An English Squire

“Eh!” he said, “I’d like to see him – I’d like to see him.”

“He mustn’t see any one,” said Virginia; “they will hardly let his father go in.”

“Well, it’s a pity it’s not the Frenchman. Eh! bless my soul, my darling, I forgot.”

“Alvar is almost ready to think so too, uncle,” said Virginia, hardly able to help laughing.

“If I could do anything that he would like – catch him some trout – ” suggested the parson.

“Uncle,” said Virginia timidly, “in church, when any one is sick or in trouble, they pray for them. They will mention Cherry’s name at Oakby to-morrow. Could not we – ”

“Ay, my lass, it would show a very proper respect,” said the parson; “and the lad would like it too.”

And of all the many hearty prayers that were sent up on that Sunday for Cheriton Lester’s recovery, none were more sincere than rough Parson Seyton’s.

The Edinburgh doctor could only tell them what they knew before, that though there was very great danger, the case was not hopeless. A few days must decide it. In the meantime he must not talk – he must not see any one who would cause the slightest agitation; and poor Mr Lester, whose self-control had suddenly broken down before the interview, was about to be peremptorily banished; but Cherry put out his hand and caught his father’s, looking up in his face.

“Send for the boys,” he said.

“Yes, but you know you mustn’t see them, my boy – my dear boy.”

“But Cherry will like to know they are here,” said Alvar, in the steady voice that always seemed like a support.

“They shall come. What else – what is it, Cherry?” said Mr Lester, as his son still gazed at him wistfully.

“Nothing – not yet,” whispered Cheriton. “Oh! I want to say so much, father! I am so glad Alvar came home!”

The words and the sort of smile with which they were spoken completely overpowered Mr Lester; but the doctor, who was still present, would not permit another word.

“You destroy his only chance,” he said; and after that nothing would have induced Mr Lester to let Cheriton speak to him. That evening, however, when he was alone with Alvar, Cherry’s confused thoughts cleared themselves a little. He had been told to be hopeful, and he did not feel himself to be dying! while with his whole heart he wished for life – the young bright life that was so full of love and joy, of which no outward trouble, no wearing anxiety, and no cold and selfish discontent had rendered him weary. Home and friends, the long lines of moorland that were shining in the sunset light, the hard work in the world behind and before him, the answering love of the woman whom he had chosen, were all beautiful and good to him; he felt no need of rest, no lack of joy.

He prayed for his life, not because he was afraid to die, but because he wished to live; and when, with a sort of awful, solemn curiosity, he tried to realise that death might be his portion, his thoughts, not quite under his own control, turned forcibly to those near to him. If he was to die, there were things he must say to his father, to Jack, to Alvar, a hundred messages to his friends in the village – they would let him see Mr Ellesmere then – when it did not matter how much he hurt himself by speaking; but one thing could not wait —

“Alvar, I must say something.”

“Yes, I can hear,” said Alvar, seeing the necessity, and leaning towards him.

“When there is no chance, you will tell me?”

“Yes.”

“But I must tell you about – her – a secret.”

“I will keep it. Some one you love?”

“It is Ruth; we are engaged. Does she know – this?”

Alvar’s surprise was intense; but he answered quietly, —

“I suppose that Virginia will have told her.”

“Let her know; it would be worse later. Write to her – you – when it is hopeless.”

“Yes,” said Alvar.

“My love – my one love! And say she must come and see me once more. She will —I would go anywhere.”

“Hush, hush! my brother; I understand you. I am to find out if Virginia has written to her cousin; and if you are worse, I write and ask her if she will come. I will do it.”

“Thanks. I can’t thank you. God knows how I love her.”

“Not one more word,” said Alvar, steadily. “Now you must rest.”

“I shall get better,” said Cherry.

But as the pain grew fiercer, and his strength grew less, this security failed; and then it was well indeed for Cheriton that, be his desires what they might, he believed with all his warm heart that it was a loving Hand that had given him life both here and hereafter.

Time passed on, and Cheriton still lay in great danger and suffering. It was a sorrowful Sunday in Oakby when his name headed the list of sick persons who were prayed for in church. Every one could tell of some boyish prank, some merry saying, some act of kindness that he had done; and now that he was believed to be dying, be the facts what they might, there was a sort of sense that he had been deprived of his rights by his foreign brother.

“It had a deal better a’ been yon black-bearded chap. What’s he to us?” many a one muttered.

Alas! that the thought would intrude itself into the father’s mind, spite of the gratitude he could not but feel!

But Alvar went on with his anxious watching, heeding no one but his brother. That Sunday was a day of great suffering and suspense, and all through the afternoon came lads from the outlying farms, children from the village, messengers from half the neighbourhood to hear the last report. Silence and quiet were still so forcibly insisted on, that even Mr Lester was advised by the doctor to keep out of his son’s room; but Mr Ellesmere came up to the house at his request and waited, for all thought that the useless prohibition would soon be taken away; and in the meantime his presence was a support to the father and grandmother, the latter of whom, at least, could bear to hear Cheriton praised.

Towards evening, Alvar, who had scarcely stirred all day, was sent downstairs by Mr Adamson to get some food, and as he came into the dining-room, where the customary Sunday tea was laid on the table, he was greeted with a start of alarm. The two poor boys, tired, hungry, and frightened, had arrived but a few minutes before, and were standing about silent and awestruck.

Jack leant on the mantelpiece, with his lips shut as if they would never unclose again; Bob was staring out of the window; Nettie sat forlorn on one of a long row of chairs. Not one of them made an attempt to comfort or to speak to the others; they were almost as inaccessible in the sullen intensity of their grief as the two dogs, who, poor things! shared it, as they sat staring at Nettie, as dogs will when they do not comprehend the situation.

