"I looked for that which is not, nor can be."
A few days before Alvar's interview with his father, Rupert had left
Oakby to make his personal application to Ruth Seyton's guardians,
backed up by a letter from Mr Lester, and by her own communication to
her grandmother. Of course, nothing could be said of the six months of
mutual understanding, and this concealment weighed lightly enough on
Ruth's conscience. She vexed Virginia by her reserve on all the details
of her engagement, but what really troubled her was her parting
interview with Rupert, as they were alone together in the garden at
Elderthwaite.
This had once been laid out in the Italian style, with fountains,
statues, and vases, stiff, neat paths, and little beds cut in the smooth
turf and full of gay colour. Of all kinds of gardening, this kind can
least bear neglect, and at Elderthwaite a few occasional turns with the
scythe and a sprinkling of weedy-looking flowers did not suffice to make
it a pleasant resort.
Ruth sat on the pedestal of a broken nymph by the side of a dried-up
fountain. This garden was supposed to be "kept up," so some flaring
yellow nasturtiums and other inexpensive flowers filled the little beds
round. It was a dull day, and the weather was chilly, and Ruth in her
crimson shawl looked by far the most cheerful object in the garden.
Rupert had stuck some of the nasturtiums in her hat, and they suited her
dark hair and warm, clear skin. After a great deal of talk, entirely
satisfactory to both, Rupert said, lightly,--
"By the way, I thought I would take Master Cherry to task for his manner
to you the other night."
"Cherry--his manner--what do you mean?" stammered Ruth, with changing
colour.
"Well, I was rather sorry I had said anything about it, but he was very
frank, poor boy, and told me you had refused him."
"I--I did not think you would have asked him such a question," said
Ruth, hardly knowing what she said in the agony of fear, relief, and
shame.
"Oh, well, we're almost like brothers, you know, and I was not going to
have him make such great eyes at you for nothing. What had he to
reproach you with?"
The words were more an exclamation than a question, but they terrified
Ruth, and she pressed coaxingly up to Rupert, and said with a good deal
of agitation,--"Oh, I am very sorry--very; but--but of course I couldn't
tell of him--could I? And he is so impetuous and so set on his own way!
But I don't want you to be angry with him, poor boy, or--or with me,
for, oh! my darling, we mustn't quarrel again, or it would kill me!"
"Is she afraid I shall find out how much encouragement she gave him?"
said Rupert in his teasing way.
"Oh! he didn't want much _encouragement_," said Ruth. "But there, never
mind, he'll soon forget all about me. Did you think no one ever liked
me but you?"
Rupert's rejoinder was cut short by the appearance of Virginia, and Ruth
ran towards her, for once glad to leave Rupert. She tried to persuade
herself that she had told him no direct falsehood, but the memory of her
two interviews with Cheriton lay heavy on her soul.
She knew that she had sinned against her own article of faith, her love
for Rupert; and her perfect pride and glory in its perfection was
marred. She had fallen below her own standard; she could no longer feel
that she acted out her own ideal. Ruth was a girl capable of an ideal,
though she had not set up a lofty one. Perhaps every one has some
standard, however poor, and the crucial test of character may be whether
we pull it down to suit our failures, or no. Ruth at this time was
earnestly endeavouring to do so, but it did not come easy to her, and by
way of set-off she occupied herself with being exceedingly kind to
Virginia, whom she was beginning to consider injured, and in whom she
recognised an unexpected warmth of resentment. Not that Virginia ever
uttered a complaint of Alvar, but she avoided his name in so marked a
manner, and looked so unhappy, that she was self-betrayed.
They were sitting together in the drawing-room on the day of Alvar's
interview with Mr Lester. It was a dreary, un-homelike-looking room on
that wet, cloudy day, but Ruth, spite of misgivings, had a bright
prosperous air as she sat writing to Rupert, curls, ribbons, and
ornaments all in order, the deep red bands on her summer dress giving it
a cheerful air even on a wet day.
