An English Squire

“Yours very sincerely, —

“Virginia Seyton.”

Well meant as poor Virginia’s letter was, it may be doubted whether it much enlightened Mr Lester as to the point in question; but he showed it to Alvar, who read it with a deep blush, and said, —

“She is, as ever, generous – but – I am a stranger to her still.”

Meanwhile, all the arrangements for the journey were being made. Cheriton received a warm invitation from Seville, and it was agreed, at his earnest request, that his father should remain behind at Oakby, but that Jack should go with him to Southampton, whence they were to go to Gibraltar by P and O steamer, the easiest way, it was thought, of making the journey. In London, Cheriton was to see a celebrated physician.

He went bravely and considerately through all the trying leave-takings and arrangements, taxing his strength to the uttermost, in the desire to leave nothing undone for any one. He put aside with a strong hand, that inner self which yet he could not conquer, with its passionate yearning, its bitter disappointment, its abiding sense of wrong; but it was there still, and gave at times the strangest sense of unreality, even to the pain of the partings, which was true pain nevertheless though he seemed to feel it through the others, rather than through himself. Perhaps the vehement Lester temperament was not a very sanguine one, for though they were told to be hopeful, they were all full of fear, and Cheriton himself hardly looked forward to a return, or, indeed, to anything but possible rest from the strain of making the best of himself, for he suffered very much, while all the vivid and appropriate sensations with which he had once looked out on life and death had died away.

He could hardly have borne it all but for Alvar’s constant care and watchfulness, and for the ease given by his apparent absence of feeling, and for the soothing of his tender gentle ways, and yet though he clung to him with ever-increasing gratitude and affection, there was a curious sense of being apart from him.

Alvar, though he had too much tact to fret Cherry by opposition, had no sympathy with the innumerable interests, for each one of which he wished to provide, and thought his parting interviews with the young Flemings and with many another waste of strength and spirits. Cherry had also to go through a trying conversation with old Parson Seyton, who, between anger on Virginia’s account and grief on Cheriton’s, was difficult to deal with, entirely refusing to see Alvar, and more than disposed to quarrel with Cherry for going abroad with him. Even Mr Ellesmere regarded Alvar’s conduct with considerable disapproval, though he would not mar his relations with Cherry by a word.

Alvar said nothing and made no explanations, but he was exceedingly impatient of the strain on Cherry’s fortitude and cheerfulness, not seeing what the memory of this sad time might one day be to them all, and least of all appreciating the value of that last Sunday’s church-going and Communion, which, much as it tried both their feelings and their shy reserve, not one of the others, even Bob, would for worlds have omitted. Yet, when many an old servant and neighbour made a point that day of following the example of the squire and his children, Mr Ellesmere thought the scene no small testimony to the value of the lives, which, however faulty and imperfect, had been led, though at different levels, with a constant sense of responsibility towards man and of looking upwards to God. Yes, and as something to give thanks for, even while his heart swelled at the thought that the best-loved of those tall fair-faced youths might never kneel in Oakby Church again.

That same Sunday evening, Mr Lester was sitting alone in the library in the dusk, sad enough at heart, when Cherry came slowly in behind him, and leaned over the back of his chair.

“Father,” he said, “I’ve been thinking, and I want to tell you something before I go.”

“What is it, my boy? – don’t stand – here, sit here.”

He pulled another chair towards his own as he spoke, and Cherry sat down, and said, —

“Father, I think I had rather you knew as much as I ought to tell you; I don’t want to have any secret between us.”

“Well, my boy?”

“And, besides, I heard you say that, if you could have found any reason for my being worse, you would be less anxious about me. Well, it is not a reason exactly, but I suppose it made me careless. I – I’ve had a great trouble lately – a – a disappointment. It’s over now – but it cost me a good deal at the time. I can’t tell you any more about it; but I thought – after all – I had rather you knew —now!”

Mr Lester did not ask a single question.

“I never guessed this,” he said, in a tone of surprise; then, after a pause, “Well, my dear boy, it’s a great relief to my mind.”

Cherry nearly laughed, though his heart was full enough.

