle dignity. “But—I have been very unhappy all this time.”
“Ah, now you shall be happy! Yet, what do I say? How can I make any one happy! I who have grieved and vexed my brother with my unkindness—nay, caused his illness even—I cannot make you happy!” said Alvar, in a tone of real self-blame.
“I think you can!” said Virginia softly; but the words had hardly passed her lips when she started away from him, as Jack came into the room.
“Granny says I am to walk home with you, Virginia. What, Alvar, are you here? they have been looking for you. Do go to Cherry—he is so restless now!”
“I will go,” said Alvar. “Take care of her, Jack, for I must not come. Farewell, mi regna!” He took both her hands and kissed them, then put her towards Jack, and hurried away; while poor Virginia glanced in much confusion at her escort; but he was too much absorbed in grief and anxiety to take in what had passed, or to heed it if he did. He walked on by her side without speaking; till she, trying to collect her thoughts, and actuated by a very unnecessary fear of what he would think of her silence, bethought herself to ask him what Cheriton wished her to tell her uncle.
“He said I was to ask you?”
“He wanted to take orders, and be curate of Elderthwaite,” said Jack. “You know London did not suit him, and the work was too hard, and life at home was so worrying for him. Besides, he hated being idle. He thought that he could manage to get things right at Elderthwaite, and he said that he should like it, and be happy there.”
Jack spoke in a dull, heavy voice, his use of the past tense marking how completely he regarded the possibilities of which he spoke as at an end; and something in the tone showing that the proposal had been distasteful to him.
“Would Cherry have given himself for that?” exclaimed Virginia.
“Yes,” said Jack. “I didn’t like it. It seemed a great sacrifice, and besides—he was not half strong enough.”
“But did he care so much? I don’t mean that I can’t understand his wishing to take orders—but just for Elderthwaite!”
“He is very fond of Elderthwaite. And he said that it was only because he fancied that he could be more useful there than any one else; and because he has money, that he was justified in proposing it—because he was ill, I mean.”
“Indeed, he could do good there! He always did!”
“You know,” said Jack, rather more freely, “that Cherry has a notion that when a person seems specially marked out for any situation, he is likely, in the long run, to be the best person for it. He says you can’t destroy evil without good. That people fit their own places, and so he believes that Elderthwaite would do better, in the long run, if Parson Seyton could be encouraged to make things a little more ship-shape, than it would with a new man, if he were driven away. You see he gets fond of people. I don’t see it; I think it’s fanciful. All reformers begin with a clean sweep. Then Cherry said valuables were sometimes found in the dust; nobody would reform if you ran at them with a besom. Of course he could persuade people; at any rate, he always thought he could.”
“He thinks the sun is more powerful than the north wind,” said Virginia. “I am sure Uncle James would have given in to him.”
“So he said. But he was mistaken in one case, and then he blamed himself, and I suppose—I suppose—he has conquered at last! Any way, Virginia, you were to tell your uncle what he wished to do.”
“I will tell him. He is breaking his heart about Cherry now.”
“I suppose so. I can’t come in. Good-bye; we’ll send over in the morning.” Jack turned away. Cheriton’s kindly theories might seem fanciful to him; but he would never have the chance of knocking them on the head any more. He was so miserable that even the thought of Gipsy only made him feel her absence, and wonder if so bright a creature could continue to care for him, when he had grown into a stern, hard-hearted person, without any power of softening. Poor Jack’s hard heart was very heavy, and beat so fast as he came up to the house, that he could hardly ask if there was any change.
Chapter Forty Six.
My Dear!
“But still be a woman to you.”
Early the next morning Virginia received a letter from Alvar, written at intervals during his night watch in Cheriton’s room. Perhaps it was the first real communication she had ever received from him, and in it he made a sort of confession of his shortcomings, as far as he himself understood them. He told her that he had been “revengeful” towards his father, and that in the affair of the Flemings he had allowed “the passion of jealousy” to overcome him. He recounted his promise to Cheriton, and with the simplicity that was at once so strange and so engaging a part of his character, assured her “that he was no longer indifferent to religion,” but would follow the instructions of Mr Ellesmere. “I think,” he added, “that this will give you pleasure.”
There was a great deal about Cheriton, Alvar declaring that he could not now despair of anything, but that he should have written to her at such a time, and about himself, was enough to mark the change in his former relations with Virginia.
The change in himself she was ready to take for granted. All must be right where there was such humility and power of repentance; and perhaps she did him more justice than even Cheriton could have done. For Alvar had undergone no change of intellectual conviction, that element was wanting, both in his former carelessness, and in his present acceptance of a new obligation, and in the excitement of feeling under which he was acting love and remorse towards his brother had the largest share. But he had recognised himself as erring, and intended to amend, and such a resolution must bring a blessing. But as his brothers would only have altered any settled line of conduct, after infinite heart-searchings and perplexities, they could not have conceived how simple the matter appeared to Alvar, when he had once made up his mind that he could possibly have been in fault.
