"It is the little rift within the lover's lute."
In the June following the expedition to Black Tarn, some great
festivities were held in honour of the coming of age of a young
nobleman, who possessed a large property about fifteen miles from Oakby.
His father, the late Lord Milford, had been a friend of Mr Lester, and
the young man himself was at school for a time with his sons. The event
being also of importance in the county, old Mrs Lester broke through
her usual home-staying habits, and took Ruth and Virginia Seyton for a
three days' visit to Milford Hall.
It was right for Virginia to be seen in her own county before her
marriage; it was years since her father and aunt had been present at
such a gathering, and Alvar and his father were of course among the
guests. Cheriton was passing, or had passed, his examination; but he
had decided not to come home until he knew his fate; and in studying the
papers every morning, in the hope of seeing the Class Lists long before
they could possibly be printed, Mr Lester and Alvar found at last a
subject on which they could thoroughly sympathise, though Mr Lester
frequently remarked that there was never any knowing how those matters
would be managed; he did not expect much, while Alvar suffered from no
misgivings at all.
Rupert and some of his brother officers were among the guests; the
entertainments were of the most brilliant description, and the weather
perfect.
Ruth was well known and popular. True, she distinguished herself
neither in archery nor any other outdoor sport; she was not even a very
great dancer; but she could talk, and look, and smile as if her
companion's words were the one thing interesting to her; hence her
success. And Rupert was there, and in the dark alleys and lonely
shrubberies of the great gardens at Milford, opportunities for
_tete-a-tetes_ were not wanting. Ruth, conscious of her becoming dress
of the soft, warm maize that suited her brown skin, with amusement and
admiration to froth her cup of pleasure, and Rupert's exciting presence
to spice it and make it worth the drinking, might seem to be enjoying
the most brilliant outcome of young-lady life. Sparkle and colour,
feeling and passion, she would have chosen as her greatest good.
Theoretically she would have willingly embraced the pains and penalties
which they might bring in their train. Yet Ruth on the sunny lawns and
stately paths of Milford was profoundly and violently miserable, full of
anger and despair.
The terms on which she stood with Rupert were such as could only be
endurable with the most perfect trust on both sides. Where it was
necessary to feign neglect, it was sometimes a strain to believe in the
real devotion. Neither Ruth nor Rupert were people whose manners
precluded the possibility of a mistake, and, as has been seen, Rupert
was not proof against jealousy. The strength of Ruth's own passion made
her more trustful of his, but at the same time she demanded more from
him, and he failed to fulfil her ideal of an ardent lover. He appeared
to her to be too cautious, to miss opportunities, and be his necessity
for secrecy what it might, she _could_ not bear to see him attentive to
others--to another, rather.
There was a young Lady Alice, in her first season, a charming childish
beauty, after whom it was the fashion to run, and who found it agreeable
enough to torment her many admirers, and provoke the aunt who chaperoned
her, by flirting with the handsome Captain Lester, who, on his side,
knew well enough that she meant nothing serious; and, while he was true
in his heart to Ruth, was vain enough to be flattered by the preference
of a beauty, and of a lady, moreover, of rank and distinction. It
showed every one that he was a man of the world, and a very agreeable
fellow.
Perhaps matters might have mended if Mrs Lester, who thought modern
manners much too free, and drew a sharp distinction between the
simplicity of her own straightforward, unwatched girlhood and the
coquetries of a ball-room, and who, moreover, disapproved of Ruth, had
not looked so very sharply after her, that private interviews were
rendered difficult, and Ruth was growing too angry to seek one.
She had not sat by him at dinner; they were separated at the great
concert that had been given on the day of their arrival; and on the
next, which was one long _fete_, ending in a ball, they only caught a
few hasty words with each other; and it appeared to her excited fancy
that he was for ever at Lady Alice's side. In the evening she would not
dance with him, crowding her card with names, laughed, talked, flirted,
and was wretched. It was not till after supper that he pursued her into
the last of a long vista of conservatories, where a very youthful
partner had conducted her to smell the stephanotis, and claim the next
dance as his own.
The warm, scented air, the distant music, the soft, dim mingling of lamp
and moonlight, through which strange, rare flowers gleamed out from
their dark foliage, formed such a background as Ruth's vivid fancy, fed
by many a tale and poem, had often painted, to scenes that should
satisfy her in their tenderness and intensity. Among the wild fir-woods
of Oakby, here and there, at odd times and by unexpected chances, she
had known blissful moments, every one of which was before her now as she
set her mouth hard, and looked at Rupert with eyes full both of love and
anger.
