"O happy world!" thought Pelleas, "all me seems
Are happy--I the happiest of them all."
On that same hot summer night, when Ruth and Rupert were first making
each other miserable, and then finding out separately that they were
very miserable themselves, Cheriton, with hope and joy in his heart, was
speeding home to Oakby. With hope and joy, for Ruth had made up for her
cold farewell, by making some little excuse for writing to him, and
asking him to get her a picture of the Arms of the Colleges, a
commission which, it is needless to say, he found time to execute.
This pleasure had helped him through his hard work, for he was excitable
enough to have felt the last few weeks of effort and suspense a severe
strain, and had not brought quite his usual health and strength to bear
on them; for he had caught a bad cold with the race in the rain at Black
Tarn, and had never given himself a chance of getting rid of it.
However, it was all over now, he thought, his mind was relieved, and the
prospect of home with its leisure and its occupations had never seemed
so delightful to him. For his love for Ruth did not shut out the
thought of all other affections, it rather cast a radiance over them,
and made him more conscious of their sweetness.
It was a lovely summer morning, as the train came in to Ashrigg station,
the wide landscape showed clear and fresh against the cloudless sky, the
peculiar northern sharpness was in the air. It was sweet to Cherry's
senses, and finding no conveyance so early at Ashrigg, he set off to
walk home across the dewy fields, Buffer, enchanted at his release from
durance vile, trotting and barking at his heels.
By various short cuts the walk was under three miles, and Cheriton soon
found himself at the house, where he had time to get some breakfast, and
to feel somewhat disappointed that no one was at home to hear his good
news, for he felt too tired to go and seek for congratulations at the
Vicarage, where Nettie was staying, or where he would have been at least
equally certain of them, to the Lodge to which the old family nurse had
migrated.
So he contented himself with greeting all the dogs, and with the
delightful consciousness that he had no need to exert himself, till Lord
Milford's telegram arrived, and the thought of so quickly greeting Ruth,
and of finding her belonging as it were to his own party, and thus
making a thousand opportunities for paying her attention, roused him
from his fit of languor and fatigue, and he eagerly made his
preparations, and started off in the middle of the bright June day, on
his further travels.
The midsummer weather in that northern country had still much of the
freshness and the delicacy of the spring. The trees were in their first
bright green, the bluebells lingered in the woods, the birds sang songs
of hopefulness to him. Milford was in a softer, more richly-wooded
landscape than Oakby, and the gardens were splendid with early roses and
flowering shrubs, the park still here and there white with hawthorn.
This was the children's day, a great school feast for all the parishes
round, to be followed by a children's dance in the evening. Cheriton
arrived in the midst of a grand tea in the park, and pausing to detect
his relations, perceived Alvar looking even unusually tall, stately, and
graceful, as he walked along a row of the very tiniest children, and
filled their mugs with milk and water from a huge can. He looked up as
he came to the end, and saw Cheriton's laughing eyes fixed full upon
him.
"Ah! Cheriton!" he exclaimed, "you are here, and with all your honours!
Welcome."
"Thanks; I knew you would be pleased. So you are making yourself
useful. Where's my father?"
"In the tent with Lady Milford. I will show you."
Cheriton was inclined to think it a great bore to find his own people
surrounded by strangers, and was ashamed of the congratulations which
the circumstances of his arrival and the warm-heartedness of his hosts
called forth. So he and his father hardly said a word to each other,
though they experienced a great content in being together; perhaps a
more uncommon ending to a university career than Cherry's honours, even
had they been doubled.
"Come, Lester," said Lord Milford, "and make yourself useful. I know
you are great at sack-races, and three-legged races, and such
diversions."
"After being up all night? Well, as long as I am not expected to jump
in a sack myself--" said Cheriton. "Come, Alvar, don't you want another
can of milk and water?"
"All! you laugh at me," said Alvar contentedly. "I am too glad to see
you to care. This _fete_ is very pleasant. I am glad you came back in
time for it."
