Chapter Thirty Four.

Chapter Thirty Four.Jack on his Mettle.“Lat me alone in chesing of my wyf,That charge upon my bak I wol endure.”Chaucer.That same morning, when Jack and Alvar had ridden hurriedly up to the hotel, looking eagerly to catch sight of those who were so anxiously watching for them, their eyes fell on Gipsy’s solitary figure, standing motionless, with eyes turned towards the mountain, and hands dropped listlessly before her. Jack’s heart gave a great bound, and at the sound of the horses’ hoofs, she turned with a start and scream of joy, and sprang towards them, while Jack, jumping off, caught both her hands, crying,—“Oh, don’t be frightened any more, we’re come!”“Your brother!” exclaimed Gipsy, as she flew into the house; but her cry of “Papa! papa!” was suddenly choked with such an outburst of blinding, stifling tears and sobs, that she paused perforce; and as they ran upstairs, Mariquita, the pretty Spanish girl who waited on them, caught her hand and kissed her fervently.“Ah, señorita, dear señorita; thanks to the saints, they have sent her lover back to her. Sweet señorita, now she will not cry!”A sudden access of self-consciousness seized on Gipsy; she blushed to her fingertips, and only anxious to hide the tears she could not check, she hurried away, round to the back of the inn, into a sort of orchard, where grew peach and nectarine trees, apples and pears already showing buds, and where the ground was covered with jonquils and crocuses, while beyond was the rocky precipice, and, far off, the snowy peaks that still made Gipsy shudder. Unconscious of the strain she had been enduring, she was terrified at the violence of her own emotion, for Gipsy was not a girl who was given to gusts of feeling. Probably the air and the solitude were her best remedies, for she soon began to recover herself, and sat up among the jonquils. Oh, how thankful she was that the danger was over, and the bright, kindly Cheriton spared from such a terrible sorrow! But was it for Cheriton’s sake that these last two days had been like a frightful dream, that her very existence seemed to have been staked on news of the lost ones? No one—no onecould help such feelings. Miss Weston had cried about it, and her father had never been able to touch a pencil. But that foolish Mariquita! Here Gipsy sprang to her feet with a start, for close at her side stood Jack. At sight of him, strong and ruddy and safe, her feeling overpowered her consciousness of it, and she said, earnestly,—“Oh, I am so thankful you are safe! It was so dreadful!”“And it was not dreadful at all in reality, only tiresome and absurd,” said Jack.“It was very dreadful here,” said Gipsy, in a low voice, with fresh tears springing.“Oh, if you felt so!” cried Jack ardently; “I wish it could happen to me twenty times over!”“Oh, never again!” she murmured; and then Jack, suddenly and impetuously,—“But Iamglad it happened, for I found out up in that dirty hole how I felt. There was never any one like you. I—I—could you ever get to think of me? Oh, Gipsy, I mean it. I love you!” cried the boy, his stern, thoughtful face radiant with eagerness, as he seized her hand.“Oh, no—you don’t!” stammered Gipsy, not knowing what she said.“I do!” cried Jack desperately. “I never was a fellow that did not know his own mind. Of course I know I’m young yet; but I only want to look forward. I shall work and get on, and—and up there at school and at Oakby I never thought there was any one like you. I disliked girls. But now—oh, Gipsy, won’t you begin at the very beginning with me, and let us live our lives together?”Boy as he was, there was a strength of intention in Jack’s earnest tones that carried conviction. Perhaps the mutual attraction might have remained hidden for long, or even have passed away, but for the sudden and intense excitement that had brought it to the surface.“Won’t you—won’t you?” reiterated Jack; and Gipsy said “Yes.”They stood in the glowing sunshine, and Jack felt a sort of ecstasy of unknown bliss. He did not know how long was the pause before Gipsy, starting, and as if finishing the sentence, went on,—“Yes—but I don’t know. What will they all say? Isn’t it wrong when we are so young?”“Wrong! as if a year or two made any difference to feelings like mine!” cried Jack. “If I were twenty-five, if I were thirty, I couldn’t love you better!”“Yes—but—” said Gipsy, in her quick, practical way. “Youareyoung, and—and—papa—If he says—”“Of course I shall tell him,” said Jack. “I am not going to steal you. If you will wait, I’ll work and show your father that I am a man. For I love you!”“I’ll wait!” said Gipsy softly; and then voices sounded near, and she started away from him, while Jack—but Jack could never recollect exactly what he did during the next ten minutes, till the thought of how he was to tell his story sobered him. Practical life had not hitherto occupied much of Jack’s mind; he had had no distinct intentions beyond taking honours, and if possible a fellowship, till he had been seized upon by this sudden passion, which in most lads would probably have been a passing fancy, but in so earnest and serious a nature took at once a real and practical shape. But when Jack thought of facing Mr Stanforth, and still worse his own father, with his wishes and his hopes, a fearful embarrassment seized on him. No, he must first make his cause good with the only person who was likely to be listened to—he must find Cherry. However, the first person he met was Mr Stanforth, who innocently asked him if he knew where his daughter was. Jack blushed and stared, answering incoherently,—“I was only looking for Cherry.”“There he is. I heard him asking for you. Perhaps Gipsy is in the orchard.” Jack felt very foolish and cowardly, but for his very life he could not begin to speak, and he turned towards the bench where Cherry sat in the sun, smoking his pipe comfortably, and conscious of little but a sense of utter rest and relief.“Well, Jack, I haven’t heard your story yet,” he said, as Jack came and sat down beside him. “I don’t think you have grown thin, though Alvar says they nearly starved you to death.”“Where is Alvar?” asked Jack.“I got him to go to the mayor,intendant, whatever the official is called here, and see if anything could be done for poor Pedro. His mother was here just now in an agony. Jack, I think the ‘evils of government’ might receive some illustrations.”“Cheriton,” said Jack, with unusual solemnity, “I’ve got to ask your advice—that is, your opinion—that is, to tell you something.”“Don’t you think I should look at it from a ludicrous point of view?” said Cherry, whose spirits were ready for a reaction into nonsense.“I don’t know,” said Jack; “but it is very serious. I have made up my mind, Cherry, that I mean to marry Miss Stanforth, and I shall direct all my efforts in life to accomplish this end. I know that I am younger than is usual on these occasions; but such things are not a question of time. Cherry,dohelp me; they’ll all listen to you.”Cheriton sat with his pipe in his hand, so utterly astonished, that he allowed Jack’s sentences to come to a natural conclusion. Then he exclaimed,—“Jack! You! Oh, impossible!”“I don’t see why you should think it impossible. Anyhow, it’s true!”“But it is so sudden. Jack, my dear boy, you’re slightly carried off your head just now. Don’t say a word about it—while we’re all together at least; it wouldn’t be fair.”“But I have,” answered Jack, “and—and—” in a different tone, “Cherry, I don’t know how to believe it myself, but she—it is too wonderful—she will.”Cherry did not answer. He put his hand on Jack’s with a sudden, quick movement.“I suppose you think I ought to have waited till I had a better right to ask her,” said Jack presently.A look of acute pain passed over Cheriton’s face. He said doubtfully, “Are you quite sure?”“Sure? Sure of what?”“Of your own mind and hers?”“Did I ever not know my own mind? I’m not a fool!” said Jack angrily. “And, if you could have seen just the way she looked, Cherry, you wouldn’t have any doubts.”“I am afraid,” said Cherry very gently, and after a pause, “that you have been very hasty. I don’t think that father, or Mr Stanforth either, would listen to you now.”“I want you to ask them,” said Jack insinuatingly. “Father would do anything for you now; and, besides, we are young enough to wait, and I’ve got the world before me, and I mean to keep straight and get on. Why should Mr Stanforth object? I feel as if I could do anything. You don’t think it would make me idle? No, I shall work twice as hard as I should without it.”“Yes,” said Cherry quietly; “no doubt.” Something in his tone brought recent facts to Jack’s remembrance, as was proved by his sudden silence. Cherry looked round at him and smiled.“You know, Jack, I wasn’t prepared to find the schoolboy stage passed into the lover’s. I’ll speak to Mr Stanforth, if that is what you want, and even if things don’t fit in at once, if you feel as you say, you won’t be much to be pitied with such an aim before you!”“I’m not at all ashamed of telling my own story,” said Jack, “but—”“Butthere is Mr Stanforth coming out of the house, so if you mean to run away you had better make haste about it.”Jack rose, but he paused a moment, and as Mr Stanforth came towards them, said bluntly,—“Mr Stanforth, I want Cheriton to tell you about it first;” then deliberately walked away.Poor Mr Stanforth, who had little expected such an ending to his tour with his favourite little daughter, was feeling himself in a worse scrape than the lovers, and though he had romance enough to sympathise with them, was disposed to be angry with Jack for his inconsiderate haste, and to feel that “What will your mother say?” was a more uncomfortable question to himself than to his daughter.Cheriton, on his side, would have been very glad of a few minutes for reflection, but Mr Stanforth began at once,—“I see I have not brought news to you.”