Virginia was sitting in the window doing nothing; she was pale, and her
white dress with its elaborate flouncings had seen more than one
wearing. She did not look expectant of a lover. Ruth watched her for a
little while, and then said, slyly,--
"He cometh not, she said,
She said I am aweary, aweary;
I would that I were dead!"
"Ruth! how can you?" exclaimed Virginia, indignantly. "Who would expect
anybody on such a wet day as this? Of course I don't?"
"Queenie!" said Ruth, springing up and kneeling down beside her, "I
don't like to see you look so miserable. If Don Alvar is a lukewarm
lover, he's not good enough for my Queenie, and he shan't have her.
There!"
"You have no right to say such a thing, Ruth. I may be silly and
foolish, but I won't hear any one find fault with him, not even you!"
"Bravo, Queenie! but I wasn't going to find fault with him exactly. I
daresay he thinks it is all right enough, only--only that's not _my_
idea of a lover! Give him a little pull up, Queenie; scold him--if you
can."
Virginia coloured, trembled, and scarcely refrained from tears.
"You make me reproach myself, Ruth," she said, "for being so silly and
exacting. It ought to please me that Alvar is so good and kind, and
that at last his people have found him out. It _does_--"
"Look!" exclaimed Ruth, pointing out of window. "Who comes there? And
your gown is crumpled, and your necktie is faded, and you're not fit to
be seen! Run--run and adorn yourself!"
But Virginia hardly heard her, she was too eager to see Alvar for any
delay, and, hurrying to the garden-door, she opened it, while Ruth
recollected the awkwardness of an interview with Alvar and fled. But he
was far too punctilious to come into the drawing-room with his wet coat,
hat, and umbrella, and he waved his hand to Virginia and went round to
the front door, where, in the hall, he met Ruth, and acknowledged her as
he passed with a stately bow that nearly annihilated her.
Virginia had meant to be distant and reproachful, but her resolutions
always melted in Alvar's presence; he was so delightful to her that she
forgot all her previous vexations. Demonstrative she never could be to
him, but she contrived to say,--
"It _is_ a long time since you were here, dear Alvar."
"Ah, yes," he said, "_mi dona_, too long indeed; but we have had people
in the house, and Cherry is not strong enough to entertain them."
"How is he?" asked Virginia, feeling, as she always did, as if rebuked
for selfishness.
"Pretty well; this rain is bad for him; he may not go out," said Alvar,
who did not wish to represent Cheriton as specially unwell just then.
"But see, _mi querida_, I have been talking to my father, and he gives
me courage to speak of the future." And then in the most deferential
manner Alvar unfolded his plans, ending by saying,--
"And will you come with me to Seville that I may show my English bride
to my countrymen, and teach them what flowers grow in England?"
"I would rather go to Spain than _anywhere_ else," said Virginia, all
misgivings gone. "I hope they will--like me."
"Ah," said Alvar, smiling, "there is no fear. They would not like those
boys--but you--they would worship!"
Virginia laughed gaily, and he continued presently, touching the bow on
her dress,--"But this ribbon--it is not a pretty colour. I am rude, but
I do not like it."
"Oh, Alvar, I am very sorry. Ruth said I ought to change it. I thought
you would not come, and I didn't care for my ribbons. I _do_ not care--
except when you see me."
There was a break in her voice as she looked at Alvar with eyes full of
pathetic appeal for a response to the love she gave him.
Alvar smiled tenderly.
"We will soon change it," he said, and, opening the glass door again, he
picked two crimson roses that climbed over it, shook the rain-drops
carefully from their petals, and then fastened them into Virginia's hair
and dress. "There!" he said, "that is the royal colour, the colour for
my queen. See, I must have a share of it. Give me the rosebud."
Virginia stood for a moment with her eyes cast down. She could have
thrown herself into Alvar's arms, and poured forth her feelings with a
fervour of expression that might have startled him, but the doubt and
timidity which she had never lost towards him restrained her; she put
the rose into his coat and was happy. The sun came out through the
clouds, they strolled through the garden together, and Alvar talked to
her about Spain, his stately old grandfather, his many cousins, and all
the surroundings of his old life.
When he left her at length, and she ran indoors to Ruth, she was another
creature from the pale, lifeless girl who had watched the rain-clouds in
the morning.
