"And with such words--a lie!--a lie!
She broke my heart and flung it by."
In the early days of August, after as long a delay as she could find
excuse for, Ruth Seyton returned to Elderthwaite, knowing that Rupert
was to come next week to Oakby for the grouse shooting, and that
Cheriton was ready to claim her promise; for as she came on the very day
of her arrival to a garden-party at Mrs Ellesmere's, she held in her
pocket a letter written in defiance of her prohibition, urging her to
let him speak to her again, and full of love and longing for her
presence.
She knew that Rupert was coming, for the quarrel between them was at an
end. Ruth had been very dull and desolate during her quiet visit to
some old friends of her mother's, very much shocked at hearing from
Virginia of Cherry's illness, and more self-reproachful for having let
him linger in the damp shrubberies by her side than for the greater
injury she had done him.
She wrote on the spur of the moment, and sent Alvar a kind message of
sympathy; but every day her promise to Cheriton seemed more unreal, and
when at last Rupert came, ashamed of the foolish dispute, and only
wanting to laugh at and forget it, she yielded to his first word, and,
though a little hurt to find how lightly he could regard a lover's
quarrel, was too happy to forgive and be forgiven. But one thing she
knew that he would not have forgiven, and that was her reception of
Cheriton's offer, and though it had never entered into her theories of
life to deceive the real lover, she let it pass unconfessed--nay, let
Rupert suppose, though she did not put it in words, that she had
discovered "Cheriton's folly" in time to put it aside.
That she must shortly meet them both, and in each other's presence, was
the one thought in her mind, even while she heard from Virginia that
Cherry was almost well again, and detected a touch of chagrin in her
eager account of Alvar's clever and constant care. "No, she had not
seen him yesterday, but they would all meet to-day."
Still it was startling, when the two girls came out into the garden of
the rectory, to see in the sunshine Cheriton Lester with a mallet in his
hand, looking tall and delicate, but with a face of eager greeting
turned full on her own.
In another moment he held her hand in a close, tight grasp, as she
dropped her eyes and hoped that he was better.
"Quite well now," said Cheriton, in a tone that Ruth fancied every one
must interpret truly.
"That is, when he obeys orders," said another voice; and Ruth felt her
heart stand still, for Rupert came up to Cheriton's side and held out
his hand to her.
For the first time in her life she was sorry to see him. She could have
screamed with the surprise, and her face betrayed an agitation that made
Cheriton's heart leap, as he attributed it to her meeting with him after
his dangerous illness.
"I am quite well," he repeated. "I am not going to give any more
trouble, I hope, now."
Rupert looked unusually full of spirits. "Good news," he whispered to
Ruth, with a smile of triumph. She could hardly smile back at him.
Alvar now came up and spoke to them. He looked very grave; as Ruth
fancied, reproachful.
Some one asked Ruth to play croquet, and she declined; then felt as if
the game would have been a refuge. But she took what seemed the lesser
risk, and walked away with Rupert; and Cheriton tried in vain for the
opportunity of a word with her--she eluded him, he hardly knew how. The
sense of suspicion and suspense which had been growing all through the
later weeks of his recovery was coming to a point.
Ruth seemed like a mocking fairy, like some unreliable vision, as he saw
her smiling and gracious--nay, answered occasional remarks from her--but
could never meet her eyes, nor obtain from her one real response.
These perpetual, impalpable rebuffs raised such a tumult in Cheriton's
mind that he restrained himself with a forcible effort from some
desperate measure which should oblige her to listen to him, while all
his native reticence and pride could hardly afford him self-control
enough to play his part without discovery.
An equal sense of baffled discomfort pressed on Virginia. She had very
seldom seen a cloud on Alvar's brow; he never committed such an act of
discourtesy as to be out of temper in her presence; but to-day he looked
so stern as to prompt her to say, timidly, "Has anything vexed you,
Alvar?"
"How could I be vexed when you are here, queen of my heart?" said Alvar,
turning to her with a smile. "See, will you come to get some
strawberries--it is hot?"
"I would rather you told me when things trouble you," said Virginia.
"It is not for you, _mi dona_, to hear of things that are troubling,"
said Alvar, still rather abstractedly.
"Are you still anxious about Cherry?" she persisted.
"_Ay de mi_, yes; I am anxious about him," said Alvar, sharply; then
changing, "but I am ungallant to show you my anxiety. That is not for
you."
"Ah, how you misunderstand what I want!" she cried. "If I only knew
what you feel, if you would talk to me about yourself! But it is like
giving an Eastern lady fine dresses and sugar-plums."
The gentle Virginia was angry and agitated. All through Cheriton's
illness she had felt herself kept at a distance by Alvar, known herself
unable to comfort him, had suffered pangs that were like enough to
jealousy, to intensify themselves by self-reproach. Yet she gloried in
Alvar's devotion to his brother, in his skill and tenderness. Alvar did
not perceive what she wanted, and, moreover, was of course unable to
tell her the present cause of his annoyance, at the existence of which
he did not wish her to guess.