“No,” said Cherry. “Jack has been talking to me; I had no idea of such a thing. But, Mr Stanforth, there is no doubt that Jack is thoroughly in earnest,” as a half smile twinkled on the artist’s perplexed countenance.“In earnest, yes; but what business has he to be in earnest? What would your father say to such a proceeding? What can he say at your brother’s age, and of people of whom he knows nothing, and of a connexion of which, knowing nothing, he probably would not approve?”Cheriton blushed, knowing that this last assertion contained much truth.“But he does know,” he said, “of all your kindness, and he will know more—and—and when he knows you, he could not think—”“Excuse me, my dear fellow, but he will think. He will think I have thrown my daughter in the way of his sons—for which I have only my own imprudence, I suppose, to thank. And he would no doubt dislike a connexion the advantages of which, whatever they may be, are not enumerated in Burke’s ‘Landed Gentry.’”Mr Stanforth smiled, though he spoke with a certain spirited dignity, and Cheriton could not contradict him; for though Mr Stanforth had not risen out of any romantic obscurity, he certainly owed his present position to his own genius and high personal character. He had himself married well, and all would depend on the way in which it was put to a man like Mr Lester, slow to realise unfamiliar facts. Cheriton could not take the liberty of saying that he thought such an objection would be groundless, or at least easily overcome; but he was afraid that his silence might be misconstrued, and said,—“But on your side, Mr Stanforth, would you think it wrong to give Jack a little hope? I think he has every prospect of success in life. And he is a very good fellow. Sudden as this is, I feel sure that he will stick to it.”“As to that,” said Mr Stanforth, “I like Jack very well, and for my part I think young people are all the better for having to fight their way; but whatever may take place in the future I can allow no intercourse till your father’s consent is obtained. That will give a chance of testing their feelings on both sides. Gipsy is a mere child, she may not understand herself.”“I think,” said Cheriton, “that if Jack writes to my father now, or speaks to him when he gets home, that no one will attend to him. But if it could wait till we all go back, I could explain the circumstances so much better. It is always difficult to take in what passes at a distance.”“Well,” said Mr Stanforth, “all I have to say is that when Jack applies to me, with his father’s consent, I will hear what he has to say, not before. Come, Cheriton,” he added, “you know there is no other way of acting. This foolish boy has broken up our pleasant party, and upset all our plans.”“Perhaps I ought to have made more apologies for him,” said Cherry, with a smile. “But I want things to go well with Jack. It would be so bad for him to have a disappointment of that kind just as he is making his start in life.”Mr Stanforth noticed the unconscious emphasis, “I want things to go well withJack,” and said kindly, “Jack couldn’t have a better special pleader, and if he has as much stuff in him as I think, a few obstacles won’t hurt him.”“Oh, Jack has plenty of good strong stuff in him, mental, moral—and physical, too,” added Cherry hurriedly.Mr Stanforth was touched by the allusion, which was evidently intended to combat a possible latent objection on his part.“Jack is excellent—but inconvenient,” he said, thinking it better not to make the subject too serious. “The thing is what to do next.” As he spoke, Jack himself came up to them, and Mr Stanforth prevented his first words with, “My dear fellow, I have said my say to your brother, and I don’t mean to listen to yours just yet.”“I believe, sir,” said Jack, “that I—I have not observed sufficient formalities. I shall go straight home to my father, and I hope to obtain his full consent. But it is due to me to let me say that my mind is, and always will be, quite unalterable. And I’m not sorry I spoke, sir—I can’t be!”“No,” said Mr Stanforth; “but I must desire that you make no further attempt at present.”“I hope, Mr Stanforth, that you don’t imagine I would attempt anything underhand!” cried Jack impetuously.“I shall have every confidence in you,” said Mr Stanforth gravely; “but remember, I cannot regard you as pledged to my daughter by anything that has passed to-day.” Jack made no answer, but he closed his lips with an expression of determination.When Alvar came back, having succeeded in instituting an inquiry into the merits of Pedro’s character, there was a discussion of plans, which ended in the three brothers agreeing to go by the shortest route to Seville, whence Jack could at once start for England; while the Stanforths followed them by a longer and more picturesque road, and after picking up their own property, would also go homeviaMadrid some week or two later. Alvar was not nearly so much astonished as the others, nor so much concerned.“It was natural,” he said, “since Jack’s heart was not preoccupied, and would doubtless pass away with absence.”Jack was so excessively indignant that he did not condescend to a reply, only asking Cherry if he was too tired to start at once.This proposal, however, was negatived by Mr Stanforth, who remarked that he did not want to hear of any more adventures in the dusk; and it was agreed that both parties should start early on the following morning. In the meantime the only rational thing was to behave as usual. Jack was, however, speechless and surly with embarrassment, and stuck to Cheriton as if he was afraid to lose sight of him; while Gipsy bore herself with a transparent affectation of unconsciousness, and, though she blushed at every look, coined little remarks at intervals. Miss Weston kindly professed to be seized with a desire to inspect the Dominican Convent, and carried her and Alvar off for that purpose; while Jack held by Cherry, who was glad to rest, though this startling incident had one good effect, in driving away all the haunting memories of the late alarm.The next morning all were up with the sun, Gipsy busily dispensing the chocolate and pressing it on Cheriton as he sat at the table. Suddenly she turned, and, with a very pretty gesture, half confident, half shy, she held up a cup to Jack, who stood behind.“Won’t you have some?” she said, with a hint of her own mischief in her eyes and voice. Jack seized the cup, and—upset it over the deft, quick hands that tendered it to him.“Oh, I have burnt you!” he exclaimed, in so tragic a voice that all present burst out laughing.“No,” said Gipsy, “early morning chocolate is not dangerously hot; but you have spoiled my cuffs, and spilled it, and I don’t think there’s any more of it.”“Jack’s first attention!” said Cherry, under his breath; but he jumped up and followed Alvar, who had gone to see about the mount provided for them. Miss Weston was tying various little bags on to her saddle.“I say, Mr Stanforth,” called Cherry, “there’s such a picturesque mule here; do come and see it.”He looked up with eyes full of mischievous entreaty as Mr Stanforth obeyed his call. “Well,” said the latter with a smile, “I may askyouto come and see me at Kensington, for I must get the picture finished.”“That was a much prettier picture, just now,” said Cheriton; “and I’m sure Jack would be happy to sit for itanytime.”When Gipsy, long afterwards, was pressed on the subject of that little parting interview, she declared that Jack had done nothing but say that he wouldn’t make love to her on any account; but however that might be, she soon came running out, rosy and bashful; while Cheriton put her on her mule and gave her a friendly hand-squeeze and a look of all possible encouragement. Mr Stanforth went into the house and called Jack to bid him a kind farewell. After the party had set off, Gipsy looked back and saw the crowd of mule drivers and peasants, the host and hostess, with Mariquita kissing her hands, and the three brothers standing together in the morning sunshine, waving their farewells. As they passed out of sight, her father touched her hand and made her ride up close to his side.“My little girl,” he said, “this is a serious thing that has come to you; I do not know how it may end for you. I am sure that it will bring you anxiety and delay. Be honest with yourself, and do not exaggerate the romance and excitement of these last few days into a feeling which may demand from you much sacrifice.”Gipsy had never heard her father speak in this tone before—she was awed and silenced.“Be honest,” repeated her father, “for I think it is a very honest heart that you have won.”“Papa,” said Gipsy, “Iamhonest, and I think I know what you mean. But I don’t mind waiting if I know he is waiting too. He said ‘begin at the beginning’ with him.”“Well,” said Mr Stanforth with a sigh, “Che sará sará;” but with a sudden turn, “Heis young, too, you know, and many things may happen to change his views.”“I cannot help it now, papa,” said Gipsy, who felt that those days and nights of terror had developed her feelings more than weeks of common life. She gave her father’s hand a little squeeze, and looked up in his face with the tears on her black eyelashes. Shemeantto say, “I loveyouall the better because of this new love which has made everything deeper and warmer for me,” but all she managed to say was—“There! There are all the things tumbling out of your knapsack! I’m not going to havethathappen again even if—if—whatever should take place in the future.”“I hope, my dear, that nothing more will happen, at least till we are at home again,” said Mr Stanforth meekly; but Gipsy put the things into the knapsack, and after a little silence they fell into a conversation on the scenery as naturally as possible.