Rupert was excited and eager, conscious of having given cause of
offence, and a little off his head with the flattery he had received.
He failed to read the meaning of her face, and turned to her eagerly.
"At last, my child! Mrs Lester is a perfect dragon!"
"I don't think it has been Mrs Lester's fault."
"It has been none of mine," said Rupert. "Your fine, yellow dress
escaped me at every turn, and I could not get away from the people. I
have had to work hard for my fun, and arrange dozens of things."
"I daresay it is very pleasant to be so popular," said Ruth, detecting
the little boast, which in a cooler moment would have passed unnoticed.
There was a sort of airiness in Rupert's manner, inexpressibly
irritating when she wanted every assurance of the passion which she was
so often obliged to take upon trust.
"Come, Ruthie, that's not fair. What is a poor fellow to do? I have
been horribly down in the mouth since we parted; it takes so long to get
one's affairs to rights. Your guardians would bow me out of the house
pretty quickly if I applied to them now. Can you trust me a little
longer, my darling? I'm living on twopence a day to bring things
round."
"And did the gloves Lady Alice won from you, come out of the twopence?"
said Ruth, unable to control her anger, sarcastic because such a storm
of tears was pending.
Rupert's quick temper took fire in a moment.
"If you have so little confidence in me, Ruth, as to be angry at such a
trifle," he said hotly, "it is impossible--You make me feel that I ask
more of you than you can give."
"Yes," said Ruth, "I cannot give such confidence. When it is months
since I have seen you--weeks since I heard from you. I _cannot_ see you
devoted to--to another, when you cannot find a moment for me. If _you_
can bear it--"
"You are very unreasonable, Ruth. I thought that you were generous
before all other women, and patient. You speak as if you doubted my
honour."
"If it comes to talking of _honour_," cried Ruth, "if you need _that_ to
bind you, you are free. I will not hold you one hour by your honour!"
"Nor I you to a trial of generosity, which it seems you cannot bear."
If Rupert had not been first _tete montee_, and then very angry, he
would not have made this remark.
"Generosity!" cried Ruth. "No. If honour and generosity are required
between us, I'll make no claim on them. Let it all be over--we'll part.
Yes, we'll part, and then you need deny yourself nothing--nothing for
my sake."
"It might be best--if you look on it in this way."
There was a silence. Rupert pulled his moustaches sharply; his face was
pale; in that hot moment he felt he might be well quit of Ruth's
unreasonable jealousy and suspicion. Ruth sat quite still; she would
have yielded at a word, perhaps--in a minute more she might even have
made the first advance to a reconciliation. But as the dance ended the
conservatory filled with people. They were joined by two or three
couples, and a young lady, an old acquaintance of Rupert's, exclaimed,
with sufficient forwardness,--
"Oh, Captain Lester, what do you think we were discussing? People say
that you are engaged to be married. Is it true--do tell me?"
"No," said Rupert shortly. "I am not engaged to be married, nor likely
to be."
He laughed bitterly as he spoke, and perhaps under the circumstances
could hardly have avoided some sort of denial; but the directness of
this one, and the tone in which it was spoken, seemed to seal Ruth's
fate. She said afterwards that she went mad at that moment, and
certainly she lost the soft self-possession that was one of her chief
charms, grew daring and defiant, and said and did things that others
remembered long after she had recovered from the wild excitement that
prompted them. The sacredness of ungovernable feeling was an article of
her faith, and she was quite as miserable as she ever thought true love
would demand of any one. But the poor child, as she sat on the floor in
her own room that night, with her face hidden on a chair, did not think
at all that she was "having an experience," nor going through the second
volume of the story, in the beginning of which she had so gloried; she
only felt that she was utterly and inconceivably wretched, and angry
beyond expression. Rupert did not care for her, or only cared in a
commonplace fashion. There was nothing left in life for her. Evidently
he had been glad to find in the quarrel an excuse for an escape.
Ruth's hot displeasure culminated when she came down to breakfast the
next morning, and found that every one was regretting the departure of
the officers from York, who had been obliged to take leave early that
morning. They would be a great loss at the tenants' ball that night.
"Father, my father," suddenly exclaimed Alvar Lester, coming into the
room with a newspaper in his hand. "See, it is here, `Gerald Cheriton
Lester.' And he is first. I said so. Ah! I rejoice!"