Alvar, with his olive face and grave dark eyes, looked, after all his fatigue, less changed than Jack, who was deadly pale, and hardly able to control his trembling.

“Ah! Jack,” said Alvar, in his soft, slow tones, “he will be glad to hear that you are come!”

Jack did not speak at first, and Alvar, as silent as the rest, went up to the table and poured out some claret and took some bread.

“It’s quite hopeless, I suppose?” said Jack, suddenly.

“No, do not say so!” said Alvar, half fiercely. “It is not so; but, oh, we fear it!” he added, in a voice of inexpressible melancholy.

Jack could not utter another word – he was half choking; but Nettie, unable to restrain herself any longer, began to cry piteously.

“Don’t Nettie,” said Bob, savagely.

“Ah!” said Alvar, “poor child, she is breaking her heart!” he went over to her, and took her in his arms and kissed her. “Poor little sister!” he said. “Ah! how we love him!”

The simple expression of the thought that was aching in the minds of all of them seemed to give a sort of relief. Nettie submitted to be caressed and soothed, and the boys came a little closer, and gave themselves the comfort of looking as wretched as they felt.

“Now I must eat some supper, for I dare not stay,” said Alvar; “and you – you have been travelling – come and take some.”

The poor boys began to find out how hungry they were, and Bob began to eat heartily; while the force of example made Jack take a few mouthfuls, till the vicar came into the room.

“Jack,” he said quietly, “Cherry is so very anxious to see you that Mr Adamson gives leave for you to go for one moment. Not the twins – they must wait a little. Can you stand it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack, though, great strong fellow as he was, his knees trembled.

“Then, Alvar, are you ready? Have you really eaten and rested? You had better take him in.”

Jack stood for a moment beside the bed, without attempting a word, hardly able to see that Cherry smiled at him, till he felt the hot fingers clasp his with more strength than he had looked for, and his hand was put into Alvar’s, while Cheriton held them both, and whispered, “Jack, you will– ”

“Yes, Cherry, I will,” said Jack, understanding him. “I will, always.”

“There, that must be enough,” said Alvar. “Jack is very good – he shall come again.”

“Oh! don’t send me quite away,” whispered Jack, as they moved a little. “Let me stay outside. I could go errands – I’ll not stir.”

Alvar nodded, and Jack went out into the deserted gallery, where, of course, he and Bob were not to sleep at present. The old sitting-room was full of things required by the nurses, and Jack sat down on a little window-seat in the passage, which looked out towards the stables. He saw Bob and Nettie arm-in-arm, trying to distract their minds by visiting their pets, and his grandmother, too, coming slowly and heavily to look at her poultry. He had not seen his father, and dreaded the thought of the meeting. Idly he watched the ordinary movement of the servants, the inquirers coming and going, and he thought of the brother, best-loved of all and most loving – oh! if he could but hear Cherry laugh at him again!

Upstairs all was silent, save for poor Cheriton’s painful cough and difficult breathing; and presently it seemed to Jack that the cough was less frequent, till, after an interval of stillness, the doctor came out. Jack’s heart stood still. Was this the fatal summons?

“Your brother is asleep,” said Mr Adamson. “I feel more hopeful. I am obliged to go, but I shall be here early. Every one who is not wanted had better go to bed.”

He went downstairs as he spoke, but Jack remained where he was, thinking he might be at least useful in taking messages or calling people. He had never sat up all night before, and, anxious as he was, the hours were woefully long.

Once or twice his grandmother came to the head of the stairs, and Jack signalled that all was quiet. At last, over the stable clock, the dawn came creeping up; there was the solitary note of a bird, then a great twitter and the cawing of the rooks.

Jack put his head out of the window, and felt the fresh, sharp air blowing in his face. A cock crowed – would it wake Cherry? Some one touched him on the shoulder; he drew his head in, and Alvar stood by his side.

“He is much better,” he said. “He has been so long asleep, and now the pain is less, and he can breathe – he is much better.”

Jack was afraid to speak, but he gave Alvar’s hand a great squeeze.

“Now, will you go and tell my father this? Ah, how he will rejoice! But do not let him come.”

Jack sped downstairs and to his father’s door, which opened at the sound of a footstep.

“Papa, he is better. Alvar says he will get well.”

Half a dozen hasty questions and answers, then Mr Lester put Jack away from him and shut his door.

They could hardly believe that the relief was more than a respite, but the gleam of hope brightened as the day advanced. Cherry slept again, and woke, able to speak and say that he was better.

“And I must tell you, sir,” said Mr Adamson, afterwards, “that it is in a great measure owing to your son’s good nursing.”

Mr Lester turned round to Alvar, who was beside him.

“I owe you a debt nothing can repay. I can never thank you for my boy’s life,” he said, warmly.

“Ah, do you thank me? You insult me!” cried Alvar, suddenly and fiercely. “Is he more to you than to me – my one friend – my brother —Cherito mio!” And, completely overcome, Alvar clasped his hands over his face and dashed out of the room.

Jack followed; but his admiration of Alvar’s self-control was somewhat shaken by the sort of fury of indignation and emotion that seemed to stifle him, as he poured out a torrent of words, half Spanish, half English, walking about the room and shedding tears of excitement.

“I say,” said Jack, “they won’t let you go in to Cherry next, and then what will he do?”

Alvar subsided after a few moments, and said, simply and rather sadly, —

“It is that my father does not understand me. But no matter – Cherry is better – all is right now.”

Chapter Two.

Face to Face

“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 doña, 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.