“Lat me alone in chesing of my wyf,That charge upon my bak I wol endure.”Chaucer.

“Lat me alone in chesing of my wyf,That charge upon my bak I wol endure.”Chaucer.

That same morning, when Jack and Alvar had ridden hurriedly up to the hotel, looking eagerly to catch sight of those who were so anxiously watching for them, their eyes fell on Gipsy’s solitary figure, standing motionless, with eyes turned towards the mountain, and hands dropped listlessly before her. Jack’s heart gave a great bound, and at the sound of the horses’ hoofs, she turned with a start and scream of joy, and sprang towards them, while Jack, jumping off, caught both her hands, crying,—

“Oh, don’t be frightened any more, we’re come!”

“Your brother!” exclaimed Gipsy, as she flew into the house; but her cry of “Papa! papa!” was suddenly choked with such an outburst of blinding, stifling tears and sobs, that she paused perforce; and as they ran upstairs, Mariquita, the pretty Spanish girl who waited on them, caught her hand and kissed her fervently.

“Ah, señorita, dear señorita; thanks to the saints, they have sent her lover back to her. Sweet señorita, now she will not cry!”

A sudden access of self-consciousness seized on Gipsy; she blushed to her fingertips, and only anxious to hide the tears she could not check, she hurried away, round to the back of the inn, into a sort of orchard, where grew peach and nectarine trees, apples and pears already showing buds, and where the ground was covered with jonquils and crocuses, while beyond was the rocky precipice, and, far off, the snowy peaks that still made Gipsy shudder. Unconscious of the strain she had been enduring, she was terrified at the violence of her own emotion, for Gipsy was not a girl who was given to gusts of feeling. Probably the air and the solitude were her best remedies, for she soon began to recover herself, and sat up among the jonquils. Oh, how thankful she was that the danger was over, and the bright, kindly Cheriton spared from such a terrible sorrow! But was it for Cheriton’s sake that these last two days had been like a frightful dream, that her very existence seemed to have been staked on news of the lost ones? No one—no onecould help such feelings. Miss Weston had cried about it, and her father had never been able to touch a pencil. But that foolish Mariquita! Here Gipsy sprang to her feet with a start, for close at her side stood Jack. At sight of him, strong and ruddy and safe, her feeling overpowered her consciousness of it, and she said, earnestly,—

“Oh, I am so thankful you are safe! It was so dreadful!”

“And it was not dreadful at all in reality, only tiresome and absurd,” said Jack.

“It was very dreadful here,” said Gipsy, in a low voice, with fresh tears springing.

“Oh, if you felt so!” cried Jack ardently; “I wish it could happen to me twenty times over!”

“Oh, never again!” she murmured; and then Jack, suddenly and impetuously,—

“But Iamglad it happened, for I found out up in that dirty hole how I felt. There was never any one like you. I—I—could you ever get to think of me? Oh, Gipsy, I mean it. I love you!” cried the boy, his stern, thoughtful face radiant with eagerness, as he seized her hand.

“Oh, no—you don’t!” stammered Gipsy, not knowing what she said.

“I do!” cried Jack desperately. “I never was a fellow that did not know his own mind. Of course I know I’m young yet; but I only want to look forward. I shall work and get on, and—and up there at school and at Oakby I never thought there was any one like you. I disliked girls. But now—oh, Gipsy, won’t you begin at the very beginning with me, and let us live our lives together?”

Boy as he was, there was a strength of intention in Jack’s earnest tones that carried conviction. Perhaps the mutual attraction might have remained hidden for long, or even have passed away, but for the sudden and intense excitement that had brought it to the surface.

“Won’t you—won’t you?” reiterated Jack; and Gipsy said “Yes.”

They stood in the glowing sunshine, and Jack felt a sort of ecstasy of unknown bliss. He did not know how long was the pause before Gipsy, starting, and as if finishing the sentence, went on,—

“Yes—but I don’t know. What will they all say? Isn’t it wrong when we are so young?”

“Wrong! as if a year or two made any difference to feelings like mine!” cried Jack. “If I were twenty-five, if I were thirty, I couldn’t love you better!”

“Yes—but—” said Gipsy, in her quick, practical way. “Youareyoung, and—and—papa—If he says—”

“Of course I shall tell him,” said Jack. “I am not going to steal you. If you will wait, I’ll work and show your father that I am a man. For I love you!”

“I’ll wait!” said Gipsy softly; and then voices sounded near, and she started away from him, while Jack—but Jack could never recollect exactly what he did during the next ten minutes, till the thought of how he was to tell his story sobered him. Practical life had not hitherto occupied much of Jack’s mind; he had had no distinct intentions beyond taking honours, and if possible a fellowship, till he had been seized upon by this sudden passion, which in most lads would probably have been a passing fancy, but in so earnest and serious a nature took at once a real and practical shape. But when Jack thought of facing Mr Stanforth, and still worse his own father, with his wishes and his hopes, a fearful embarrassment seized on him. No, he must first make his cause good with the only person who was likely to be listened to—he must find Cherry. However, the first person he met was Mr Stanforth, who innocently asked him if he knew where his daughter was. Jack blushed and stared, answering incoherently,—

“I was only looking for Cherry.”

“There he is. I heard him asking for you. Perhaps Gipsy is in the orchard.” Jack felt very foolish and cowardly, but for his very life he could not begin to speak, and he turned towards the bench where Cherry sat in the sun, smoking his pipe comfortably, and conscious of little but a sense of utter rest and relief.

“Well, Jack, I haven’t heard your story yet,” he said, as Jack came and sat down beside him. “I don’t think you have grown thin, though Alvar says they nearly starved you to death.”

“Where is Alvar?” asked Jack.

“I got him to go to the mayor,intendant, whatever the official is called here, and see if anything could be done for poor Pedro. His mother was here just now in an agony. Jack, I think the ‘evils of government’ might receive some illustrations.”

“Cheriton,” said Jack, with unusual solemnity, “I’ve got to ask your advice—that is, your opinion—that is, to tell you something.”

“Don’t you think I should look at it from a ludicrous point of view?” said Cherry, whose spirits were ready for a reaction into nonsense.

“I don’t know,” said Jack; “but it is very serious. I have made up my mind, Cherry, that I mean to marry Miss Stanforth, and I shall direct all my efforts in life to accomplish this end. I know that I am younger than is usual on these occasions; but such things are not a question of time. Cherry,dohelp me; they’ll all listen to you.”

Cheriton sat with his pipe in his hand, so utterly astonished, that he allowed Jack’s sentences to come to a natural conclusion. Then he exclaimed,—

“Jack! You! Oh, impossible!”

“I don’t see why you should think it impossible. Anyhow, it’s true!”

“But it is so sudden. Jack, my dear boy, you’re slightly carried off your head just now. Don’t say a word about it—while we’re all together at least; it wouldn’t be fair.”

“But I have,” answered Jack, “and—and—” in a different tone, “Cherry, I don’t know how to believe it myself, but she—it is too wonderful—she will.”

Cherry did not answer. He put his hand on Jack’s with a sudden, quick movement.

“I suppose you think I ought to have waited till I had a better right to ask her,” said Jack presently.

A look of acute pain passed over Cheriton’s face. He said doubtfully, “Are you quite sure?”

“Sure? Sure of what?”

“Of your own mind and hers?”

“Did I ever not know my own mind? I’m not a fool!” said Jack angrily. “And, if you could have seen just the way she looked, Cherry, you wouldn’t have any doubts.”

“I am afraid,” said Cherry very gently, and after a pause, “that you have been very hasty. I don’t think that father, or Mr Stanforth either, would listen to you now.”

“I want you to ask them,” said Jack insinuatingly. “Father would do anything for you now; and, besides, we are young enough to wait, and I’ve got the world before me, and I mean to keep straight and get on. Why should Mr Stanforth object? I feel as if I could do anything. You don’t think it would make me idle? No, I shall work twice as hard as I should without it.”

“Yes,” said Cherry quietly; “no doubt.” Something in his tone brought recent facts to Jack’s remembrance, as was proved by his sudden silence. Cherry looked round at him and smiled.

“You know, Jack, I wasn’t prepared to find the schoolboy stage passed into the lover’s. I’ll speak to Mr Stanforth, if that is what you want, and even if things don’t fit in at once, if you feel as you say, you won’t be much to be pitied with such an aim before you!”

“I’m not at all ashamed of telling my own story,” said Jack, “but—”

“Butthere is Mr Stanforth coming out of the house, so if you mean to run away you had better make haste about it.”

Jack rose, but he paused a moment, and as Mr Stanforth came towards them, said bluntly,—

“Mr Stanforth, I want Cheriton to tell you about it first;” then deliberately walked away.