“You need never imagine that it will turn up again,” he said, decidedly.

“Ah, well, Cherry, we’ve all had disappointments,” said Mr Lester, more cheerfully than he had spoken for some time; “and I’m glad there’s something to account for your looks lately. You weren’t strong enough for vexations. You’ll shake them off with the change of scene. But, my lad, don’t go and make a fool of yourself in the reaction.”

Cherry was sufficiently acquainted with his father’s history to guess at the drift of this warning; but he only shook his head and smiled, and then there was a long silence. Cherry leaned against the arm of his father’s chair, and, after a long-forgotten childish fashion, began to finger the seals on his watch-chain.

“These are the first things I remember,” he said.

Mr Lester passed his arm round him, as when he had been a slim boy, standing by his side; and though no other word was spoken, and in the darkness there were tears on both their faces, Cherry felt that after such a drawing together, this worst of all the partings was easier to bear.

PART III

Seville

“Wo die Citronen blühn.”

Chapter One.

Fighting the Dragon

“Does the road wind uphill all the way?Yes, to the very end.”

“So, papa, here we are, off at last! I can hardly believe it, and nothing left behind! Isn’t it delightful? Such lovely weather and so many people! I wish we were going to India right away! I wonder how many of those people are good sailors.”

“A very small proportion, my dear, in all probability.”

“How I do like to look at people and imagine histories for them! And you cannot start for India without a sort of story; can you? As for you and me, we’re just going to enjoy ourselves!”

The speaker looked capable of enjoying herself and all around her. She was a girl of eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a tightly-fitting dark blue dress with a little black felt hat, very becoming to her small, slender shape, and dark glowing complexion. She had pretty features and very white teeth, which showed a little in her frequent smiles; dark hazel eyes, bright, clear, and penetrating; and curly wavy hair, as black as an English girl’s can be. She had quick, decided movements, a clear, firm voice, and the sweetest laugh possible.

Among all the anxious, hurried, fidgety people on the deck she looked perfectly happy and at her ease – not careless, for a variety of small packages were neatly piled up beside her, but entirely content; for was not the desire of her heart in process of fulfilment? Ever since Elizabeth Stanforth, always appropriately called Gipsy, had been a little girl, she had delighted in sharing her father’s expeditions when the great London artist sought new ideas, new models, or a cessation from ideas and models, in the enjoyment of natural beauty. These expeditions had not hitherto been long or frequent, for Gipsy was the eldest of seven, and holiday trips away from the old house at Kensington were generally made in company with her mother and the children, with occasional divergences of Mr Stanforth’s. Gipsy, too, was but newly released from the thraldom of lessons and classes, though a week once at the Lakes, and another in Cornwall, had shown Mr Stanforth that she possessed various requisites for a good traveller – a great capacity for enjoyment and a great incapacity for being bored, good health, a good appetite, and a good temper.

Therefore, when a long-cherished wish of Mr Stanforth’s own was put in practice, and he set out for a three months’ tour in search of the picturesque in Southern Spain, he took Gipsy with him, and this warm, sunshiny September morning found them on the deck of a P and O steamer, just about to leave Southampton on its way to Gibraltar.

They had arrived on board early, and were now watching the approach of their fellow-passengers, the farewells and last words passing between them and their friends: Gipsy simply delighted with the novelty of the scene, and her father watching it with a peculiarly acute and kindly gaze of accurate observation.

Mr Stanforth, with his slender figure and dark beard, looked young enough to be sometimes mistaken for his daughter’s elder brother; she resembled him in colouring and feature, but keen and sweet as her bright eyes were, they had not looked out long enough on life to have acquired the thoughtful sympathetic expression that gave to her father’s face an unusual charm – a look that seemed to tell of an insight that reached beyond the artist’s observation of form and colour, or even of obvious character, and penetrated the very thoughts of the heart, not merely to note but to understand them. Perhaps this was why Mr Stanforth’s portraits were thought such good likenesses, and why his original designs never wanted for character and expression.