Virginia had said nothing the night before of her changed prospects; she knew that the Lesters could have no thought to spare for her; but when her aunt suggested sending over to inquire, she could not pretend ignorance, and her blush and few words of explanation were enough for Miss Seyton.
“Ah, well,” she said, “you might have saved yourselves a great deal of trouble if you had found this out a little sooner.”
“We cannot speak of it just now, auntie.”
“No; but you say, don’t you, that everything happens for good? Now this good has come out of Cherry’s illness; perhaps he’ll get well.”
After these characteristic congratulations Virginia took her way to the vicarage. She found her uncle in his “study,” a room which was sufficiently well lined with ancient and orthodox divinity to merit the name, though the highly respectable volumes, descended from some unwontedly learned Seyton vicar, did not often see the light.
The parson was looking out of the window down the road.
“Ah, how d’ye do, my dear?” he said, in unwontedly quiet accents. “I was just looking out, for I sent over to Oakby to inquire how that poor lad is to-day.”
“We have heard,” said Virginia. “I don’t think he is any worse. And, uncle, I saw him yesterday; he sent for me to give me a message for you.”
“A message! Well, my lassie, what did he say?”
Virginia came and stood behind the chair in which her uncle had seated himself.
“He wished me to tell you that he had been making up his mind to take orders, and that he loved Elderthwaite so much that he meant to ask you if you would let him come and be your curate, that you and he together might set things right here. But he said that now that will never be. And he sent his love, and I was to ask you to reform Elderthwaite for his sake. He said, ‘Tell him I know he can, better than any one, if he will.’”
Virginia paused, as her voice faltered.
“Why, bless my soul,” cried the parson, “what does the lad mean? Why, I’m one of the old abuses myself.”
“Yes—yes—uncle. But that is what he said. You must not be one of the abuses. He said you might do it all, if you would, because you love the place more than any one can.”
There was a silence. The parson sat still.
“He is a good lad—he always was a good lad,” he said, after a pause. “And did he think to come here, to spend his time over a parcel of scamps and drunkards? Eh! I shouldn’t have believed it. He had heard that they want me to have a curate, I suppose,” he added, quickly.
“Oh, yes, uncle; but he was afraid that you would not like it.”
“Look here, my lassie, I like the old methody in his proper place; but I’ll have no psalm-singers in my church. I’m a sound Churchman, and I don’t approve of it.”
Virginia, finding an objection to psalm-singing in church rather difficult to reply to, was silent, and her uncle went on rapidly,—
“I hate the whole tribe of your earnest, hard-working, ‘self-devoted’ young fellows—find it pay, and bring them into the society of gentlemen—write letters in trumpery newspapers, and despise their elders. Newspapers have nothing to do with religion. The Prayer-book’s the Prayer-book, and a paper’s a paper. Give me Bell’s Life. Bless you, my dear, do you think I keep my eyes shut?”
“You are not just, uncle,” said Virginia. “But Cheriton would not have been like that.”
Mr Seyton’s twinkling eyes softened, and the angry resistance to a higher standard, that mingled with the half-shrewd, half-scornful malice of his words, subsided, as he said, in quite a different tone,—
“I would have had Cheriton for my curate, my dear.”
He said no more, and Virginia could not press him; and when he spoke it was only to question her about Cheriton’s condition.
But when she went away he took his hat and walked out through his bit of garden towards the church, and sitting down on the low stone wall, looked over the churchyard, where a fine growth of nettles half smothered the broken gravestones; and as he sat there he thought of his past life, of his dissipated, godless youth, of the sense of desperation with which, to pay his debts, he had “gone into the Church,” of the horrible evils he had never tried to check, and yet of the certain kindliness he had entertained towards his own people. How he had defied censure and resisted example till his fellow-clergy looked askance at him, and though he might affect to despise them, he did not like their contempt. He thought of the family crash that was coming, and he was keen enough to know how he would be regarded by new comers—“as an old abuse.” And he thought of Cheriton’s faith in him, and the project inspired as much by love for him as by the zeal for reform. He thought of the first time he had read the service, the sense of incongruity, of shame-facedness; how a sort of accustomedness had grown upon him till he had felt himself a parson after a sort, and how, on a low level, he had in a way adapted his life to the requirements of his profession.
Then he thought of the way Cheriton had proposed such a step to himself, and, without entering into any of those higher feelings which might have repelled rather than attracted him, he contrasted with his his own the unselfishness of the motive that prompted Cheriton.
He made no resolutions, drew no conclusions, but unconsciously he was looking at life from a new standpoint.
Virginia did not see Alvar, nor hear directly from him all that day; and but for the letter in her possession, her interview with him would have seemed like a dream.
The next morning was sunny and still. She stood on the steps at the garden door, looking over the lawn, now glistening with thick autumn dew. The sky was clear and blue, the wild overgrown shrubberies that shut out the landscape were tinted with brown and gold, an “autumn blackbird” sang low and sweet. All was so peaceful that it seemed as if ill news could not break in upon it; yet, as the old church clock chimed the hour, and through the still air that of Oakby sounded in the distance, Virginia started lest it should be the beginning of the knell. As the sound of the clock died away, the gate in the shrubbery clicked, a quick step sounded, and Alvar came up the path.
