"I am sick of the hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the
main."
Virginia Seyton had spent her Christmas at Littleton, and after
returning to London for her cousin Ruth's marriage, had come home again
at the end of January. At Littleton, more than one old friend had
advised her to reconsider her resolve to live at Elderthwaite; but
Virginia did not feel herself tempted by any proposal of cottage,
however charming, or companionship, however congenial. She had been
lonely, unhappy, and forlorn at Elderthwaite; but somehow it pulled at
her heart-strings. She could not rejoice over all the well-ordered
services at Littleton, much as they refreshed her spirits, as she did
over the new hymn which she and Mrs Clements drilled into the
Elderthwaite children; and she found herself believing, when receiving
the correct answers of her former scholars, that there was after all
"something" in the north-country intellect, however untrained, that was
superior in quality, if not in quantity, to that of the south. When she
went back to London, common acquaintances brought her into contact with
the Stanforths. She and Ruth went to an evening party at their house,
just as Mr Stanforth and Gipsy returned from Spain, and were invited to
come afterwards and see the Spanish sketches. Ruth was glad to make all
the business that pressed on her an excuse for refusing; but Virginia
went, and was happier than she had been for months in hearing Alvar
spoken of, and spoken of in terms of praise. Neither girl was conscious
of the other's interest in this meeting--how Gipsy listened to "some one
who had known Jack all his life," how Virginia watched Alvar's recent
companion; but Gipsy's blushes came in the right place, and in spite of
her extreme amaze at the idea of Jack in this new capacity, Virginia
guessed where the spark had been lighted, and so could listen fearlessly
to the story of the adventures at Ronda, and could look with pleasure at
the sketches of which Alvar's figure was a picturesque element. It was
a pleasant peep at a new life linked with her old one.
Ruth's was a very brilliant wedding. Everything was arranged by her
grandmother, and bridesmaids, dresses, breakfast, and even church, were
all chosen with exact regard to the correct fashion of the moment. Ruth
wished it all to be over that she might find herself away with Rupert;
then perhaps she would feel at rest. As it was, their rapid,
interrupted surface intercourse tantalised her almost as much as their
occasional interviews in the days of secrecy and silence. And when they
were alone, Ruth was afraid to go deep. Often had she said, "In _my_
love there shall be perfect confidence; there shall be nothing between
my soul and his." And now her past transgression, however excusable it
might seem, erred against this perfect confidence. And Rupert's "soul"
was not at all ready to display itself to her, or to himself either,
partly because he was not serious in his emotions, any more than in his
principles, but partly also because he not unnaturally considered that
when his deeds were satisfactory to Ruth, it was quite unnecessary to
analyse his feelings. So she had no encouragement to confidence, and
the perfect union for which she had longed, disappointed her, partly
through her past falsity, but more from the want of any common aim or
principle to unite them. Ruth was fairly happy; but she was the same
Ruth still, with a nature that could never be satisfied without
earnestness equalling her own, an earnestness from the purity and
simplicity of which she had turned aside to seek a sort of consecration
of life _which only a man of high principle and strong purpose could
really have helped her to find_, in a love which she thought more
powerful because it was more regardless of duty, in which view she did
but follow much teaching and many writers.
Ruth did not make the confession which would have set her right with
herself if not with Rupert, she had practised too much self-pleasing to
find the courage for it. She married; and as life went on her
aspirations would either die into the commonplace she had despised, or
she might be driven to satisfy them elsewhere than with Rupert.
And Virginia, who equally with Ruth idealised life and its relations,
and who also found her ideal unfulfilled--unfulfilled, but not
destroyed. She had lost her lover, but the good and holy life which she
had thought to lead with him, though its beauty took a sterner cast, was
possible without him. Life was not purposeless, though it was very
difficult, and poor Virginia was diffident of her own powers, and was,
moreover, in many ways ill-fitted to live with those whose views of life
were uncongenial to her.
"If I had more tact I should get on better at home; if I had had more
patience, more charity, I should not have quarrelled with Alvar," she
thought, and with some truth. But when she came back to Elderthwaite it
_was_ coming home. Dick and Harry were glad to see her; her father said
it looked cheerful to have her about again; the little housemaid, whom
she had taught for an hour on Sundays, was enchanted, and had written
copies and learnt hymns in her absence; while she could not but be
welcome to her aunt, whom she found suffering from a severe attack of
rheumatism, which confined her to her room. Virginia had no natural
skill in nursing, and Miss Seyton was not fond of attentions. But,
though she was severely uncomplaining, Virginia's companionship was
enlivening, and, moreover, while she was incapacitated, her niece was
obliged to manage the house. She had bought enough bitter experience
now not to be frightened and startled at the state of things, and she
perceived how much Miss Seyton had done to keep things straight. But
the young, fresh influence brightened up the old dependents, and she
managed, too, to introduce some little comfort. But a piece of home
work really within her powers came to her in an unexpected quarter.