He was not thinking purposely of anything but his holiday and his daughter, but the blue sky and bright sunshine of this unusually summer-like September helped his sense of enjoyment, and every face as it passed before him interested or amused him from the bright, fresh-faced schoolgirl just “finished,” and looking forward through a few parting tears to incalculable possibilities in her unknown life, to the climate-worn official who had been bored during his leave at home, yet was far from regarding India as a paradise. Brides blushing and smiling, mothers with eyes and hearts sad for the children left at home, young lads with the world before them – the deck offered specimens of all these. Some were surrounded by groups of friends, but most of the sadder partings had been got over elsewhere, and the passengers were coming on board with a sense of relief, and minds chiefly full of their luggage and their state-rooms, their places at the table, and their chairs for the deck.

As Mr Stanforth’s eye travelled over the various groups he observed two young men sitting close together on one of the benches at a little distance. The one nearest to him sat with his face turned away towards his companion, a tall, powerful lad, with fair hair, and features of an unusually fine and regular type, now pale and half sullen with a pain evidently almost beyond endurance. The other’s hand lay on his knee, and he seemed to be speaking, for the boy nodded and murmured a word or two occasionally. “That’s a bad parting,” thought the artist; “I wonder which is the traveller.”

“Look, papa,” said Gipsy, “there’s a model for you! Isn’t that an uncommon face?” She pointed out to him a tall, dark young man, with a peculiar oval face of olive tinting, who stood close to them making inquiries of some officials. “There’s a distinguished foreigner for you,” she said.

“Yes, a foreigner of course; a very fine fellow.”

Something restrained the kindly-natured artist from drawing his daughter’s attention to the parting moments that were evidently so painful; but the “distinguished foreigner,” as the last minutes approached, drew near to the pair and touched the lad on the shoulder. He started up; the other rose also and turned round, showing a face like enough in type to suggest the closest kinship, but white, thin, telling a tale of sickness as well as of present suffering. They grasped each other’s hands. Mr Stanforth involuntarily turned his eyes away, and in a moment the lad pushed through the crowd, evidently unseeing and unheeding, passed close by them and knocked over all Gipsy’s bags, shawls, and bundles, pushed on, never knowing what he had done, and turning, gave one last look at his brother, who met it with a beaming, resolute smile, and a wave of the hand.

The olive-faced foreigner who had followed, saw the accident, and made a gesture of apology, then bid the boy farewell with clasped hands and some rapidly-uttered sentences, watching him over the side, and, coming back to the Stanforths, hastily replaced the fallen articles.

“Pardon,” he said, “my brother could not see.”

“Don’t mention it; no harm done,” said Mr Stanforth kindly, as the young man moved away, other groups came up and separated them, and he was seen no more till dinner-time, when he appeared, but without his companion.

In the intervals of making acquaintance with her fellow-passengers and of beginning the letter which was to tell her mother of every event of their tour, Gipsy Stanforth speculated as to how the “distinguished foreigner” came to call such an unmistakable Englishman his brother.

The three days that the Lesters had spent in London had been trying and fatiguing. Judge Cheriton and his wife had come up from the country to their town house on purpose to receive them, but the very kindness and interest which had prompted them to inquire into all the causes of Cheriton’s illness, and to question the prudence of some of the home measures had fretted both Cheriton and Jack, the latter being a little disposed to resent any interference. But the right of the Cheritons to a share in their nephews’ affairs had always been admitted, and Mr Lester, little as he felt himself able to bear the further strain, would hardly have let them go to London without him, but for his brother-in-law’s assurance that they should not start till every arrangement had been made. The judge was surprised at the confidence reposed in Alvar, and though he had too much sense to try to shake it, had caused Mr Lester to insist that they should be accompanied by a servant experienced in travelling and in illness, instead of the Oakby lad at first chosen – an arrangement which Cheriton secretly much disliked, though he acquiesced in it as sparing his father anxiety.

Judge Cheriton also undertook to give Mr Lester a full report of the physician’s opinion, which was not, on the whole, discouraging. He said that though the illness had left manifest traces, and that he considered Cheriton in a critical state, there was nothing to prevent entire recovery, of which the winter abroad offered the best chance; and if he wished to go to Southern Spain, Spain it might be, as rest and change were as much needed as climate. There was no use in thinking of any profession or occupation till the next summer. Some overstrain had resulted in a complete break-down, and the cough was part of the mischief. Fatigue, cold, and anxiety were all equally to be avoided, but as there was no predisposition to any form of chest disease in the family, they might look forward hopefully.