Poor Mr Stanforth, who had little expected such an ending to his tour with his favourite little daughter, was feeling himself in a worse scrape than the lovers, and though he had romance enough to sympathise with them, was disposed to be angry with Jack for his inconsiderate haste, and to feel that “What will your mother say?” was a more uncomfortable question to himself than to his daughter.

Cheriton, on his side, would have been very glad of a few minutes for reflection, but Mr Stanforth began at once,—

“I see I have not brought news to you.”

“No,” said Cherry. “Jack has been talking to me; I had no idea of such a thing. But, Mr Stanforth, there is no doubt that Jack is thoroughly in earnest,” as a half smile twinkled on the artist’s perplexed countenance.

“In earnest, yes; but what business has he to be in earnest? What would your father say to such a proceeding? What can he say at your brother’s age, and of people of whom he knows nothing, and of a connexion of which, knowing nothing, he probably would not approve?”

Cheriton blushed, knowing that this last assertion contained much truth.

“But he does know,” he said, “of all your kindness, and he will know more—and—and when he knows you, he could not think—”

“Excuse me, my dear fellow, but he will think. He will think I have thrown my daughter in the way of his sons—for which I have only my own imprudence, I suppose, to thank. And he would no doubt dislike a connexion the advantages of which, whatever they may be, are not enumerated in Burke’s ‘Landed Gentry.’”

Mr Stanforth smiled, though he spoke with a certain spirited dignity, and Cheriton could not contradict him; for though Mr Stanforth had not risen out of any romantic obscurity, he certainly owed his present position to his own genius and high personal character. He had himself married well, and all would depend on the way in which it was put to a man like Mr Lester, slow to realise unfamiliar facts. Cheriton could not take the liberty of saying that he thought such an objection would be groundless, or at least easily overcome; but he was afraid that his silence might be misconstrued, and said,—“But on your side, Mr Stanforth, would you think it wrong to give Jack a little hope? I think he has every prospect of success in life. And he is a very good fellow. Sudden as this is, I feel sure that he will stick to it.”

“As to that,” said Mr Stanforth, “I like Jack very well, and for my part I think young people are all the better for having to fight their way; but whatever may take place in the future I can allow no intercourse till your father’s consent is obtained. That will give a chance of testing their feelings on both sides. Gipsy is a mere child, she may not understand herself.”

“I think,” said Cheriton, “that if Jack writes to my father now, or speaks to him when he gets home, that no one will attend to him. But if it could wait till we all go back, I could explain the circumstances so much better. It is always difficult to take in what passes at a distance.”

“Well,” said Mr Stanforth, “all I have to say is that when Jack applies to me, with his father’s consent, I will hear what he has to say, not before. Come, Cheriton,” he added, “you know there is no other way of acting. This foolish boy has broken up our pleasant party, and upset all our plans.”

“Perhaps I ought to have made more apologies for him,” said Cherry, with a smile. “But I want things to go well with Jack. It would be so bad for him to have a disappointment of that kind just as he is making his start in life.”

Mr Stanforth noticed the unconscious emphasis, “I want things to go well withJack,” and said kindly, “Jack couldn’t have a better special pleader, and if he has as much stuff in him as I think, a few obstacles won’t hurt him.”

“Oh, Jack has plenty of good strong stuff in him, mental, moral—and physical, too,” added Cherry hurriedly.

Mr Stanforth was touched by the allusion, which was evidently intended to combat a possible latent objection on his part.

“Jack is excellent—but inconvenient,” he said, thinking it better not to make the subject too serious. “The thing is what to do next.” As he spoke, Jack himself came up to them, and Mr Stanforth prevented his first words with, “My dear fellow, I have said my say to your brother, and I don’t mean to listen to yours just yet.”

“I believe, sir,” said Jack, “that I—I have not observed sufficient formalities. I shall go straight home to my father, and I hope to obtain his full consent. But it is due to me to let me say that my mind is, and always will be, quite unalterable. And I’m not sorry I spoke, sir—I can’t be!”

“No,” said Mr Stanforth; “but I must desire that you make no further attempt at present.”

“I hope, Mr Stanforth, that you don’t imagine I would attempt anything underhand!” cried Jack impetuously.

“I shall have every confidence in you,” said Mr Stanforth gravely; “but remember, I cannot regard you as pledged to my daughter by anything that has passed to-day.” Jack made no answer, but he closed his lips with an expression of determination.

When Alvar came back, having succeeded in instituting an inquiry into the merits of Pedro’s character, there was a discussion of plans, which ended in the three brothers agreeing to go by the shortest route to Seville, whence Jack could at once start for England; while the Stanforths followed them by a longer and more picturesque road, and after picking up their own property, would also go homeviaMadrid some week or two later. Alvar was not nearly so much astonished as the others, nor so much concerned.

“It was natural,” he said, “since Jack’s heart was not preoccupied, and would doubtless pass away with absence.”

Jack was so excessively indignant that he did not condescend to a reply, only asking Cherry if he was too tired to start at once.

This proposal, however, was negatived by Mr Stanforth, who remarked that he did not want to hear of any more adventures in the dusk; and it was agreed that both parties should start early on the following morning. In the meantime the only rational thing was to behave as usual. Jack was, however, speechless and surly with embarrassment, and stuck to Cheriton as if he was afraid to lose sight of him; while Gipsy bore herself with a transparent affectation of unconsciousness, and, though she blushed at every look, coined little remarks at intervals. Miss Weston kindly professed to be seized with a desire to inspect the Dominican Convent, and carried her and Alvar off for that purpose; while Jack held by Cherry, who was glad to rest, though this startling incident had one good effect, in driving away all the haunting memories of the late alarm.

The next morning all were up with the sun, Gipsy busily dispensing the chocolate and pressing it on Cheriton as he sat at the table. Suddenly she turned, and, with a very pretty gesture, half confident, half shy, she held up a cup to Jack, who stood behind.

“Won’t you have some?” she said, with a hint of her own mischief in her eyes and voice. Jack seized the cup, and—upset it over the deft, quick hands that tendered it to him.

“Oh, I have burnt you!” he exclaimed, in so tragic a voice that all present burst out laughing.

“No,” said Gipsy, “early morning chocolate is not dangerously hot; but you have spoiled my cuffs, and spilled it, and I don’t think there’s any more of it.”

“Jack’s first attention!” said Cherry, under his breath; but he jumped up and followed Alvar, who had gone to see about the mount provided for them. Miss Weston was tying various little bags on to her saddle.

“I say, Mr Stanforth,” called Cherry, “there’s such a picturesque mule here; do come and see it.”

He looked up with eyes full of mischievous entreaty as Mr Stanforth obeyed his call. “Well,” said the latter with a smile, “I may askyouto come and see me at Kensington, for I must get the picture finished.”

“That was a much prettier picture, just now,” said Cheriton; “and I’m sure Jack would be happy to sit for itanytime.”

When Gipsy, long afterwards, was pressed on the subject of that little parting interview, she declared that Jack had done nothing but say that he wouldn’t make love to her on any account; but however that might be, she soon came running out, rosy and bashful; while Cheriton put her on her mule and gave her a friendly hand-squeeze and a look of all possible encouragement. Mr Stanforth went into the house and called Jack to bid him a kind farewell. After the party had set off, Gipsy looked back and saw the crowd of mule drivers and peasants, the host and hostess, with Mariquita kissing her hands, and the three brothers standing together in the morning sunshine, waving their farewells. As they passed out of sight, her father touched her hand and made her ride up close to his side.

“My little girl,” he said, “this is a serious thing that has come to you; I do not know how it may end for you. I am sure that it will bring you anxiety and delay. Be honest with yourself, and do not exaggerate the romance and excitement of these last few days into a feeling which may demand from you much sacrifice.”

Gipsy had never heard her father speak in this tone before—she was awed and silenced.

“Be honest,” repeated her father, “for I think it is a very honest heart that you have won.”

“Papa,” said Gipsy, “Iamhonest, and I think I know what you mean. But I don’t mind waiting if I know he is waiting too. He said ‘begin at the beginning’ with him.”

“Well,” said Mr Stanforth with a sigh, “Che sará sará;” but with a sudden turn, “Heis young, too, you know, and many things may happen to change his views.”

“I cannot help it now, papa,” said Gipsy, who felt that those days and nights of terror had developed her feelings more than weeks of common life. She gave her father’s hand a little squeeze, and looked up in his face with the tears on her black eyelashes. Shemeantto say, “I loveyouall the better because of this new love which has made everything deeper and warmer for me,” but all she managed to say was—“There! There are all the things tumbling out of your knapsack! I’m not going to havethathappen again even if—if—whatever should take place in the future.”