"Yes; but I wish we were all at home," said Cheriton absently, and
looking anxiously round him. He soon discovered Virginia, much in her
element among a crowd of school-girls; and at length his eyes found the
object of their search. A little apart on a bench sat Ruth in the most
delicate of white muslins, gloves, fan, and ribbons, all in first-rate
order, looking, with the fantastic fashion, and brilliant dashes of
colour in her dress, like a figure on a fan. She gave a little start as
she saw Cheriton's figure in the distance, and her flush of
disappointment as he came nearer was at once noted by him, and--
misinterpreted.
"So you have got your laurels?" she said softly, as she held out her
hand, and looked up in his face. "I am glad."
"Then they are worth having?" said Cheriton.
It might have been a mere jesting answer, but Ruth did not so take it,
nor did he intend that she should do so. He would have altered nothing
in her greeting to him, it was a better meeting than he could have
imagined. Afterwards, if Ruth had wished to discourage him, she would
not have found it easy; he had but one purpose, and he set himself to
fulfil it; hopeful through the charm of present bliss. It was not often
that Cheriton's native skies were so cloudless, nor were these hot, full
summer days at all typical of the home that he loved so well. But it
was in such "blue unclouded weather," in such smiling midsummer beauty,
that he pictured afterwards the wind-swept moors and hardy fir-woods of
his north-country home. Nor did the memory of hot, glaring sunshine, of
dust, and noise, and fatigue, cease to haunt Ruth for many a day to
come.
She was one of those to whom excitement gives another and an intenser
self. Of this she was dimly conscious, and when she had said that she
could die for Rupert, she had perhaps not been far wrong. That extreme
anger would urge her to a course almost equally desperate she had never
guessed, but to give Rupert pain, to cause him chagrin and remorse, in
short, to make him jealous and miserable as he had made her, she would
have endured tortures.
When people are thus minded, in other words, when they are in a passion,
life always helps them on. Whether by accident or by malice, she had
heard plenty of gossip about Rupert; he had written no word of
repentance; she knew that Lady Alice would shortly meet him again.
Well, if _her_ conduct was discussed between them, he should hear
enough, both to hurt his provoking self-love, and to show that he did
not suffer. And Cheriton offered the sort of strange counter-attraction
often felt on such occasions to any one else than the object of anger.
She had always liked to "talk to Cherry," his love was flattering, and
she instinctively knew that it was true. He was also a singularly
attractive and lovable person, and in Ruth's sore-hearted rage she felt
his charm. "It was nice to be with him--he did her good;" and if she
could wound Rupert and please herself, the possible disappointment to
Cheriton was not worth considering. But Ruth reckoned without her host.
She neither allowed for Cheriton's ardour, nor for the effect that it
would have on her; she did not know how definite her choice must be.
Cherry was not nearly so useful as his friend had expected; he was too
tired to play games, and dancing, he said, gave him a pain in his side
and made him cough, which was true, and would have been an equally good
reason against wandering about in the shrubberies and distant paths with
Ruth, where he incurred other dangers than night air and dewy grass. He
was too happy to heed any of them. She listened, as Ruth knew how to
listen, to his account of his Oxford life--his hopes and fears--his
future prospects--and she was carried away, spite of herself, by the
single-minded earnestness with which he spoke. He interested her, and
she forgot herself for the moment as they strolled along; the yellow
sunset dying in the distance, the first star shining over the great
house behind them. Suddenly Cheriton turned and took her hand.
"Ruth," he said, "I have told you all this because it is so sweet to see
you listen. I have something more to tell you now. I have a great many
aims and ambitions--there's one dearer than the rest. I love my own
people--my home--very much. I love you best, infinitely best. I always
have loved you. Can you love me?"
"Oh, Cherry!" cried Ruth, in desperate self-defence, "don't say so!
That sort of love is all a mistake. Keep to the other sort--it is a
great deal better for you."
"Better!" exclaimed Cheriton. "One thing is best for me--to have you
for my wife. Oh, Ruth, my darling! ever since I was a boy I have loved
you. Can't you care a little for me? I think you can--I hope you can.
_You_ have always listened to me and understood me. I think you know me
better than any one does!"
"I know--you _do_ care," said Ruth, half to herself.
"It is my very life," he said, and as she, trembling, hardly able to
stand, made a half movement towards--not away from him--he threw his
arms round her and drew her close. "My darling!--oh, my darling! am I
so happy?--ah! thank God! Thank God!"