"See now," he said, taking her hands and kissing them, "how I am
discourteous; I am sulky, and I let you see it. Forgive me, forgive me,
it shall be so no more. You shed tears; ah, my queen, they reproach
me!"
Virginia yielded to his caresses and his kindness, and blamed herself.
Some day, perhaps, in a quieter moment, she could show him that she
wanted to share his troubles and not be protected from them. In the
meantime his presence was almost enough.
Alvar, like some others of his name, was a person of slow perceptions,
and was apt to be absorbed in one idea at a time. He did not guess that
while he paid Virginia all the courtesy that he thought her due she
longed for a far closer union of spirits. He was proud of being
Cheriton's chief dependence during the tedious recovery that none of the
others could bear to think incomplete, and to find that his tact and
consideration made him a welcome companion when Jack's ponderous
discussions were too great a fatigue. But he would not endure thanks,
and after the outburst with which he had received his father's nobody
proffered them. Not one of the others, full of anger with Ruth and of
anxiety for Cheriton, could have abstained from fretting him with one
word on the subject, as Alvar did all that afternoon and evening. But
his mind was free to think of nothing else.
As for Ruth, the moment that should have been full of unalloyed bliss
for her, the moment when Rupert told her that concealment was no longer
necessary, was distracted by the terror of discovery.
Rupert had to tell her that the sale of a farm, effected on unusually
advantageous terms, had made the declaration of his wishes possible to
him, and he was now ready to present himself before her guardians and
ask their consent to a regular engagement. Ruth was about to go back to
her grandmother, and all might now be well. Ruth did not know how to be
glad; she could not tell how deeply the Lesters might blame her. Her
one hope was in Cheriton's generosity, and to him at least she must tell
the whole truth.
"To-morrow I shall come and see you," he said gravely, as he wished her
good-night, and she managed to give him an assenting glance, but he knew
that she was treating him ill, and tormented himself with a thousand
fancies--that his illness had changed him, that something during their
separation had changed her. He said nothing, but the next day started
alone for Elderthwaite.
It was a bright morning, with a clear blue sky. Cheriton passed into
the wood and through the flickering shadows of the larches. He did not
spend the time of his walk in forming any plans as to how he should meet
Ruth; he set his mind on the one fact that a meeting was certain. But
perhaps the brightness of the morning influenced his mood, for as he
came out on to the bit of bare hill-side that divided the wood from the
Elderthwaite property, a certain happiness of anticipation possessed
him--circumstances might account for the discomfort of the preceding
day, Ruth's eyes might once more meet his own, her voice once more tell
him that she loved him.
The bit of fell was divided from Mr Seyton's plantation by a low stone
wall, mossy, and overgrown with clumps of harebells and parsley fern,
and half smothered by the tall brackens and brambles that grew on either
side of it. Beyond were a few stunted, ill-grown oak-trees, with a wild
undergrowth of hazel.
As Cheriton came across the soft, smooth turf of the hill-side, he
became aware that some one was sitting on the wall beside the wide gap
that led into the plantation, and he quickened his steps with a thrill
of hope as he recognised Ruth. She stood up as he approached and waited
for him, as he exclaimed eagerly,--
"This is too good of you!"
"Oh, no!" said Ruth, and began to cry.
Her eyes were red already, and with her curly hair less deftly arranged
than usual, and her little black hat pushed back from her face, she had
an air indescribably childish and forlorn.
Every thought of resentment passed from Cheriton's mind, he was by her
side in a moment, entreating to be told of her trouble, and in his
presence the telling of her story was so dreadful to her that perhaps
nothing but the knowledge of Rupert's neighbourhood could have induced
her to do it. Ruth hated to be in disgrace, and genuine as were her
tears, she was not without a thought of prepossessing him in her favour.
But she could not run the risk of Rupert's suddenly coming through the
fir-wood.
"Please come this way," she said, breaking from him and skirting along
inside the wall till they were out of sight of the pathway. Then she
began, averting her face and plucking at the fern-leaves in the wall.
"I--I don't know how to tell you, but you are so good and kind and
generous, so much--_much_ better than I am--you won't be hard on me."
"It doesn't take much goodness to make me feel for your trouble," said
Cheriton, tenderly. "Tell me, my love, and see if I am hard."
"Every one _is_ hard on a girl who has been as foolish as I have."
Cheriton began to think that she was going to tell him of some undue
encouragement given to some other lover in his absence or before her
promise to him, and to believe that here was the explanation of all that
had perplexed him.
"I shall never be offended when you tell me that I have no cause for
offence," he said, putting his hand down on hers as she fingered the
fern-leaves.
"_Indeed_, I would not have deceived you so long, but for your illness,"
said Ruth, a little more firmly.
"Deceived me! Dearest, don't use such hard words of yourself. Tell me
what all this means. What fancy is this?"
"Will you promise--promise me to be generous and to forgive me? Oh, you
may ruin all my life if you will," said Ruth, passionately.
"_I_ ruin _your_ life! ah, you little know! When my life was given back
to me, I was glad because it belonged to you," said Cheriton, faltering
in his earnestness.