“I hope, my dear, that nothing more will happen, at least till we are at home again,” said Mr Stanforth meekly; but Gipsy put the things into the knapsack, and after a little silence they fell into a conversation on the scenery as naturally as possible.

Chapter Thirty Five.A Summons.“Once from high HeavenIs a father given.Once—and, oh, never again!”After Jack returned home, with the understanding that the disclosure of his holiday occupation should await his brother’s return, and after the Stanforths had also left Seville, Alvar and Cheriton spent several weeks there without any adventures to disturb their tranquillity. Alvar was a good deal with his grandfather, whose health was not at this time good, but who had evinced great curiosity as to the details of their detention on the mountains. He used also to go to the different clubs and meet acquaintances, where they talked politics and scandal, and played at cards, dominoes, and billiards. It was an aimless existence, and Cheriton sometimes fancied that Alvar grew restless under it, and would not be sorry to return to England. This, however, might have been owing to Cheriton’s own decided dislike to the youngSevillanos, who struck him as almost justifying his grandmother’s preconceived theory of Alvar’s probable behaviour.“Ah, they do not suit you, that is not what you like,” Alvar said cheerfully; but he never said, “It is notgood, this sort of life does not make a nation great or virtuous.”Manoel was of another type, and perhaps a more respectable one; but they saw very little of him. Cheriton liked the ladies, who were kind, and possessed many domestic virtues; and at Don Guzman’s country place there was something exceedingly pleasant in the cheerfulness and gaiety of the peasants. He would have liked to have found out something of the working of the Church, of the views of the clergy, and how far they differed, not only from those of an Anglican, but of an intelligent Roman priest in more civilised countries, but on these subjects no one would talk to him. He heard mutterings of hatred towards the priests in some quarters, and a good deal of chatter about processions and ceremonies from the young ladies, but nothing further. He did not want for occupation. He could now read and speak Spanish easily; and although the Cid, Ferdinand and Isabella, the Armada, and the Inquisition had been about the only salient points in his mind previously, he made a study of Spanish history, without much increase of his admiration for the Spaniards. He was able, also, to do much more sight-seeing than at first, and of the cathedral he never tired, and never came to the end of its innumerable chapels, each with some great picture, which Mr Stanforth had taught him how to see; never ceased to find something new in the mystery and solemnity of its aisles with their glory of coloured lights.These quiet weeks formed a sort of resting-place, during which he was able to think both of the past and of the future; he could dare now to look away from the immediate present. Cheriton’s eyes were very clear, his moral sense very keen, and he saw that he had been under a delusion, that Ruth and he were as the poles asunder, that her deliberate deception, her want of any sense of honour, had marked a nature that never could have satisfied his. Love in his case was no longer blind, but it was none the less passionate, and, whatever else life might hold for him, the memory of all his first, best hopes could never bring him anything but pain. This pain had been as much as he could bear, but others, he thought, had suffered as keenly, and had led lives that were neither ignoble nor unhappy. Because one great love had gone out of his life was nothing else worthy or dear? “Nothing” had been the answer of his first anguish, but Cheriton’s nature was too rich in love for such an answer to stand. The help for which he had prayed had been sent to him, and it came in the sense that home faces were still dear—howdear his late alarm had taught him—home duties still paramount, that he could be a good son and brother and friend still. And he thought with a sort of surprise of the many pleasant and not unhappy hours he had passed of late; how much, after all, he had “enjoyed himself.” He hardly knew that his quick intelligence was a gift to be thankful for, or that his unselfish interest in others brought its own reward. On another side of his nature, also, he resisted the aimlessness of his lost hopes. The thought of Ruth had sweetened his success at Oxford, but he would not be such a coward as to give up all his objects in life, he would make a name for himself still, and show her that she had not brought him to utter shipwreck. This motive was strong in Cheriton, though it ran alongside with much higher ones.One picture in the cathedral exercised a great fascination over Cheriton’s mind. It hangs in the Capella del Consuelo, over a side altar, dedicated to theAngel de la Guarda, and is one of the many masterpieces of Murillo to be found in Seville. It represents a tall, strong angel with wide-spread wings, and grave, benevolent face, leading by the hand a child—a subject which has been of course repeated in every form of commonplace prettiness. But in this picture the figure of the angel conveys a sense of heavenly might and unearthly guardianship which no imitation or repetition could give. It is called the “Guardian Angel;” but Cheriton had been told by one of the priests that the name given to it by the painter himself was “The Soul and the Church,” which for some reason or other had been changed by the monks of the Capuchin Convent, to whom the picture had originally belonged. It was a thought and a carrying out of the thought which, seen among such surroundings, was full of suggestion, how and why that Divine Guidance seemed here in great measure to have gone astray, how the great angel’s finger had not always pointed upward, and yet how utterly helpless and rudderless the nation was when it cast off the Guide of its fathers. Then his thoughts turned to his own life and to the Hand that held it, to the Guidance that was sometimes so hard to recognise, so difficult to yield to, and yet how the sense of a love and a wisdom above his own, speaking to him, whether in the events of his own life, the better impulses of his own heart, or in the visible forms of religion, was the one light in the darkness.“O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone.”As he murmured the words half aloud a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up and saw Alvar standing beside him.“Mi querido, I have been looking for you. Will you come home? I want you,” he said.“There is something the matter,” said Cheriton quickly, as he looked at him. “What is it?”“Ah, Imusttell you!” said Alvar reluctantly. “It is bad news, indeed. Sit down again—here—I have received this.” He took a telegraph paper out of his pocket and put it into Cherry’s hand.“Mrs Lester to Alvar Lester.“Your father has met with a dangerous accident. He wishes to see you. Come home at once. He desires Cheriton to run no risk.”Cheriton looked up blankly for a moment, then started to his feet, crushing up the paper in his hand.“Quick,” he said, “we must go at once. When? By Madrid is the shortest way.”“Yes—I—” said Alvar; “but see what he says.”“Imustgo,” said Cheriton. “Don’t waste any words about it. Iknowhe wants me. I’ll be careful enough, only make haste.”But he paused, and dropping on his knees on the altar step, covered his face with his hands, rose, and silently led the way out of the cathedral.Alvar, with his usual tact, perceived at once that it would be impossible to persuade him to stay behind, and did not fret him by the attempt, though this hasty journey and the return to Oakby in the first sharp winds of March were more on his own mind than the thought of what news might meet them at the journey’s end.It was still early in the day, and they were able to start within a few hours, only taking a few of their things with them, amid a confusion of tears, sympathy, and regret; Don Guzman evidently parting from Alvar with reluctance, and bestowing a tremendous embrace on Cheriton in return for his thanks for the kindness that had been shown to him. Manoel, on the other hand, was evidently relieved at their early departure.Some days later, on a wild, blustering morning in the first week of March, Jack Lester stood on the step of the front door of Oakby. The trees were still bare, and scarcely a primrose peeped through the dead leaves beneath them; pale rays of sun were struggling with the quick driven clouds, the noisy caw of the rooks mingled with the rustle of the leafless branches. Jack was pale and heavy-eyed. He looked across the wide, wild landscape as if its very familiarity were strange to him, then started, as up the park from a side entrance came a carnage and pair as fast as it could be driven, and in another minute pulled up at the door.“Oh, Cherry, we have never dared to wish for you!” cried Jack, as Cheriton sprang out and caught both his hands. “Come in—come in! Oh, if you hadbutcome last night!”“Not too late—not too late altogether?” Jack shook his head, his voice choked, but they knew too well what he would tell them, and the two brothers stood just within the door, holding by each other, Jack sobbing with relief from the strain of responsibility and loneliness, and Cheriton dazed and silent, unable to utter a word.The servants began to gather round them. “Oh, Mr Cheriton, it’s some comfort to see you back, sir!” said the butler; and—“Thank heaven, sir, you’re come to help your poor grandmother!” cried the old housekeeper; while Nettie, flying downstairs, threw herself into Cheriton’s arms, as if they were a refuge from the agony of new and most forlorn sorrow, while he held her fast with long speechless kisses.Alvar stood still. In that instinctive mutual clinging in the first shock of their common grief he had no share, and for the moment he stood as much a stranger among them as when, more than a year before, he had come into the midst of their Christmas merry-making, and had silenced their laughter by his unwelcome presence.Jack was the first to awaken to a sense of present necessity.“You have been travelling all night,” he said. “Come and sit down—you must be tired out.”“We had some breakfast at Hazelby, while we waited for the carriage,” said Alvar; and Cherry, as Nettie released her hold, unfastened his wraps, and moved over to the hall fire, sitting down in the great chair, as they began to exchange question and answer.“What happened—how was it?”“Didn’t you get my telegram?” said Jack.“No; only granny’s. Where is she?”“Asleep, I hope. The meet was at Ashrigg, and old Rob fell in taking the brook, just by Fletcher’s farm. And so—so he was thrown, and it was an injury to the spine; but he was quite conscious, and sent that telegram to Alvar. After that he didn’t often know us—till—till last night. And it was over before eleven. We did not think you could possibly get here till to-night, and we had no news of you, so I telegraphed again as soon as I got home; but I suppose you missed the message.”“We wrote and telegraphed from Madrid,” said Alvar; “it is quite possible that there should be delay there; and in Paris and London we had hardly a moment to catch the trains. Cherry has been too anxious to feel the fatigue, but hemustrest now.”“There must be a great many things to attend to,” said Cheriton, standing up, and passing his hand over his eyes as if he were rousing himself out of an unnatural dream.