Alvar, too, went home well pleased with his morning, and ready to make
himself agreeable, and as he came through the larch wood into the park,
he suddenly encountered the twins.
Nettie was standing with her back to a tree, a very shabby-looking book
under her arm. She was scarlet, and almost sobbing with indignation.
Bob was opposite to her, evidently having got the upper hand in their
dispute. He was talking in a downright decisive voice, and ended
with,--
"And so I tell you, I won't have it."
"I don't care."
"If you do it again, I'll tell Cherry."
"Well, tell him, then! I'll tell him myself. _He_ would do just the
same, I know he would."
"Then why do you get up in the morning and go out--?"
Here Bob caught sight of Alvar and stopped short.
"What is the matter with you two? Why do you dispute?" said Alvar,
good-naturedly.
"Nothing," said Bob, shortly; "I was only talking to Nettie."
"We were only talking," said Nettie; and they walked away together, with
a manifest determination to exclude Alvar from a share even in their
quarrels. Interfering between the twins, Cheriton had once said, was
like interfering between husband and wife; the peacemaker got the worst
of it.
Apparently Cheriton was experiencing this truth, for when Alvar came in,
he heard sounds of lively discussion in the library. His father was
speaking in aloud, clear voice, and with his Westmoreland tones strongly
marked, a sure sign that he was in a passion. Jack was standing very
upright, looking impatient and important. Cherry sat listening, but
with an irritated movement of the fingers, and a flush of annoyance on
his face. It had been a rough time lately at Oakby, and Mr Lester was
just anxious enough about Cheriton to be ready to find fault with him.
"No, Cheriton," he was saying, as Alvar entered, "I'll not hear a word
of the kind. It's a fine result of your influence over the lads if it's
to lead to this sort of mischief. Warn them! I forbid it positively.
You have made too much of these boys, letting them write to you at
Oxford. Much good their writing does them, and lending them books
beyond them. No, I'll do my duty by my tenants in every way--education
and all; but there's a limit."
"But, father," said Cherry, "I can't make it out. Of course, if Wilson
has seen the young Flemings in the copses, I'm very sorry; but anyhow,
it would be better to try to talk to them."
"No, I'll not have it done. Wilson has orders to watch to-night, and if
they're caught, over to Hazelby they shall go, and no begging off for
them."
"Oh, father," said Cherry, starting up; "do let me go and see them this
afternoon. I haven't been near them since I was ill, and I'm sure I can
find out the truth of it. It's ruin to a lad to get into a row with the
keepers, and they are capital fellows. Just let me try."
"What is the matter?" asked Alvar.
"Why," said his father, "some young fellows that Cheriton has a special
fancy for, have been poaching in my copses!"
"Why, they deserve hanging for it!" said Alvar.
"Hanging!" cried Jack. "The evils of the Game Laws--"
"Oh, nonsense, Jack. Put that in your `Essay on the Evils of all Sorts
of Governments,'" said Cherry; then turning to the squire, "But they are
not poachers, father."
"I will not be interfered with. You take too much on yourself," said
Mr Lester; then, seeing Cheriton look first blankly amazed, then angry,
and finally hurt beyond measure, he suddenly softened.
"Well, you can go and see them if you wish. Don't vex yourself, my lad;
you make too much of it. But you're looking better than you did
yesterday."
"Oh, my head ached yesterday," said Cherry brightly; but he looked up at
his father with a sudden pang and sense of ingratitude. Why could he
care so little for anything, so little for the Flemings, even while he
argued in their behalf? He lingered a little, talking to his father,
while Jack returned to his essay "On the Evils Inherent in every
Existing Form of Government;" and then set off on his walk to the
Flemings' farm. He ought to care for lads to whom he had taught their
cricket and their catechism, and who were much of an age with himself
and his brothers, and often thought to resemble them, being equally big,
fair, and strong. He talked and sympathised till the story of certain
wrongs was confided to him by the younger one--how a certain "she" had
nearly driven him to bad courses, but "she warn't worth going to the bad
for."