Virginia could wait no longer. She ran to meet him, gathering hope from his face as she approached.
“Yes, he is better. There is hope now; but all yesterday he grew weaker every moment. I thought he would die.”
Alvar’s voice trembled, and he spoke with more abandonment than was usual with him; he looked very pale, and had evidently gone through much. He added details of their suspense, and of Cherry’s condition, “as if,” Virginia thought, “he wanted to talk to me.”
“You are very tired,” she said. “Come in and have some breakfast. Auntie and I always have it here.”
She took him into the drawing-room, where there was a little table near the fire, and made him sit down, while she waited on him, and poured out the tea. She did not feel a bit afraid of him now, and, spite of his punctilious gallantry, he submitted to her attentions without any of the forms and ceremonies with which he had previously made a distance between them.
“You have been up all night. I think you ought to have gone to bed, instead of coming here,” she said, sure of a contradiction.
“It is a great deal better than going to sleep to see you, my dear!” said Alvar, quaintly; and Virginia thought she liked the homely English better than the magnificent Spanish in which he had been wont to term her his lady and his queen.
“I am getting very hungry, Virginia,” said Miss Seyton, opening the door. “May I come in to breakfast?”
“Oh, but that is shocking!” cried Alvar, springing up and advancing to meet her. “Miss Seyton, I have brought good news of my brother. But I must go home now, he may want me. Perhaps if he is still better I can come again by-and-by.”
“Only think,” said Virginia, as she went with him through the garden on her way to the vicarage to tell the good news to her uncle, “only think, when the clock struck just before you came, I was afraid it was the beginning of the knell!”
“Ah, I trust we shall not hear that terrible sound now!” said Alvar, gravely.
And yet before that day closed the old bell of Elderthwaite church was tolling, startling every one with the sudden conviction that that morning’s hope had proved delusory. It frightened Mr Ellesmere as he came home from a distant part of his parish, though a moment’s reflection showed him that his own church tower was silent. What could be the matter elsewhere?
There was a rush of people to the lodge gates at Oakby, to be met there by eager questions as to what was the matter at Elderthwaite?
“It must be old Mr Seyton, took off on a sudden,” they said. “Well, so long as Mr Cherry was getting better—”
But before curiosity could take any one down the lane to verify this opinion, up came the parson’s man from Elderthwaite with a letter for Mr Lester, and the news that a telegram had been received two hours before at the hall, to say that Mr Roland had been killed out tiger-hunting in India.
There was more consternation than grief. Roland had not felt nor inspired affection in his own family; in the neighbourhood his character was regarded with disapproval, and his sarcastic tongue remembered with dislike. He had intensified all the worst characteristics of the family.
Virginia had scarcely ever seen him; his father and uncle had so resented his determination to sell the estate, though it had perhaps been the wisest resolve he had ever come to, that he had been to them as an enemy.
But still the chief sense in all their minds was that the definite, if distasteful, prospect, to which they had been beginning to look forward, had melted away, and that all the future was chaos.
Dick, suddenly became a person of importance, and now within a month or two of coming of age, was sent for from London. He had improved in looks and manner, and seemed duly impressed with the gravity of the situation. He was told what Roland’s intentions had been, and that his father’s life could not be prolonged for many months; listened to Mr Seyton’s faltering and confused explanations of the state of affairs, and to his uncle’s more vigorous, but not much more lucid, denunciation of it. Dick said not a word in reply, he asked a few questions, and at last went down into the drawing-room where his sister was sitting alone. He walked over to the window and stood looking out of it.
“Virginia,” he said, “I don’t wish to sell Elderthwaite.”
“Do you think it can be helped, Dick?” she said, eagerly.
“I don’t know. I’m not in debt like Roland—that is, anything to speak of. I don’t want to wipe the family out of the county for good and all. Why couldn’t the place be let for a term of years?”
“But—it is so much out of repair!”
“Yes,” said Dick, shrewdly, “but it’s an awfully gentlemanly-looking place yet. Fellows who have made a fortune in trade want to get their position settled before they buy an estate, or to make a little more money first. I heard Mr Stanforth talking about some old place in the south where there were fine pictures, which had been let in that way. Well then, of course, some sacrifices must be made; something was done with the money Cheriton Lester paid for Uplands. Then there’s all that part out Ashrigg way—Cuddiwell, you know, and High Ashrigg. Those two farms have always paid rent. If they were sold—they’re handy either for the Lesters or the Hubbards—we might put things to rights a little in that way.”
“I am glad you care about Elderthwaite, Dick,” said Virginia, impetuously.
“Oh, as to that,” returned Dick, “I don’t know that I go in for any sentiment about it. Of course, I couldn’t live here for years to come. I’m not quite such a fool as I was once, Virginia, thanks to you and some others I could name; and I should go on as I am for the present. But it makes a difference in a man’s position to have a place like this in the background, even if it is tumbling to pieces. A girl with money might think twice whether she wouldn’t be Mrs Seyton of Elderthwaite.”
