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 Two.
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 Three.
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.