Cherry looked at the lad's serene and ruddy face, and felt as if he
might get a lesson.
Did all his culture and his principle and refinement only sap his powers
of endurance?
"You're a brave fellow, Willie," he said, putting out his hand. "I
wish--well, don't let me hear of your getting into trouble, or going
with those poaching fellows."
"No, sir, not for her, nor for any lass. But--there's the old parson."
Cherry got up from the wall of the field where he had been sitting, and
went to meet him.
"Ha, Cherry, my lad, glad to see you out again," said Parson Seyton,
coming cheerily over the furrows. "Good-day t'ye, Willie; turnips look
well."
Young Fleming touched his hat, and after a word or two, Cheriton asked
Mr Seyton if he were going Oakby way, as they might walk together; and,
with a farewell to Fleming, they started down the hill.
"If I hadn't found you here, I should have been inclined to poach on
Ellesmere's manor, and give young Willie a word of advice," said Mr
Seyton.
"I know. He has been getting in with the Ryders and Fowlers, and my
father heard an exaggerated story about him and Ned being seen in our
copses at night. I think that the Flemings are above taking to
poaching; but Willie has been in a bad way."
"Hope your father'll catch some of my fellows; do 'em good," said the
parson. "If he caught my nephew Dick, and shut him up for a bit, the
place might be all the better. Hangs about all day, just like his
father. He's after something, and I can't make out what."
"Sometimes I see him about with Bob."
"With Bob? Ha! you look about you, Cherry," said the parson,
mysteriously. "My eyes are sharp. I knew when Miss Ruth and Captain
Rupert had their little meetings; but then, I knew better than spoil
sport."
"You knew more than most," said Cherry.
"Ay, and look here, Cherry," said the parson, stopping and looking full
at him. "There's another thing I can see, and that is, when a man's in
earnest and when he isn't; and when all's smooth and sweet to a girl,
and when she looks this way and that for something that's wanting."
"I have nothing to do with my cousin's engagement," said Cherry,
bewildered.
"Nay--nay, it's not your cousin. I don't believe in foreigners, Cherry;
and Master Alvar isn't what I call a lover for a pretty girl that
worships the ground he treads on. If he wants her money, why, a
gentleman should keep up appearances at least."
Cheriton looked very much affronted.
"I don't know if you are aware," he said, "that my brother's marriage
has just been fixed to take place in October; he was at Elderthwaite
to-day. And for the rest, Alvar is very unselfish, and I have taken up
a great deal of his time."
The parson looked at him with an odd sort of twinkle. "Ay, _ay_; I know
all about that," he said; "but we old fellows know what we're about.
Well, I turn off here; so good day to you, and mind my words." Cheriton
walked on, somewhat ruffled and disturbed. He knew the old parson would
not have spoken as he had without some reason; and it crossed his mind
that Bob must be engaged in some undesirable amusements with Dick; but
if so, what could he do? It was instinctive with Cheriton to try to do
something when any difficulty was brought before him. Unselfish,
loving, and, like all influential people, fond of influence, he had
surrounded himself by calls on his energies and his interest. And now
these surroundings were all unchanged, while he was changed utterly.
The relations of son, brother, neighbour, friend, which he had filled so
thoroughly, remained; and the feelings due to each seemed to have all
died away, killed by the blow that had come upon him. He had never
lived to himself, nor realised his life apart from the other lives in
which it was bound up, or from his school, his college, and, most of
all, his home; and now, with this great loss and pain, he suddenly found
that he had a self behind it all--a self, fearfully strong, utterly
absorbing; all the proportions of life were changed to him. Nothing
seemed to matter but the chance of rest and relief. The plans he made
had no heart in them; he felt as if the labour necessary for success in
life was impossible, the success itself indifferent. His tastes were
pure; the many temptations of life had been fairly met and conquered by
him; but each one now seemed to look him in the face from a new point of
view, and with new force. Soul as well as heart is risked in such an
injury as Ruth had done him, and the more finely balanced perhaps the
more easily overthrown. He did not cease to resist; but it was chiefly
against the increasing weakness and languor which were sure in the end
to prove irresistible to him.