“Oh, Dick! don’t marry a girl for her money,” said Virginia, half laughing; but she could never have imagined herself listening with so much respect to Dick’s sentiments.
In truth, want of sense and insight had never been the cause of the Seytons’ errors; but just as in some men a warm heart and tender conscience fail to make head against violent passion, so that they feel their sins while they commit them, so in the Seytons a shrewd mental sense of their own folly had always co-existed with the headstrong self-will which had overridden it. Dick had a less passionate nature, and was, moreover, less at the mercy of circumstances than if he had been brought up as the heir, and his friends in London were sensible people.
“Perhaps,” said his sister, “you might ask Alvar what he thinks of it.”
“Alvar? Oh, ho! is that come to pass again? So, you’ve made it up. Well, it is a good thing that you have some one to take care of you,” said Dick, sententiously.
Alvar was taken into counsel, and the results of much discussion and consideration may be briefly told.
Dick’s plans were hailed by his father and uncle as an escape from a prospect, which had made death doubly bitter to the one, and the rest of life distasteful to the other. And an unexpected purchaser of the two farms was found in Judge Cheriton, who had been talking for some time of buying a small property which might be a home for him when his public career was over, and a holiday retreat for the present. There was a farm-house at High Ashrigg which might be improved into a modern antique of the style at present admired. The two farms were therefore purchased at once of Mr Seyton himself, and with his full consent and approval.
The rest of Dick’s plan could not be carried out in his father’s lifetime, but it was agreed to by Mr Seyton as the best thing his heir could do.
All this time Cheriton was mending slowly, but with much uncertainty as to how far his recovery would be complete. He very soon detected the turn that Alvar’s affairs had taken, much to his satisfaction; but Jack, guessing that the news of Roland’s death would be a shock to him, it was not till he had begun to insist that his own state must not again delay Alvar’s marriage, that he heard the story of which it might have been said “that nothing in Roland Seyton’s life became him like the leaving of it;” for it proved that he had met his death by an act of considerable bravery, which had saved the lives of others of the party. Perhaps Cheriton, unable to be untender to the memory of his boyish ideal, gave him a truer regret than any of his own family.
He listened with great interest to all the future arrangements, and was the first to suggest that his old acquaintance, Mr Wilson’s son, was to be married to a young lady of fortune, and might form a possible future tenant for Elderthwaite.
As for the rest, even setting her deep mourning aside, Virginia would not hear of marrying while her father grew daily weaker; nor was Cheriton at all equal to the inevitable excitement and difficulty of arranging plans for the winter which must have ensued.
It ended, as soon as he was able to bear the journey, in his going to Torquay with Alvar, to stay for the present. Mrs Lester went back to Ashrigg, and Oakby was once more left solitary.
Chapter Forty Seven.
The Yeomanry Meeting.
“All’s right with the world.”
It was a bright morning just before Whitsuntide in the ensuing year, when the bluebells were still adorning the Elderthwaite plantations, and the ivy on the church was fresh with young green shoots. Once more Parson Seyton sat on the churchyard wall watching his nettles, which now, however, were falling beneath the scythe, while a space had previously been carefully cleared and trimmed round a handsome cross-marked stone of grey granite, which showed the spot where Mr Seyton had rested, now for nearly three months. Suddenly a step came up the lane and through the gate, and the parson sprang up joyfully as Cheriton Lester came towards him.
“Well, my boy—well? So here you are, back at last. And how are you?”
“Oh, I am very well—quite well now,” said Cheriton.
And indeed, though the figure was still very slight, the hand he held eagerly out still over-white and thin, the colour too bright and variable for perfect health and strength, he looked full of life and spirits, overjoyed, as he said, to find himself at home again.
“Oh, yes, Alvar is here, of course, and we started together; but we met Virginia in the lane, and then—I thought I would come and find you. How lovely it all looks!”
“Ah, more to your taste than Mentone?”
Cherry laughed. “My taste was always a prejudiced one,” he said; “but Mr Stanforth and I were very jolly at Mentone, especially when Jack joined us. How did Alvar get on up here by himself at Christmas?”
“He got on very well here—if by here you mean Elderthwaite. As for Oakby, he attended all the dinners and suppers and meetings and institutions like a hero. But I suspect he and his tenants still look on one another from a respectful distance.”
“All, they won’t be able to resist him next week, he’ll look so picturesque in his yeomanry uniform. We shall have a grand meeting.”
“The volunteers keep the ground, I understand?” said the parson.
“Yes, myself included. There doesn’t seem to be much for them to do, and they wished me to come very much. Then, you know, we have had a grand explanation about Jack’s affairs, and granny and Nettie have got Gipsy with them; so Sir John found out that the pictures wanted Mr Stanforth, and he is coming down. Then Jack couldn’t resist, and managed to get a couple of days’ leave. So the only thing to wish for is fine weather. But I am not forgetting,” continued Cherry, in a different tone, “that here you have all had a good deal of trouble.”
“Well,” said the parson, “it was a great break up and turn out; and I’m bound to own your brother was a great help in getting through it. Julia, she is gone off to Bath, and writes as if she liked it; and I was very glad that Virginia should stay here with me for the present. Mr Wilson has taken the place for his son, and it is being put in order. But all in the old style, you know, Cherry,” said the parson, with a wink, “no vulgar modernisms.”