"Then oh! Cherry, Cherry," cried Ruth, suddenly turning on him and
clasping her hands, "then give me back my foolish promise--forget it
altogether--let us be friends as we were when I was a little girl. Oh,
Cherry, forgive me--I cannot--cannot do it!"
"What can you mean?" said Cheriton, slowly, and with so little evidence
of surprise that Ruth took courage to go on.
"Cherry!" she repeated, as if clinging to the name that marked her old
relation to him; "Cherry, a long time ago--last spring, I was engaged to
some one else--to your cousin; but it suited him--us--to say nothing of
it at first. And oh! I was jealous and foolish, and we quarrelled, and
I was in a passion, and thought to show him I didn't care. And you came
that day at Milford, and I knew how good you were, and you begged so
hard I couldn't resist you--you gave me no time. And then very soon he
came back, and I knew I had made a mistake. I would have told you at
once, indeed I would, but for your illness. How could I then?"
Cheriton stood looking at her, and while she spoke, his astonished gaze
grew stern and piercing, till she shrank from him and turned away. Then
he said, with a sort of incredulous amazement, with which rising anger
contended,--
"Then you _never_ meant what you said? When you told me that you loved
me, it was false--you did not mean to give yourself to me? You kissed
me to deceive me?"
"Oh, Cheriton!" sobbed Ruth, covering her face, "don't--don't put it
like that. I was very--very foolish--very wicked, but it was not all
plain in that way. Won't you forgive me? I was so very unhappy! I
thought you were always kind--"
"Kind!" ejaculated Cheriton. "There is only one way of putting it!
Which is your lover, to which of us are you promised, to Rupert or to
me?"
Anger, scorn, and a pain as yet hardly felt, intensified Cheriton's
accent. She had expected him to plead for himself, to bemoan his loss,
and instead she shrank and quailed before his judgment of her deceit.
His last words awoke a spark of defiance, and suddenly, desperately, she
faced him and said, clearly,--
"To Rupert."
Cheriton put his hand back and leant against the wall. He was beginning
to feel the force of the blow. After a moment he raised his head, and
looked at her again, with a face now pale and mournful.
"Oh, Ruth, is it indeed so? Have I nothing to hope--nothing even to
_remember_? Did you _never_ mean it--never?"
"I was so angry--so miserable that I was mad," faltered Ruth. "I
thought _he_ was false to _me_."
"So you took me in to make up for it?" said Cheriton roughly, his
indignation again gaining ground. "Well, I should thank you for at last
undeceiving me!"
He turned as if to go; but Ruth sobbed out, "I know it was very wrong,
indeed I am sorry for you. I can never, never be happy, if you don't
forgive me."
"What can you mean by forgiving?" said Cheriton bitterly. "I wish I had
died before I knew this! You have deceived me and made a fool of me,
while I thought you--I thought you--"
"Then," cried Ruth, stung by the change of feeling his words implied,
"you can tell them all about it if you will, and ruin me!"
"What!" exclaimed Cheriton, starting upright. "Is _that_ what you can
think possible? Is _that_ why you are crying? You may be perfectly
_happy_! The promise you had the prudence to exact has been unbroken.
No! when I thought that I was dying, I told Alvar that _you_ might be
spared any shock. Neither he nor I are likely to speak of it further.
I had better wish you good-morning."
It was Cheriton whose love had been scorned, whose hopes had all been
dashed to the ground in the last half-hour, and who had received a blow
that had changed the world for him; but it had come in such a form that
the injured self-respect struggled for self-preservation. The first
effect on his clear, upright nature was incredulous anger, a sense of
resistance, of shame and scorn, that, all-contending and
half-suppressed, made him terrible to Ruth, whose self-deceit had
expected quite another reception of her words. She had shrunk from the
idea of giving him pain, had dreaded the confession of her own misdeeds;
but she had indemnified her conscience to herself for ill-treating
Cheriton by a sort of unnatural and unreal admiration of what she called
his goodness; which seemed to her to render self-abnegation natural, if
not easy, to him.
_She_, with her passionate feelings, her warm heart, might be forgiven
for error; but he, since he was high-principled and religious, would
surely make it easier for her, would stand in an ideal relation to her
and tell her that "her happiness was dearer than his own."
"Good" people were capable of that sort of self-sacrificing devotion.
She thought, as many do, that Cheriton's battle was less hard to fight,
because he had hitherto had the strength to win it. Poor boy, it had
come to the forlorn hope now! He only knew that he must not turn and
fly.
As Ruth looked up at him all tear-stained and deprecatory, his mood
changed.
"Oh, Ruth, Ruth--Ruth!" he cried, as he turned away, "and I loved you
so!"
But he left her without a touch of the hand; without a parting, without
a pardon. No other relations could replace for him those she had
destroyed. Ruth watched him hurry across the fell and into the
fir-wood, and then, as she sank down among the ferns and gave way to a
final burst of misery, she thought to herself, "Oh, Rupert, Rupert, what
I have endured for your sake!"