This verdict entirely consoled Alvar, who, indeed, had never looked much beyond the present, and brightened the anxious hearts at Oakby, especially when accompanied by a note from Cherry himself, which he had made Jack read to “see if it was cheerful enough.”

He and Jack clung to each other closely during those last few days, and till they parted, Cheriton never ceased to be the one to uphold and to cheer; but when Jack was out of sight, he broke down utterly, and while Alvar was beginning to make acquaintance with the Stanforths, Cheriton lay fighting hard with all the suffering which he had so long held at bay. He was not passive, though Alvar thought him so, as he lay still and silent, unwilling to speak or be spoken to. He was struggling actively, strenuously, with all the force of a strong will against a passionate and rebellious nature. He was sufficiently experienced in self-control, and unselfish enough to have succeeded in behaving well and courageously under his various troubles. But Cherry’s notions of self-conquest aimed higher and went deeper. He would be master of his own inmost soul, as well as of his outward actions. His eyes were pure enough to see as in a vision what was implied in saying honestly, “Thy Will be done,” and clear enough to know that he could not say it; while, on the other hand, there was scarcely any form of wrath and bitterness to which memory did not tempt him. Why must he suffer in so many ways? Perhaps the moments of softer yearning for the lost love of his boyhood, sad as they were, were the least painful part of his suffering. The loss of health and strength, and of the power of substituting some other aim in life for those earlier and sweeter hopes, came as a separate, but to so active a person, an exceeding trial, while he was separated from all the lesser interests which had the power of custom over him, a power in his case unusually strong; yet in these he felt lay the hope of salvation, at least from those intermittent waves of utter despondency which made all alike worthless and blank. Cheriton had all his life tried to choose the better part, to follow his own higher nature, and seek what was lovely and of good report, had all his life looked upward. Had he not done so, these present temptations would have attacked him on a far lower level, or, set apart as he was just now from all outward action, he would more probably not have recognised that he had a battle to fight at all. But to Cheriton it was given to see the issues of the battle that has been fought by all true saints, and perhaps by some sinners; and his chief mistake now was that he was young enough to think that, like the typical dragon fights of the old world, it could be won by one great struggle. This was his inner life, of which no one knew anything, save perhaps Jack, who was like-minded enough to guess something of it.

Alvar only saw that he was weak and weary, and suffering from a great reaction of mind and body. He was a very judicious companion, however, and after a day or two of repose succeeded in coaxing Cherry on to the deck; where the fresh air sent him to sleep on the cushions that Alvar had arranged for him, more quietly than for some time past.

When he opened his eyes, and began to look about him, it was with a refreshing sense of life and circumstances apart from himself and his perplexities. The blue sky, the dancing waves, the groups of people moving about, the unfamiliar sights and sounds amused him. He looked round for his brother, and presently discovered him sitting at a little distance, smoking his unfailing cigarette, and looking both comfortable and picturesque in the soft felt hat, which, though not especially unlike other people’s, always had on him the effect of a costume. He was talking to a young lady, with an air of considerable animation and intimacy. She was knitting a gay-striped sock, the bright pins twinkling with the rapid movement of her fingers, and she laughed often, a particularly gay, musical laugh.

Alvar glanced round, and seeing that Cherry was awake, sprang up and came over to him.

“Ah, you have had quite a long sleep,” he said.

“Have I? I feel all the better for it. This is very comfortable. And pray who is the young lady with the knitting-needles?”

“Why, that is Miss Stanforth. Did I not tell you how kind they have been? You see, Jack nearly knocked her down, and so we made acquaintance; and just now I was teaching her some Spanish.”

“Did Jack create a favourable impression by that mode of introduction?”

“Why, yes,” said Alvar, delighted at hearing the shadow of a joke from Cherry; “for I explained how it was that he was in trouble, and they were interested at hearing of you. Now you must have some breakfast, and then perhaps you would like to see them.”