“Fred Wilson’s a very nice fellow,” said Cherry.
He had sat down on the wall by the parson, and now, after a pause, began abruptly,—
“I saw Dr A— again as we came through London. He says that I am much better; indeed, there is nothing absolutely the matter with me. I haven’t got disease of the lungs, though of course there is a tendency to it, and I shall always be liable to bad attacks of cold. He says I should be better for some definite occupation, partly out of doors. He does not think London would suit me, but this sort of bracing air might do better than a softer one, as I was born here, except perhaps for a month or two in the winter. I may get much stronger, he thinks, or—But it was a very good account to get, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, my lad, I’m glad to hear it—as far as it goes,” said the parson, looking intently at him. Cheriton looked away with deepening colour, and said, rather formally,—
“I thought that I ought to tell you all this, sir, because I have never yet felt justified in referring to what I asked Virginia to tell you last year. But my wishes remain the same, and if you think with such doubtful health I could be of any service to you or to the place—I—I should like to try it.”
“Why, if you have your health, you might do better than be my curate,” said the parson.
“But I won’t exemplify a certain proverb! In short,” said Cherry, looking up and speaking in a more natural manner, “if you’ll have me, parson, I’ll come.”
“And suppose I say I won’t have you?”
“Then I should have to ask the bishop to find me another curacy,” said Cheriton. “I have quite made up my mind; even if I could follow the career I once looked forward to, which is impossible, I should not wish it. I’ve had some trouble, only one thing has made it bearable. I should, like to help others to find that out. But I want to help my old neighbours most. I made up my mind with this place chiefly in my thoughts. I care for it, for many reasons. But nothing now would induce me to change my intention of taking orders if I have the health to carry it out.”
An odd sort of struggle was evident in the old parson’s weather-beaten face.
“They’d work him to death in some fine church at a watering-place, with music and sermons, and all sorts of services,” he muttered to himself.
“Yes; I don’t think that that would suit me as well as Elderthwaite.”
“Then, my lad,” said the parson, with some dignity, “I will have you. And, Cherry, I—I understand you. I know that you have stood by me, ever since you dusted out the old church for the bishop.”
“That’s just what I want to do now!” said Cherry. “Thank you; you have made me very happy. There are Alvar and Queenie,” and with a hearty squeeze of the hand he started up and went to meet them. The parson remained behind, and as Cheriton moved away from him he lifted his rusty old felt hat for a moment, and said emphatically,—
“I’m an old sinner!”
The morning of the Yeomanry Review dawned fair and bright, and brought crowds together to the wide stretch of moorland above Ashrigg, where the review was to take place. Whitsuntide was a time to make holiday, and half Oakby and Elderthwaite was there to see. The only drawback was that Virginia’s mourning was still too deep to admit of her sharing in so large a county gathering, for which she cared the less, as Alvar, in his blue and silver, mounted on the best horse in the Oakby stables, and looking as splendid as a knight of romance, rode round by the vicarage to show himself to her.
But Parson Seyton was present in a new black coat and a very conspicuous white tie, mounted, he assured Cheriton, to do credit to his future curate.
Cheriton himself appeared in the grey and green to which he had once been enthusiastically devoted, and which was now worn for the last time before he began his preparation for the autumn ordination. In the meantime he could stay at Oakby, while Uplands was being made habitable, and could begin to feel his way among the Elderthwaite people, while Virginia was still there to help him, for she and Alvar meant to be married quietly in the summer.
But the happiest of all happy creatures on that bright morning, was perhaps Gipsy Stanforth, as she sat with Nettie and Sir John and Lady Hubbard, while Jack was on horseback near at hand. The two young ladies excited much interest, for it was Miss Lester’s first appearance on leaving school, and people had begun to say that she was a great beauty, as she sat perfectly dressed and perfectly behaved, her handsome face with its pure colouring and fine outline as impassive “as if,” thought Dick Seyton, “she had never seen a hay-loft in her life.”
Gipsy, on the other hand, could not help sparkling and beaming at every pleasant sight and sound. This was Jack’s world, and it was such a splendid one, and every one was so kind to her; for Nettie, though she secretly thought Gipsy rather too clever, knew how to behave to her brother’s betrothed. Gipsy could not keep her tongue still in her happy exultation, and very amusing were her remarks and comments, till, if people came up to the carriage to look at Miss Lester, they frequently remained to talk to Miss Stanforth.
Her father was in another carriage with the rest of the Hubbard party, enjoying the brilliant scene perhaps more than any one present, since no quaint incident, and no picturesque combination escaped his keen and kindly notice.
“Nettie looks like coming out sheep-farming in Australia in that swell get-up, doesn’t she?” said Bob to Jack, as they had drawn off to a little distance together.
“She doesn’t look like it,” said Jack; “but if she set her mind to that or to anything else, she would do it.”
