"A child, and vain."
After the departure of the travellers, a period of exceeding flatness
and dulness settled down on Oakby and its neighbourhood. The weather
was dismal, one or two other neighbouring families were away, and no one
thought it worth while to do anything. Jack had refused a congenial
invitation, and conscientiously stayed at home "to make it cheerful,"
until he went up to Oxford; but, though he was too well conducted and
successful not to be a satisfactory son, he and his father were not
congenial, and never could think of anything to say to each other. He
had outgrown companionship with Bob, and did not now get on very well
with him; while Nettie was never sociable with any one but her twin.
Mrs Lester, though very attentive to her son's dinners and other
comforts, did not trouble herself much about the boys, and moreover did
not possess the comfortable characteristic common to most elderly
ladies--of being often to be found in one place. As Jack expressed it
to himself, "no one was ever anywhere;" and prone as he was to look on
the dark side of things, the thought that this was what home would be
without Cherry, was perpetually before his mind. He did not like to go
to Elderthwaite, and saw nothing of its inhabitants till one misty day
early in October, as he was walking through the lanes with Rolla and
Buffer at his heels, he came suddenly upon Virginia, leaning over a
stile, and looking, not at the view, for there was none, but at the mist
and the distant rain. Her figure, in its long waterproof cloak, under
an arch of brown and yellow hazel boughs, had an indescribably forlorn
aspect; but Jack, awkward fellow, was conscious of nothing but a sense
of embarrassment and doubt what to say. She started and coloured up,
but with greater self-possession spoke to him, and held out her hand.
"How d'ye do?" said Jack. "Down, Buffer, you're all over mud."
"Oh, never mind, I don't care, dear little fellow!" exclaimed Virginia,
who would have hugged Buffer, mud and all, but for very shame. "I did
not know you were at home, Jack."
"Yes, but I'm going to Oxford next week."
"And--and you have good accounts of Cherry?"
"Yes, pretty good, better than at first. He says that he looks better,
and does not cough so much, and he likes it,--so he says, at least,"
replied Jack, who, conceiving that propriety precluded the mention of
Alvar's name, found his personal pronouns puzzling.
"I am _very_ glad," said Virginia softly.
"Yes, I suppose they are at Seville by this time; they stayed at San
Jose till Cherry was stronger. Al--he--they thought it best."
"Your eldest brother would be very careful of him, I am sure," said
Virginia, with a gentle dignity that reassured Jack, though she blushed
deeply.
"Yes," he said more freely, "and they have made some friends; Mr
Stanforth, the artist, you know, and his daughter; they're very nice
people, and they have been learning Spanish together. He writes in
_very_ good spirits," concluded Jack viciously, and referring to Cherry,
though poor Virginia's imagination supplied another antecedent.
"I am glad to hear it," she said. "_I_ met that Miss Stanforth once.
She was a pretty, dark-eyed child then. Good-bye, Jack, I am going soon
to stay with my cousin Ruth."
"Good-bye," said Jack, with a scowl which she could not account for. "I
hope you'll enjoy yourself."
"Good-bye; good-bye, Buffer."
Jack took his way home through the wet shrubberies. He felt sorry for
Virginia, whom he regarded as injured by Alvar, but he thought that she
ought to be angry with Ruth, never supposing that the latter's
delinquencies were unknown to her.
As he walked on he passed by a cart shed belonging to a small farm of
his father's above which was a hay loft, reached by a step ladder, to
the foot of which Buffer and Rolla both rushed, barking rapturously, and
trying to get up the ladder.
"Hullo! what's up?--rats, I suppose," thought Jack; and mounting two or
three steps of the very rickety ladder, he looked into the loft, his
chin on a level with the floor. Suddenly a blinding heap of hay was
flung over his head; there was a scuffle and a rush, and Jack freed
himself from the hay to find his head in Nettie's very vigorous embrace;
and to see Dick Seyton swing himself down from the window of the loft
and run away.
"Stop, I say. Nettie, let go, what are you doing here? Dick, stop, I
say," cried Jack, scrambling up the ladder and rushing to the window;
but Dick had vanished.
"Don't stamp, Jack, you'll come through; you should have run after him,"
said Nettie saucily.
Jack turned, but caught his foot in a hole and fell headlong into the
hay, while Nettie sat and laughed at him, and the dogs howled at the
foot of the ladder.
Jack picked himself up cautiously, and sitting down on the hay, for
there was hardly room for him to stand upright, said severely,--
"Now, Nettie, what is the meaning of this?"
"The meaning of what?"
"Of your being here with Dick. I told you in the summer that I didn't
approve of your being so friendly with him, and now I insist on knowing
at once what you were doing with him."
"Well, then, I shan't tell you," said Nettie coolly.
"I say you shall. I couldn't have believed that my sister would be so
unladylike. Just tell me how often you have met him, and what you were
doing here?"
"It's no business of yours," said Nettie, making a sudden rush at the
ladder; but Jack caught her, and a struggle ensued, in which of course
he had the upper hand, though she was strong enough to make a
considerable resistance; and he felt the absurdity of fighting with her
as if she were a naughty child, when her offence was of such a nature.
"Now, Nettie," he said, in a tone that she could not resist. "Stop this
nonsense. I mean to have an answer. What has induced you to meet Dick
Seyton in secret, and how often have you done so? You can't deny that
you have."
"No," said Nettie, "I have, often, and I shall ever so many times more."
"I couldn't have believed it of you, Nettie," said Jack, so seriously
and so mildly that Nettie looked quite frightened, and then exclaimed,--
"Jack, if you dare to venture to think that I meet Dick that we may make
love to each other, or any nonsense of that kind, I'll--I'll kill you--
I'll never speak to you again, _never_!"
"Why--why what else can I think?" said Jack, blushing, and by far the
more shamefaced of the two.
"Well, then, it's abominable and shameful of you. Do you think I would
be so horrid? As if I ever meant to marry any one. I shall live with
Bob."
"Don't be so violent, Nettie. You have acted very deceitfully."
"Deceitfully! Do you think I'd tell you a story?"
As Nettie had never been known to "tell a story" in her life, Jack could
not say that he thought she would; but he replied,--
"You _have_ acted deceitfully. You have run after Dick when we all
thought you were somewhere else, and--there's no use in being in a
passion--but what do you suppose any one would think of a girl who
behaved in such a manner?"