Alvar's eager voice and excited face attracted general attention, as he
put the paper into his father's hand, and pointed over his shoulder.
There was a chorus of congratulation, while Mr Lester's blue eyes
looked as bright as his son's black ones, as he hummed and ha'd, coughed
two or three times, and said, with as little exultation as he could
manage to show, "That he was glad Cheriton had worked hard and done his
best. He was a good lad, and had never given any trouble. Now, they
could have him at home for a bit."
"Ah! that will be _jolly_," said Alvar. "But he will have come home,
through last night, and we shall not be there."
"Send a telegram to meet him, and ask him to come over," said young Lord
Milford. "He always was a capital fellow, and I shall be delighted to
see him."
"And I hope, Milford," said the young lord's mother, "that you will take
example by your friend."
"Don't you build on any such hopes, mother, but I'll go and see about
getting him over here at once."
Mrs Lester was moved to encomiums on Cherry's studies and steadiness;
and more than one of those present remarked with admiration the
unselfish pleasure taken by the elder brother in the success of his
universally popular junior.
Virginia Seyton watched her betrothed a little wistfully. Ruth's was
not the only love story that was running its course through these early
summer months, and Virginia's heart was not quite at ease. If "what
Rupert was like," had come upon Ruth with a sudden blow, "what Alvar was
like," was still something of a problem to Virginia. He was attractive
to her beyond measure, he occupied every corner of her heart; it was joy
to her to be near him; his gentle, chivalrous courtship gave her
unimaginable delight. She could remember every glance of his eyes,
every touch of his hand; but--But what? Alvar was at once too obtuse
and too proud ever to assume a character that did not belong to him. He
did not think it worth while to acquire or profess new sentiments;
perhaps he never even perceived that they were desired. He was, spite
of his courteous tongue, as absolutely candid a person as his brother
Jack. He was not a bit worse than he seemed, neither was he much
better. He behaved very well in his difficult life, and regulated his
conduct by certain maxims of honour and courtesy; but, in the sense in
which Virginia understood the word, he had no principles at all. It was
with a curious mixture of sensations that, when, _a propos_ of some
scrape of Dick's, she had timidly alluded to the gambling that had
brought such distress on her family, Virginia heard him answer,--
"Ah, they have had much ill-fortune," without a spark apparently of
righteous indignation.
Nor could she help perceiving that he scarcely ever occupied himself
with anything more useful than a cigar. "My father is always busy," he
would say complacently, as he sat idle; but he did not point any popular
moral; for idleness made him neither ill-humoured nor mischievous.
Virginia loved him well enough to set all her will on the side of making
allowances. When he saw her scrupulous and earnest in fulfilling her
religious duties, he would kiss her hand and say, "My queen is as holy
as a saint," and he conformed sufficiently to the Oakby standard to
satisfy her conscience, if not his own, never uttering a word that could
offend her. But, as he had told Cheriton, "he did not interest himself
in these matters," and she knew it.
Perhaps Virginia, diffident as to her knowledge of masculine standards
and modes of expression, might never have realised even thus much to
herself, but for the instinctive sense of another shortcoming in her
lover, which she would not admit, and which she hated herself for even
imagining. It came, by a strange turn of fate, both to her and to Ruth,
to feel that the love they gave was not returned in its fulness. With
what a passion of despair and jealousy Ruth had resented the discovery
has been seen.
To Virginia it brought a disheartening sense of her own demerit, a doubt
of the truth of her own impressions, vexation at her own want of
trustfulness, shame and self-blame, because she could not help knowing
that Alvar missed sometimes the chance of a word or an interview when
_she_ would have secured it, because she felt that he did not care as
she cared. But then, temperaments differ; some people were reserved;
perhaps she was exacting, and her cheek had flushed and her eyes
sparkled with joy when Alvar praised the dresses she had taken such
pains to choose for the Milford _fetes_, and when he paid her all the
_attention_ due from an affianced lover.
She had no cause to feel neglected, while Ruth was chafing at the sight
of Rupert's flirtations. And when the news came of Cheriton's success,
was she not proud of Alvar's generous delight? Yes, but _she_ had never
stirred his passive content to such pleasure; he had never been in such
high spirits for her! Ah! how hatefully selfish she was to think of it!
The two girls exchanged no confidences. Ruth's heart was too sore, and
Virginia's too loyal for a word; but as they consulted over their
dresses, and speculated whether Cheriton would arrive in time for the
tenants' dance that night, each wondered what the other would say to the
secret thoughts of her heart.