“Oh,” said Bob, “it’s all nonsense. I sha’n’t marry out there. I shouldn’t like a colonial girl; but I shall come home in a few years’ time, and look about me. Nettie will be married before then, I hope, in a proper way. I hope you’ll all be very careful about her acquaintances.”
“Well, we’ll try,” said Jack, smiling. “She will have Virginia to go about with.”
“Yes, I like Virginia. She’ll do Alvar good,” said Bob, condescendingly. “And I like Gipsy too, Jack; she’s very jolly.”
“Thank you,” said Jack, “she is.”
“I suppose you’ll be a master in a school somewhere when I get back, and Cherry will be a parson. Well, he’ll make a very good one.”
“Yes,” said Jack, shortly. He did not like discussions as to Cherry’s future; it hung, in his eyes, by too slender a thread.
“Good heavens!” cried Bob, suddenly, “look there!”
Sir John Hubbard had left his carriage, and his young horses, which had been already excited by the numbers and the noise; frightened by some sudden chance movement among the crowd, no one could tell what—the bark of a dog, the sudden crossing of an old woman with a tray of ginger-beer—shied so violently that the coachman, who was holding the reins loosely, was thrown off the box, the horses dashed forward down the hillside, towards an abrupt descent and break in the ground, at the bottom of which ran a little stony brook.
Jack and Bob were far behind, and even as they spurred forward they felt it would be all in vain; while Nettie, springing on to the front seat, tried to climb up and reach the reins; but they swung far beyond her reach. She looked on and saw all the danger, saw the rough descent ahead, heard the cries of horror on all sides, saw too, one of the yeomanry officers gallop at headlong speed towards them, dash in between them and the bank, and seize the reins. A violent jolt and jerk, as the horses were thrown back on their haunches, and she recognised Alvar, as he was flung off his own horse and down the bank by the shock and the struggle, as other hands forced the carriage back from its deadly peril, and Jack, dashing up, his face white as marble, dismounted and caught the trembling Gipsy in his arms.
Nettie heeded none of them; she sprang out and down the bank, and in a moment was kneeling by Alvar’s side, who lay senseless. She had lifted his head and unfastened his collar, before her brothers were beside her.
“No, no; I’ll do it,” she cried, pushing Jack’s hand aside.
“Hush, Nettie, nonsense; let us lift him up. Get some water.”
There were a few moments of exceeding terror, how few they never could believe, as they carried Alvar to smooth ground, and tried to revive him, before he opened his eyes, looked round, and after a minute or two, said faintly,—
“What has happened? Ah—I remember,” trying to sit up. “Are they safe?”
“Yes—yes—but you? Oh, Alvar, are you killed?” cried Nettie.
“No, no,” said Alvar, “my arm is hurt a little. I think it is sprained—it is nothing. Do not let Cherry be frightened.”
“I never thought of him!” said Jack. “Oh, he won’t know anything of it—he is not here. You are sure your arm is not broken?”
“No. Ah, there he is! Help me up, Jack! Cherry, it is nothing.”
Cheriton, who had been considerately summoned with the news of a dreadful accident, but they hoped Mr Lester was not killed, was speechless with mingled terror and relief. He knelt down by Alvar’s side, and took his hand, hardly caring to ask a question as to how the accident had come about; but now Sir John Hubbard’s voice broke in,—
“I never saw such a splendid thing in my life, never—the greatest gallantry and presence of mind! A moment later and they would have been over! My dear fellow, I owe you more than I can say—Lady Hubbard, and your own sister, and Jack’s pretty little Gipsy—my horses starting off in that way. I can never thank you—never. I couldn’t have believed it. And I thought it was all over with you!”
“I am not seriously hurt, sir,” said Alvar, sitting up, “and there was nothing else to be done; it is not worth your thanks.”
“Is not it?” cried Mr Stanforth, unable to restrain himself. “More thanks than can be spoken.”
“I’ll accept them all for him,” said Cheriton, looking up, his face full of triumph; while Nettie, hitherto steady, broke down, to her own disgust, into sobs.
“I’m not frightened—no!” she said, as Gipsy tried to soothe her. “But I thought he wasn’t worth anything—and he is!”
“Come,” said Sir John, “we must not have any more heroics, and the hero must go home and rest—to Ashrigg, I mean. And you too, Cherry, go and look after him; here’s your grandmother’s carriage, while I see if my horses are fit to be trusted with the ladies.”
Alvar was still dizzy and shaken, though he said that the hurt to his arm was a trifle, and now stood up and inquired after his horse, which had been caught by a bystander, and was unhurt. Sir John’s coachman had also escaped with some severe bruises; and there was a general move. Jack, seeing Gipsy with her father, followed his brothers, anxious about them both, and overflowing with gratitude towards Alvar for his darling’s safety.
But as they turned to drive away they were obliged to cross the ground, and there rose from all sides such a thundering shout as threatened a repetition of the former danger; yeomanry, volunteers, and spectators, all joining in such an outburst of enthusiasm as had never echoed over Ashrigg Moors before. Their driver pulled up in the centre of the field with the obvious information,—
“They’re cheering, sir; it’s for you.” Alvar stood up, with his hand on Jack’s shoulder, and bowed with a grace and self-possession from which his pale face and hastily extemporised sling did not detract, and which his brothers—agitated, and ashamed of their agitation, were far from rivalling, as Jack desired the driver to “get on quick,” and Cheriton bent down his head, quivering in every nerve under the wonderful influence of that unanimous shout.