Ruth burst into a passion of tears. Retreat was growing impossible; she
hardly knew what she wished; anger, a sort of wild triumph, the
difficulty of resisting this passionate pleading, the inconceivable joy
of Cheriton's face and voice, added to the overstrained excitement of
her previous feelings, completely overpowered her, till her sobs were
uncontrollable, and with them came the strangest impulse to tell him
all, the most incongruous confidence in the justice and sympathy of this
passionate lover for the love and sorrows that would have wrecked his
hopes. Ah! if she had but done so!
"Oh, what a fool I have been!" cried Cheriton, exceedingly distressed.
"Oh, Ruth, my darling! I have frightened you. I'll be patient; I'll
not say another word. See, here's a seat--sit down. I deserve that you
should never speak to me again."
Ruth let him lead her to the bench, and endeavoured to collect her
senses.
"I am not half good enough for you. You don't know what you want," she
faltered.
"Oh, yes, I do. I know just what I want," said Cheriton softly and
gently; but venturing to sit down beside her, and trying to reassure her
by a little playfulness; "but I don't know how to ask for it. Alvar
might have shown me the way."
"Oh, you know well enough," said Ruth, in a more natural tone, and in
the few moments, while he sat watching her, her excitement cooled down,
or rather hardened itself into shape. Her tears dried up, and she
said,--
"What would your father say?"
"He will think me too happy! Will you forgive me for startling you, and
give me my answer now?"
He was half smiling, as he timidly put out his hand again. She had
given reason enough to hope for the answer he wanted, and suddenly there
darted into her mind as an excuse, a reason, an explanation of all this
conflict of impulses, of the wish to pique Rupert to avenge herself on
the one side--to snatch something from life if she could not have all on
the other--a thought--"When Rupert knows he has such a rival, if he
loves me, he will not give me up." She yielded her hand to Cheriton's,
and said quickly,--
"Only promise me one thing. I did not think of this--it is so sudden.
I am going away to-morrow, to Mrs Grey's, for a fortnight. Promise not
to tell any one--your father, your brothers, till I come back. Give me
time to--to get used to it first."
"Of course," said Cheriton reluctantly, "that must be as you please.
But I long to tell them of my great happiness. And my father will care
so much about it. But of course I promise. But I may write to you?"
"No--no--then every one will find it out!" said Ruth, with recurring
agitation. "You--you don't know how I feel about it."
"Well, I have gained too much to complain," said Cheriton, too
loyal-hearted, and too inexperienced, for a single doubt. "But Ruth,
_my_ Ruth, one thing--give me one kiss to remember!"
"Go then--go! some one will find us!" cried Ruth, and startled by
approaching footsteps, she rushed away from him; but the treacherous
kiss was given, though she felt in a moment that she would almost have
died to recall it. She had revenged herself; she hated herself; she
already began to try to excuse herself.
A little later, while troops of gaily-dressed children were dancing in
the lighted hall, and the outdoor guests were rapidly departing, Alvar
was standing on the terrace, wondering what could have become of his
brother. More than one person had remarked that he looked delicate and
overworked; and Alvar felt anxious as he saw him come slowly up from the
grounds towards him.
"Where have you been, Cherry?" he said. "Are you not well?"
Cheriton smiled rather dreamily.
"Oh, yes, quite well," he said. There was a far-away look of blissful,
peaceful content in his eyes, as if it were indeed well with him; an
expression of perfect, thankful happiness, as far removed from the
ordinary state of this tolerably comfortable work-a-day world as one of
great wretchedness and misery; and as remarkable. As Alvar looked at
him, they heard the cry of a little child. Cheriton turned and saw
trotting along the terrace in the dusk a very little boy, left behind by
some of the schools now trooping out of the park. Cherry lifted him up
in his arms and smiled kindly at him, trying to make out whom he
belonged to, and the child clung to him, quite at ease with him.
"Milford School; ah! I see their flag. Come, my lad, we'll go and find
them. There, don't cry, nobody must cry to-night, of all nights in the
year."
"When Lady Milford has been so kind," said Alvar, for the child's
benefit.
"Ah! every one is kind!" said Cherry, with a little laugh, as he carried
away the child, "and we must--say thank you."
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End of Volume One.