“Not yet,” said Jack, “it is so early. Mr Ellesmere will come back by-and-by.”Cherry looked round. He noticed that a pair of antlers had been removed from one of the panels, and an impulse came to him to ask why, and then the oddest sense of the incongruity of the remark. He rather knew than felt the truth of the blow that had fallen on them, and all the different aspects of this great change, even to remote particulars, passed over his mind, as over the mind of a drowning man, but as thoughts, not as realities. Suddenly there was a bark and a scutter, and Buffer, in an ecstasy of incongruous joy, rushed into the hall, jumped upon him, yelping, licking, dancing, and writhing with rapture. He was followed by Rolla, who came slowly in, and laid his great tawny head on his master’s knee, looking sorrowfully up in his face as much as to say thatheknew well enough that this was like no other home-coming.Cheriton started up and pushed them all aside. He walked away to the window and stared out at the park, into the library and looked round it, evidently hardly knowing what he was about. Alvar, who had been standing pale and silent, roused himself too, and followed him, putting his arm over his shoulder.“Come,” he said; “come upstairs. Jack, where is there a fire?”Cheriton yielded instinctively to Alvar’s hand and voice, and Jack led them upstairs, saying that granny had insisted on their rooms being kept ready for them. Nettie withheld Buffer from following them, and crouched down on the rug by the hall fire till Jack returned to her.“They have both gone to bed for a little while,” he said; “even Alvar is tired out. Nettie, you had better go to granny, as soon as she is awake, and tell her that they are here, and that Cherry is pretty well.”“I suppose Cherry will tell us what to do,” said Nettie, as she stood up.Discipline and absence from home had improved Nettie; she was less childish and more considerate, remembering to tell Jack that he had had no breakfast, and to order some to be ready when the travellers should want it.Bob, who had been sent for a day or two before, now joined them. He had grown as tall as Jack, but grief and awe gave him a heavy, sullen look, and indeed they said very little to each other. Jack wrote a few necessary letters, and sent them off by one of the grooms, and telegraphed to Judge Cheriton, who was coming that same evening, the news of what he would find. But their father had been so completely manager and master, that Jack felt as if giving an order himself were unjustifiable, and as soon as he dared, he went to see if Cherry were able to talk to him.“Come, Jack,” said Cherry, as the boy came up to him; “come now, and tell me everything.”Jack leaned against the foot of the bed, and in the half-darkened room told all the details of the last few days. There had not been much suffering, nor long intervals of consciousness, so far as they knew. Cherry could have done no good till last night. Granny had done all the nursing. “I never thought,” said Jack, “she loved any one so much.” Mr Ellesmere had been everything to them, and had written letters and told them what to do. “But last night father came more to himself, and sent for Mr Ellesmere, and presently he fetched me, and father took hold of my hand, and said to me quite clearly, ‘Remember, your eldest brother will stand in my place; let there be no divisions among you.’ And then—then he told me to try and keep Bob straight, and that I had been a good lad. But oh, Cherry, if he had but known about Gipsy! But I couldn’t say one word then. And then Mr Ellesmere said, ‘Shall Jack say anything to Cherry for you?’ And he smiled, and said, ‘My love and blessing, for he has been the light of my eyes.’ And then he sent for Bob and Nettie, and sent messages to old Wilson and some of the servants. And he said that he had tried to do his duty in life by his children and neighbours, but that he had often failed, especially in one respect, and also he had not ruled his temper as a Christian man should; and he asked every one to forgive him, and specially the vicar, if he had overstepped the bounds his position gave him; Mr Ellesmere said something of ‘thanks for years of kindness.’ And then—we had the communion. And after a bit he said very low, ‘If my boy should live, I know he will keep things together.’ Then I think he murmured something about—about your coming—and the cold weather—and—and—you were not to fret—it was only waiting a little longer. And then quite quite loud he said, ‘Fear God, and keep His commandments,’ and then just whispered, ‘Fanny.’ That was the last word; but he lived till eleven. And poor granny, she broke down into dreadful crying, and said, ‘The light ofmyeyes—the light ofmyeyes is darkened.’ Nettie was very good with her; but at last we all got to bed—and—oh, Cherry, it isn’t quite so bad now we have you!” and Jack pressed up to his side.Cheriton had listened to all this long, faltering tale leaning on his elbow, his wide-open eyes fixed on his brother, without interrupting him by a word. Jack cried, and he put his arm round his neck, and said, “Poor boy!” but no tears came to him.“I never thought—” said Jack, whose natural reserve was dispelled by stress of feeling, “I never thought what a good man he was, and how much he cared.”“Yes, he loved goodness,” said Cherry, with a heavy sigh.It was true. With some prejudices and many weaknesses, Gerald Lester had set his duty first; he had lived such a life that those around him were the better for his existence, he had left a place empty and a work to be done. Who would fill the place—how would the work be done?Through all the crush of personal grief, his two sons could not but ask themselves this question; but they could not bring themselves to speak of it to each other; and after a few minutes Cheriton said, “I think I will get up now. We must talk things over together; and I want to see granny.”“If you have rested.”“Oh, yes, as much as is possible. I am quite well, indeed. Go down, my boy. I will come directly.”Jack went with a lightened heart. If Cherry were well and able to take the lead among them, everything could be borne. When Cheriton came into the library he found that Alvar had already appeared, and was eating some breakfast, for it was still only twelve o’clock, while Mr Ellesmere was standing by the fire. The vicar greeted him kindly and quietly, and Alvar poured out some coffee for him; and then Mr Ellesmere began to explain some of the arrangements he had been obliged to make, and that he had sent to their father’s solicitor, Mr Malcolm, to come in the afternoon. Cheriton thanked him, and asked a few questions; but Alvar did not seem to take the conversation to himself, till the butler, having taken away the breakfast things, paused, and after looking first at Cheriton, turned to Alvar, and said rather awkwardly,—“Do you expect the judge by the five o’clock train, sir, and shall the carriage be sent to Hazelby to meet him?”There was a moment’s silence, the three younger brothers coloured to their very hair roots, and Cheriton made a half step away from Alvar’s side. The sudden pang that shot through him by its very sharpness brought its own remedy. He put his hand on Alvar’s arm as if to call his attention.“The train comes in at five—we had better send, hadn’t we?” he said.“Oh, yes!” said Alvar.He had grown a little pale, and he turned his large black eyes on Cheriton with a look half-proud, half-appealing, and so sad as to drown all Cheriton’s momentary shrinking in self-reproach.“Alvar,” said Mr Ellesmere, “if you will come with me, I have a message for you from your father.”He led the way into Mr Lester’s study, and Alvar followed him to the room, of which his last vivid recollection was of the painful dispute after the breach of his engagement. He stood by the fire in silence, and the vicar said,—“Alvar, your father desired me to tell you that, of all the actions of his life he most regretted the neglect which for so many years he showed you. He bid me say that on his death-bed he desired his son’s forgiveness.”“My father made me every amends in his power,” said Alvar, in a low voice.“He commended your grandmother and your sister to your protection and kindness; your brothers also, and thought thankfully of all that you and Cherry have become to each other.”Alvar was much agitated, for some moments he was unable to speak, then he said vehemently,—“This is my inheritance, as it was my father’s; but to my brothers I seem an interloper. This is the wrong my father did to me, he made me a stranger in my own place.”“It was a wrong of which he deeply repented.”“It does not become me to speak of it,” said Alvar proudly.“You must not exaggerate,” said Mr Ellesmere. “It would be hard for Cheriton to see any one in his father’s place; but you have won from him, at any rate, a brother’s love.”“I am his dear friend,” said Alvar; “but it is different with Jack.”“Don’t draw these fine distinctions.Bea worthy successor to your father; live here among your people, as he did, in the fear of God, and doing your duty as an English gentleman, and be, as you have ever been, patient and kind to your brothers. Doubtless it seems a hard task to you, but I earnestly believe that by God’s blessing you may be all to them that even Cheriton might be in your place. Nay, the very differences between you may be,—nay have been—the means of good.”“You are very kind to me, sir, and I thank you,” said Alvar courteously; but Mr Ellesmere felt as if his words had fallen a little flat. He felt sorry for Alvar, but he could not look forward to the future without uneasiness. He saw that the wrong was neither forgotten nor forgiven, and that there was in the young Spaniard’s nature a background of immovable pride that promised ill for accommodating himself to unfamiliar duties, and a want of moral insight that would be slow in recognising them.It seemed rather inconsistent when Alvar said meekly, “Cheriton will tell me in all things what I should do,” and led the way back to the library.Here they found the others gathered in a group by the fire; Nettie sitting on a stool at Cheriton’s feet, Jack leaning over the back of his chair, and Bob close at hand. How much alike they looked, with their similar colouring and outline, and faces set in the same sorrowful stillness and softened by the same feelings! Alvar paused and looked at them for a moment, but Cheriton, seeing him, rose and came forward.“We have been waiting for you, Alvar,” he said. “I have been to see grandmamma, but I did not stay—she could not bear it; but now—will you come upstairs with us?” He gave a look of invitation to Mr Ellesmere also, and he followed them silently into the chamber of death.There lay their father, all the irritable marks of human frailty smoothed away, and the grand outline and long beard giving him a likeness to some kingly monument. The twins held by each other, their grief almost overpowered by shrinking awe. Jack frowned and set his mouth hard, and wrung Cherry’s hand in his stress of feeling till he almost crushed it, while Cheriton stood quite still and calm by Alvar’s side.“Let us pray,” said Mr Ellesmere; and as they all knelt down he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and such other words as came to him.When they rose up again Cheriton bent down and kissed his father’s brow, and one by one the younger ones followed his example. Only Alvar stood still, till Cheriton turned to him, and taking his hand, with a look that Mr Ellesmere never forgot, drew him forward.Alvar obeyed him, but as his lips touched his father’s face the thought suddenly struck Cheriton that it must have been for the first time—that never, even in babyhood, had a caress passed between the father and son; and then, in contrast, he thought of himself, and the grief, hitherto unrealised, broke forth at last. He hid his face in his hands, and hurried out of the room into his own, away from them all.Part IV.The Squire of Oakby.“A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep,A raiser of huge melons and of pines,A patron of some thirty charities,A quarter-sessions chairman.”