Some hours later, as Alvar lay on a sofa at Ashrigg, resting in preparation for the public dinner at Hazelby, for which every one had declared he must be well enough, the doctor included, he looked at Cherry, who sat near him, and said, with a smile,—“Cherito mio, I think they would all have grieved for me—the twins and all—if I had been killed. They would have been sorry for me—now.”
“Don’t—don’t talk of it. Of course they would,” said Cherry, with a shudder.
“Ah! I fear you will dream of it, as you used of the mountain at Ronda. It will hurt you more than it has hurt me.”
“No,” said Cherry; “but if we had lost you! We can hardly believe yet that we have you safe.”
“But,” said Alvar, with unusual persistency, “then you would have been the squire, after all. Ah! I am cruel to hurt you; but, Cheriton, once they would not have grieved.”
Cheriton could not command an answer, and Alvar quitted the subject; but the unmistakable affection showed to him at last by his brothers and sister healed the old wounds as nothing else would have done.
No one would own that the fright and agitation demanded a quiet evening, and the ladies all repaired to Hazelby, to sit in the gallery at the Town-hall to hear the speeches, Mrs Lester, who had happily not been present in the morning, accompanying them; and Jack, going to fetch Virginia, and after overwhelming her with the story of the alarm, assuring her that she must come and hear Alvar’s health drunk. Sir John Hubbard intended it should be done.
And so, when the usual toasts were over, old Sir John rose, and, full of compunction for past prejudices, and of gratitude for what Alvar had done for him, said that this was really the first public occasion they had had of welcoming Mr Lester among them; spoke of his father’s merits, of the difficulty a stranger might have in accommodating himself to their north-country fashions; touched lightly and gracefully on the reason of Alvar’s recent absence, and their pleasure in welcoming back again “one long known and loved,” and how much was owing to the elder brother’s care; hinted how Alvar had won “one of the best of their county prizes;” and then, out of the fulness of his heart, thanked him for his heroic behaviour in saving the life of Lady Hubbard, and himself from an irreparable loss, and, moreover, a frightful sense of responsibility.
Then Alvar’s health was drunk with all the honours, and it was long before the enthusiasm subsided sufficiently to allow him to reply.
He stood up, in his unusual height and dignity, and said, slowly and simply, “I thank you much, gentlemen. Sir John Hubbard need not thank me for rescuing my sister, and the betrothed of my brother. I was at hand, and of the danger I did not think.” (“No, no; of course not,” cried a voice.) “I have been a stranger, but I have no other country but England now, and it is my wish to be your friend and your neighbour, as my father was. I will endeavour to fill his place to my tenants; but I am ignorant, and have little skill. I think it is not perhaps permitted to me to name the one who will most help me in future, one of whom I am all unworthy. But there is another, who has always given me love, whom I love most dearly, as I think you do also. My brother Cheriton has taught me how to be an English squire.”
And among all those who cheered Alvar’s speech, the voice that was raised the loudest was Edward Fleming’s.
The next morning Cheriton went alone along the path from Oakby to Elderthwaite. His great wish was granted; his father’s place would be worthily filled. Alvar would never be a nobody in the county again, would never seem again out of place as their head. All old sores were healing, all were turning out well—how much better than he could ever have hoped!
Even for hopeless Elderthwaite things looked hopeful; and Cheriton’s quick and kindly thoughts turned to his share in the work of mending them. “If I may,” he thought, “but if not, I think I shall never fear for any one or any place again.”
Too much, perhaps, for the impetuous spirit to promise for itself; but come what might, those who loved Cheriton Lester had little cause to fear for the real welfare of one who loved them so well and looked upward so steadily.
Epilogue.
“Mr Ellesmere! I saw your name in the visitors’ book. So you are taking a holiday in Switzerland?”
“Mr Stanforth! Very glad to meet you. You will put us up to all we ought to see and admire. Are you alone?”
“Yes; you know I have lost my travelling companion. My next girl is still in the schoolroom, and I think will never be so adventurous as Gipsy.”
“You have good accounts, I hope, of Mrs Jack, as we irreverently call her.”
“Excellent; she adores the boys, and the boys adore her; her letters are very educational and aesthetic. She has picked up more ‘art’ as a schoolmaster’s wife than ever she learnt as an artist’s daughter, and could, doubtless, set me right on tones and colours.”
“Cherry told me that Jack had taken to the new culture.”
“Yes, he was much amused at the development produced by house-furnishing. But double firsts have a right to vagaries. But tell me something of the Oakby world. It is a very long time since I have been there, and one does not see much of people at a wedding, though I thought Cheriton looking very well.”