“Oh, no,” said Cherry, “I don’t feel up to talking; but I am glad you have some one to amuse you.”

However, Cherry began to be amused himself by watching his brother. He felt the relief of having nothing to do and no one to think of, and as he lay looking on, was surprised at perceiving how sociable the stiff, reserved Alvar appeared to be, how many little politenesses he performed, and how gay and light-hearted he looked. Evidently Mr and Miss Stanforth were the most attractive party, though Alvar seemed on speaking terms with every one; and at last Cherry, seeing that he wished it, begged that Mr Stanforth would come and speak to him, and their new acquaintance, having the tact to see that he was shy in his character of invalid, came and sat down beside him, and talked cheerfully on indifferent topics.

“And where are you bound for,” he asked presently, “when you reach Gibraltar?”

“For Seville,” said Cheriton; “Don Guzman de la Rosa, my brother’s grandfather, lives there at this time of the year. He has a country place, too, I believe, for the summer. But Alvar thinks the journey would be too much for me yet. I hope not; he must want to be with his friends.”

“My daughter and I,” said Mr Stanforth, “have some friends at Gibraltar, and they have recommended us to join them at a place on the coast, San José, I think they called it. Afterwards our dream has been to spend some weeks at Seville. Can you tell us anything of ways and means there, for we are trusting entirely to fate and a guide-book?”

“I’m afraid,” said Cherry, smiling, “that I am trusting with equally implicit faith in Alvar. I haven’t asked many questions. Alvar, can you tell Mr Stanforth what he must do, and how he must manage in Seville?”

“All I know is at his service,” said Alvar, sitting down at Cherry’s feet; “but he will, I hope, visit my grandfather, who will be honoured by his coming. My aunt, too, and my cousins would be proud to show Miss Stanforth Seville.”

“Oh, papa,” exclaimed Gipsy impetuously, catching these words as she approached, “to know some Spaniards. Then we should really see the country.” She broke off, blushing; and Alvar, springing up, offered her a seat, and introduced her to his brother, while Mr Stanforth said, —

“Thank you, we could not refuse such a kind offer; but I want to make Seville my head-quarters, and make excursions from thence. What sort of inns have you? Are they pleasant for ladies?”

“Papa, you know we settled that I was not going to be a lady.”

“Did we, my dear? I was not a party to that arrangement. You are not quite a gipsy yet, you know.”

“There are inns,” said Alvar, “but the best plan is to take a flat in what we call a ‘Casa de pupillos,’ a pension, I suppose. I know one. Dona Catalina, who keeps it, is an excellent lady, most devout, and she once received an English family, so she knows better how you like to eat and drink.”

“I don’t mean to eat and drink anything that is not Spanish,” said Gipsy, laughing.

“Indeed,” said Alvar, “you will not often find anything that is English. I sometimes fear that my brother will not like that.”

“You have a lively remembrance of being asked to eat oat-cake and porridge, and drink what we call sherry,” said Cheriton.

“But I will not expect that you shall like things that are strange to you, querido,” said Alvar, a speech that revealed a little of the family history to Mr Stanforth’s sharp eyes; while Gipsy said earnestly, —

“Oh, the strangeness is what I expect to enjoy.”

A good deal more information of different kinds followed, and Cherry wondered at this own ignorance of Alvar’s former surroundings.

“Why, I did not know that your cousins lived with you,” he said.

“I did not speak much of Seville to you,” said Alvar, with ever so slight an emphasis, the first reminder he had ever given that there had been one to whom he could talk freely.

“We were all too much occupied with teaching you about Westmoreland, and lately I think I have been too stupid to care. But you must give me some Spanish lessons soon.”

“Have you been long in England?” said Mr Stanforth to Alvar.

“I came at Christmas. Ah, how cold it was! The boys and Nettie laughed at me because I did not like it. They ran out into the snow without their hats that I might feel ashamed of sitting by the fire,” said Alvar quaintly.

“Ah, we were a set of terrible young Philistines!” said Cheriton. “Do you remember the snow man and the wrestling?”