“Once from high HeavenIs a father given.Once—and, oh, never again!”

“Once from high HeavenIs a father given.Once—and, oh, never again!”

After Jack returned home, with the understanding that the disclosure of his holiday occupation should await his brother’s return, and after the Stanforths had also left Seville, Alvar and Cheriton spent several weeks there without any adventures to disturb their tranquillity. Alvar was a good deal with his grandfather, whose health was not at this time good, but who had evinced great curiosity as to the details of their detention on the mountains. He used also to go to the different clubs and meet acquaintances, where they talked politics and scandal, and played at cards, dominoes, and billiards. It was an aimless existence, and Cheriton sometimes fancied that Alvar grew restless under it, and would not be sorry to return to England. This, however, might have been owing to Cheriton’s own decided dislike to the youngSevillanos, who struck him as almost justifying his grandmother’s preconceived theory of Alvar’s probable behaviour.

“Ah, they do not suit you, that is not what you like,” Alvar said cheerfully; but he never said, “It is notgood, this sort of life does not make a nation great or virtuous.”

Manoel was of another type, and perhaps a more respectable one; but they saw very little of him. Cheriton liked the ladies, who were kind, and possessed many domestic virtues; and at Don Guzman’s country place there was something exceedingly pleasant in the cheerfulness and gaiety of the peasants. He would have liked to have found out something of the working of the Church, of the views of the clergy, and how far they differed, not only from those of an Anglican, but of an intelligent Roman priest in more civilised countries, but on these subjects no one would talk to him. He heard mutterings of hatred towards the priests in some quarters, and a good deal of chatter about processions and ceremonies from the young ladies, but nothing further. He did not want for occupation. He could now read and speak Spanish easily; and although the Cid, Ferdinand and Isabella, the Armada, and the Inquisition had been about the only salient points in his mind previously, he made a study of Spanish history, without much increase of his admiration for the Spaniards. He was able, also, to do much more sight-seeing than at first, and of the cathedral he never tired, and never came to the end of its innumerable chapels, each with some great picture, which Mr Stanforth had taught him how to see; never ceased to find something new in the mystery and solemnity of its aisles with their glory of coloured lights.

These quiet weeks formed a sort of resting-place, during which he was able to think both of the past and of the future; he could dare now to look away from the immediate present. Cheriton’s eyes were very clear, his moral sense very keen, and he saw that he had been under a delusion, that Ruth and he were as the poles asunder, that her deliberate deception, her want of any sense of honour, had marked a nature that never could have satisfied his. Love in his case was no longer blind, but it was none the less passionate, and, whatever else life might hold for him, the memory of all his first, best hopes could never bring him anything but pain. This pain had been as much as he could bear, but others, he thought, had suffered as keenly, and had led lives that were neither ignoble nor unhappy. Because one great love had gone out of his life was nothing else worthy or dear? “Nothing” had been the answer of his first anguish, but Cheriton’s nature was too rich in love for such an answer to stand. The help for which he had prayed had been sent to him, and it came in the sense that home faces were still dear—howdear his late alarm had taught him—home duties still paramount, that he could be a good son and brother and friend still. And he thought with a sort of surprise of the many pleasant and not unhappy hours he had passed of late; how much, after all, he had “enjoyed himself.” He hardly knew that his quick intelligence was a gift to be thankful for, or that his unselfish interest in others brought its own reward. On another side of his nature, also, he resisted the aimlessness of his lost hopes. The thought of Ruth had sweetened his success at Oxford, but he would not be such a coward as to give up all his objects in life, he would make a name for himself still, and show her that she had not brought him to utter shipwreck. This motive was strong in Cheriton, though it ran alongside with much higher ones.

One picture in the cathedral exercised a great fascination over Cheriton’s mind. It hangs in the Capella del Consuelo, over a side altar, dedicated to theAngel de la Guarda, and is one of the many masterpieces of Murillo to be found in Seville. It represents a tall, strong angel with wide-spread wings, and grave, benevolent face, leading by the hand a child—a subject which has been of course repeated in every form of commonplace prettiness. But in this picture the figure of the angel conveys a sense of heavenly might and unearthly guardianship which no imitation or repetition could give. It is called the “Guardian Angel;” but Cheriton had been told by one of the priests that the name given to it by the painter himself was “The Soul and the Church,” which for some reason or other had been changed by the monks of the Capuchin Convent, to whom the picture had originally belonged. It was a thought and a carrying out of the thought which, seen among such surroundings, was full of suggestion, how and why that Divine Guidance seemed here in great measure to have gone astray, how the great angel’s finger had not always pointed upward, and yet how utterly helpless and rudderless the nation was when it cast off the Guide of its fathers. Then his thoughts turned to his own life and to the Hand that held it, to the Guidance that was sometimes so hard to recognise, so difficult to yield to, and yet how the sense of a love and a wisdom above his own, speaking to him, whether in the events of his own life, the better impulses of his own heart, or in the visible forms of religion, was the one light in the darkness.

“O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone.”

“O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone.”

As he murmured the words half aloud a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up and saw Alvar standing beside him.

“Mi querido, I have been looking for you. Will you come home? I want you,” he said.

“There is something the matter,” said Cheriton quickly, as he looked at him. “What is it?”

“Ah, Imusttell you!” said Alvar reluctantly. “It is bad news, indeed. Sit down again—here—I have received this.” He took a telegraph paper out of his pocket and put it into Cherry’s hand.

“Mrs Lester to Alvar Lester.“Your father has met with a dangerous accident. He wishes to see you. Come home at once. He desires Cheriton to run no risk.”Cheriton looked up blankly for a moment, then started to his feet, crushing up the paper in his hand.

“Mrs Lester to Alvar Lester.“Your father has met with a dangerous accident. He wishes to see you. Come home at once. He desires Cheriton to run no risk.”Cheriton looked up blankly for a moment, then started to his feet, crushing up the paper in his hand.

“Quick,” he said, “we must go at once. When? By Madrid is the shortest way.”

“Yes—I—” said Alvar; “but see what he says.”

“Imustgo,” said Cheriton. “Don’t waste any words about it. Iknowhe wants me. I’ll be careful enough, only make haste.”

But he paused, and dropping on his knees on the altar step, covered his face with his hands, rose, and silently led the way out of the cathedral.