Dick's examination was to take place in about six weeks, and she found
from Harry that he had been really reading for it, and to her great
surprise and pleasure he did not resent her interest in it. Her French,
and history, and arithmetic were quite enough in advance of Dick's to
make her aid valuable to him, and finding how much he was behindhand,
spite of some honest though fitful efforts, she gave him some lessons
with the tutor at Hazelby to whom Bob Lester was sent, and as Dick
always brought his papers to her afterwards, there was no question that
he actually availed himself of the opportunity.
As for the old parson, he greeted her with a perfect effusion of
delight. He had come to love her better than anything in the world
except Cheriton, whose illness had been a real sorrow to him. The
little improvements had not been allowed to languish--indeed others had
been projected. Mr Clements had not been idle. A poor widow, whose
continued respectability had certainly been partly owing to her
attachment to Mr Seyton's rival or assistant, "the old Methody," had a
niece who had been trained as a pupil-teacher in a parish belonging to a
friend of Mr Ellesmere's, and, her health failing, the girl had come to
live with her aunt. Hence a proposal for a little day-school; and
actually a subscription set on foot by Mr Clements.
[This of course took place before the passing of the Education Act.]
"So you see, Miss Seyton," he had said, "we have not been quite idle in
your absence."
"Indeed," said Virginia, smiling, "you seem to have done better without
me."
"No, Miss Seyton, whatever better things we may succeed in doing in
Elderthwaite in the future, it is your doing that the wish to improve
had been awakened."
Virginia blushed at this magnificent compliment; but it was true. High
principle, recommended by gentleness and humility, must in the end win
its way.
These various changes formed a safe subject of conversation in a meeting
that could not fail on many accounts to be trying, when Cheriton, as he
came up to the vicarage, met Virginia going in there also. He did not
want to talk about his own health or home difficulties, she could not
fail to be conscious; but the parson was only restrained, or _not_
restrained, by her presence from lamentations over Alvar's succession,
and looked unspeakably wicked when Cherry implied that they were getting
on smoothly. So the new school came in handy, and Parson Seyton talked
about a "Government grant," and winked at Cherry over his shoulder.
"It's all getting beyond me, Cherry," he said; "I'm not the man for
these new lights."
"You'll have to get a curate, parson," said Cherry.
"Nay--nay!" said the parson sharply. "I'll have no strangers prying
into all our holes and corners, and raking out the dust. I don't like
curates--hate their long coats and long faces."
"You might put in the advertisement `round and rosy preferred,'" said
Cherry.
"Nay, nay, my lad; no curates for me, unless _you_ will apply for the
situation."
"Cherry has a _very_ long coat on," said Virginia, smiling and pointing
to his "ulster."
"And not too round a face nowadays, eh? Never mind, if he came here I'd
let him wear--"
"A cassock, perhaps," said Cheriton. "I feel all the force of the
compliment. But I think Queenie is the best curate for Elderthwaite at
present."
Virginia's heart danced at the familiar brotherly name by which Cheriton
had learned from Ruth to call her in the days of her engagement, but
which had never become her home appellation, and something in her face
made him whisper under his breath as she rose to take leave,--
"Though Oakby grudges her to you." Virginia hurried away, but she was
presently overtaken by Cheriton as she paused at a cottage door, and
they walked up the lane together, and talked of the Stanforths; and when
Virginia praised Gipsy, neither could help a smile of implied
comprehension and sympathy.
It was a bright, pleasant day, the puddles and ditches of the
Elderthwaite hedgerows sparkled in the spring sunshine, the blackthorn
put out its shy blossoms on each side. Virginia smiled and looked up
gaily, and Cheriton's voice took its natural lively tone as he related
some of the humours of their Spanish journey.
"I must turn off here," said Cherry, as they came to a stile. But
Virginia did not answer him, for, leaning against the fence, stood
Alvar, watching them as they approached. A hayrick and tumble-down
cart-shed, and a waggon with its poles turned up in the air, formed a
strangely incongruous background for his graceful figure, his deep
mourning giving him an additional air of picturesque dignity.
There was no escape for Virginia. She turned exceedingly pale, but with
a self-command that, in Cheriton's opinion, did her infinite credit, she
bowed--she had not courage to put out her hand--and said timidly,--
"Good morning."
Alvar's olive face coloured all over; he bowed, for once utterly and
evidently at a loss, while Cherry plunged into the breach.
"Hallo, Alvar, have you come to look for me? I have been to see Parson
Seyton. You have no idea what grand doings there are now in
Elderthwaite."
"I did not come to look for you," said Alvar, with some emphasis.
"Well, I was coming home."
Then Alvar turned, and with a sort of haughty politeness hoped that Mr
and Miss Seyton were well; and Virginia, in the sweet tones unheard for
so many months, replied to him, and after shaking hands with Cheriton,
walked away down the sunny lane, from which she could not turn aside,
and which afforded no shelter from any eyes that might choose to follow
her.