“Yes, he is fairly well, very useful, and, I think, quite content. Alvar has settled into his position, and fills it well. He is indignant if he is supposed to be ignorant of anything English; and his sweet graceful wife guides him as much as ‘Fanny’ did his father thirty years ago. His one trouble is that little Gerald is as dark as all his Spanish ancestors, and even Frances is like the Seytons, but that he can forgive.”
“Does she promise to rival her aunt? What a beautiful creature Miss Lester is!”
“Splendid! and still Miss Lester, which is rather a trouble to her grandmother. Whether she will ever be Lady Milford—or whether—Any way, Nettie can keep her own counsel.”
“And now, tell me about Elderthwaite. Has Cheriton justified his experiment?”
“Yes, I think I may say that he has. He has done a great deal. No one else could have done so much good, and certainly no one would have done so little harm.”
“And the old parson is resigned to improvements?”
“Yes, but there have been fewer external changes than you would expect, or than Cherry would wish if he were his own master, or even if he could depend on himself. But of course his health has weighted him heavily, and he cannot promise perfect regularity in services or arrangements.”
“I wonder he can manage at all.”
“Well, I think on the whole his health has improved, and he is well enough off to contrive things—has a horse and waggonette for bad weather; and his house is near the church, and he has built on a great room to it, and fitted it up with books and games, and he makes a sort of club of it for the boys and young men. His sitting-room opens into it, and he has classes and talks, and gets them to come and see him one by one. If he cannot do one thing he does another. And they have evening services in the summer, and early ones when it is possible. I think the sort of resolute way in which Cheriton has recognised the need of special care of himself, if he is to be useful, and carries it out, is one of the most remarkable things about him. Many young men might have killed themselves with hard work, and many would forget the danger when well and in good spirits, but he has recognised the limitations set to him, and bows to them.”
“Yes, and he does not offend his vicar.”
“Rarely, he has never failed to recognise his right to respect—never allowed the Wilsons, who are ardent and enthusiastic, to force anything on him. And there’s a great change. I don’t mean that the old fellow is cut after any modern pattern yet; but he is considerably more decorous, and sometimes there’s a sort of humility about him in admitting his shortcomings that is very touching. Cherry is the very light of his eyes.”
“And how does Cherry hit it off with the modern element?”
“Well, there I think his position has been a great advantage to him; they are a little afraid of him. But he gets on admirably with them, and you know they have improved the church immensely this last year, and what is more to the point, perhaps, it is filled with good congregations.”
“Is Cheriton a fine preacher?”
“Well, his people like him. I have rarely heard him; he is very difficult to get. Yes, I like his sermons; but he has not much voice, you see, and his manner is very quiet. He has not the sort of vehement eloquence you might have expected. I made some comment once to him, and he looked at me, and said, ‘I daren’t get eager and tire myself.’ I saw then how little strength he had to work with.”
“Poor fellow! But this life—does it satisfy him? Is he happy in it?”
“He is just as merry and full of fun as ever. He has a wonderful capacity for taking an interest in every one and everything; and though Alvar does not depend on him in the old exclusive way, he is most tender and careful of him, and Cherry delights in the children. I think Jack’s marriage was rather a wrench; those two do cling together so closely, and Jack was a great deal with him; but still there are grand plans for the holidays, and he is very fond of your daughter.”
“I don’t think that marriage will loosen the tie.”
“No; and he is much too unselfish really to regret it. Then all his village boys bring him pets; he says everything makes a link from a horse to a hedgehog. And my curates and the Ashrigg ones run after him, and think it a privilege to take a service for him; and he has done one rather feather-pated fellow, I know, a world of good.”
“That I can believe.”
“Yes; for, after all, Mr Stanforth, it is not his being a Lester of Oakby, nor a man of means, nor his wonderful tact, nor even his great charm of manner in itself that counterbalances his weak health and frequent absences, or makes a life spent among rather uncongenial elements sufficient to him. It is that he has the root of the matter in him as very few have. What he does and says may be less in quantity, but it is infinitely above in quality the ordinary work of his profession. He looks deep and he looks high, and men feel it. He has come through much tribulation, and—well, Mr Stanforth, the dragon slayers have their reward.”
“Yes, one must touch a high note in thinking of him.”
“So high, that one fears ‘to mar by earthly praise,’ one who I verily believe is as true a saint, as full of love and zeal.—Well, being so, as I truly think, he has what some holy souls have lacked, the gift of a gracious manner and a most sympathetic nature; and if a few more years and a little more experience could be granted to him, I believe he will have a great spiritual influence, if not wide, deep. Any way he will leave in one place the memory of a pure and holy life, and will lead others to follow the Master he loves so well.”
The End.
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Preface
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Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 22
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Chapter 23
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Chapter 24
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Chapter 25
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Chapter 26
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Chapter 27
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Chapter 28
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Chapter 29
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Chapter 30
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Chapter 31
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Chapter 32
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Chapter 33
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Chapter 34
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Chapter 35
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Chapter 36
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Chapter 37
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Chapter 38
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Chapter 39
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Chapter 40
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Chapter 41
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Chapter 42
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Chapter 43
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Chapter 44
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Chapter 45
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Chapter 46
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Chapter 47
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Epilogue
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