Alvar, with his usual tact, perceived at once that it would be impossible to persuade him to stay behind, and did not fret him by the attempt, though this hasty journey and the return to Oakby in the first sharp winds of March were more on his own mind than the thought of what news might meet them at the journey’s end.

It was still early in the day, and they were able to start within a few hours, only taking a few of their things with them, amid a confusion of tears, sympathy, and regret; Don Guzman evidently parting from Alvar with reluctance, and bestowing a tremendous embrace on Cheriton in return for his thanks for the kindness that had been shown to him. Manoel, on the other hand, was evidently relieved at their early departure.

Some days later, on a wild, blustering morning in the first week of March, Jack Lester stood on the step of the front door of Oakby. The trees were still bare, and scarcely a primrose peeped through the dead leaves beneath them; pale rays of sun were struggling with the quick driven clouds, the noisy caw of the rooks mingled with the rustle of the leafless branches. Jack was pale and heavy-eyed. He looked across the wide, wild landscape as if its very familiarity were strange to him, then started, as up the park from a side entrance came a carnage and pair as fast as it could be driven, and in another minute pulled up at the door.

“Oh, Cherry, we have never dared to wish for you!” cried Jack, as Cheriton sprang out and caught both his hands. “Come in—come in! Oh, if you hadbutcome last night!”

“Not too late—not too late altogether?” Jack shook his head, his voice choked, but they knew too well what he would tell them, and the two brothers stood just within the door, holding by each other, Jack sobbing with relief from the strain of responsibility and loneliness, and Cheriton dazed and silent, unable to utter a word.

The servants began to gather round them. “Oh, Mr Cheriton, it’s some comfort to see you back, sir!” said the butler; and—“Thank heaven, sir, you’re come to help your poor grandmother!” cried the old housekeeper; while Nettie, flying downstairs, threw herself into Cheriton’s arms, as if they were a refuge from the agony of new and most forlorn sorrow, while he held her fast with long speechless kisses.

Alvar stood still. In that instinctive mutual clinging in the first shock of their common grief he had no share, and for the moment he stood as much a stranger among them as when, more than a year before, he had come into the midst of their Christmas merry-making, and had silenced their laughter by his unwelcome presence.

Jack was the first to awaken to a sense of present necessity.

“You have been travelling all night,” he said. “Come and sit down—you must be tired out.”

“We had some breakfast at Hazelby, while we waited for the carriage,” said Alvar; and Cherry, as Nettie released her hold, unfastened his wraps, and moved over to the hall fire, sitting down in the great chair, as they began to exchange question and answer.

“What happened—how was it?”

“Didn’t you get my telegram?” said Jack.

“No; only granny’s. Where is she?”

“Asleep, I hope. The meet was at Ashrigg, and old Rob fell in taking the brook, just by Fletcher’s farm. And so—so he was thrown, and it was an injury to the spine; but he was quite conscious, and sent that telegram to Alvar. After that he didn’t often know us—till—till last night. And it was over before eleven. We did not think you could possibly get here till to-night, and we had no news of you, so I telegraphed again as soon as I got home; but I suppose you missed the message.”

“We wrote and telegraphed from Madrid,” said Alvar; “it is quite possible that there should be delay there; and in Paris and London we had hardly a moment to catch the trains. Cherry has been too anxious to feel the fatigue, but hemustrest now.”

“There must be a great many things to attend to,” said Cheriton, standing up, and passing his hand over his eyes as if he were rousing himself out of an unnatural dream.

“Not yet,” said Jack, “it is so early. Mr Ellesmere will come back by-and-by.”

Cherry looked round. He noticed that a pair of antlers had been removed from one of the panels, and an impulse came to him to ask why, and then the oddest sense of the incongruity of the remark. He rather knew than felt the truth of the blow that had fallen on them, and all the different aspects of this great change, even to remote particulars, passed over his mind, as over the mind of a drowning man, but as thoughts, not as realities. Suddenly there was a bark and a scutter, and Buffer, in an ecstasy of incongruous joy, rushed into the hall, jumped upon him, yelping, licking, dancing, and writhing with rapture. He was followed by Rolla, who came slowly in, and laid his great tawny head on his master’s knee, looking sorrowfully up in his face as much as to say thatheknew well enough that this was like no other home-coming.

Cheriton started up and pushed them all aside. He walked away to the window and stared out at the park, into the library and looked round it, evidently hardly knowing what he was about. Alvar, who had been standing pale and silent, roused himself too, and followed him, putting his arm over his shoulder.

“Come,” he said; “come upstairs. Jack, where is there a fire?”

Cheriton yielded instinctively to Alvar’s hand and voice, and Jack led them upstairs, saying that granny had insisted on their rooms being kept ready for them. Nettie withheld Buffer from following them, and crouched down on the rug by the hall fire till Jack returned to her.

“They have both gone to bed for a little while,” he said; “even Alvar is tired out. Nettie, you had better go to granny, as soon as she is awake, and tell her that they are here, and that Cherry is pretty well.”

“I suppose Cherry will tell us what to do,” said Nettie, as she stood up.

Discipline and absence from home had improved Nettie; she was less childish and more considerate, remembering to tell Jack that he had had no breakfast, and to order some to be ready when the travellers should want it.

Bob, who had been sent for a day or two before, now joined them. He had grown as tall as Jack, but grief and awe gave him a heavy, sullen look, and indeed they said very little to each other. Jack wrote a few necessary letters, and sent them off by one of the grooms, and telegraphed to Judge Cheriton, who was coming that same evening, the news of what he would find. But their father had been so completely manager and master, that Jack felt as if giving an order himself were unjustifiable, and as soon as he dared, he went to see if Cherry were able to talk to him.

“Come, Jack,” said Cherry, as the boy came up to him; “come now, and tell me everything.”

Jack leaned against the foot of the bed, and in the half-darkened room told all the details of the last few days. There had not been much suffering, nor long intervals of consciousness, so far as they knew. Cherry could have done no good till last night. Granny had done all the nursing. “I never thought,” said Jack, “she loved any one so much.” Mr Ellesmere had been everything to them, and had written letters and told them what to do. “But last night father came more to himself, and sent for Mr Ellesmere, and presently he fetched me, and father took hold of my hand, and said to me quite clearly, ‘Remember, your eldest brother will stand in my place; let there be no divisions among you.’ And then—then he told me to try and keep Bob straight, and that I had been a good lad. But oh, Cherry, if he had but known about Gipsy! But I couldn’t say one word then. And then Mr Ellesmere said, ‘Shall Jack say anything to Cherry for you?’ And he smiled, and said, ‘My love and blessing, for he has been the light of my eyes.’ And then he sent for Bob and Nettie, and sent messages to old Wilson and some of the servants. And he said that he had tried to do his duty in life by his children and neighbours, but that he had often failed, especially in one respect, and also he had not ruled his temper as a Christian man should; and he asked every one to forgive him, and specially the vicar, if he had overstepped the bounds his position gave him; Mr Ellesmere said something of ‘thanks for years of kindness.’ And then—we had the communion. And after a bit he said very low, ‘If my boy should live, I know he will keep things together.’ Then I think he murmured something about—about your coming—and the cold weather—and—and—you were not to fret—it was only waiting a little longer. And then quite quite loud he said, ‘Fear God, and keep His commandments,’ and then just whispered, ‘Fanny.’ That was the last word; but he lived till eleven. And poor granny, she broke down into dreadful crying, and said, ‘The light ofmyeyes—the light ofmyeyes is darkened.’ Nettie was very good with her; but at last we all got to bed—and—oh, Cherry, it isn’t quite so bad now we have you!” and Jack pressed up to his side.

Cheriton had listened to all this long, faltering tale leaning on his elbow, his wide-open eyes fixed on his brother, without interrupting him by a word. Jack cried, and he put his arm round his neck, and said, “Poor boy!” but no tears came to him.

“I never thought—” said Jack, whose natural reserve was dispelled by stress of feeling, “I never thought what a good man he was, and how much he cared.”

“Yes, he loved goodness,” said Cherry, with a heavy sigh.

It was true. With some prejudices and many weaknesses, Gerald Lester had set his duty first; he had lived such a life that those around him were the better for his existence, he had left a place empty and a work to be done. Who would fill the place—how would the work be done?

Through all the crush of personal grief, his two sons could not but ask themselves this question; but they could not bring themselves to speak of it to each other; and after a few minutes Cheriton said, “I think I will get up now. We must talk things over together; and I want to see granny.”

“If you have rested.”

“Oh, yes, as much as is possible. I am quite well, indeed. Go down, my boy. I will come directly.”

Jack went with a lightened heart. If Cherry were well and able to take the lead among them, everything could be borne. When Cheriton came into the library he found that Alvar had already appeared, and was eating some breakfast, for it was still only twelve o’clock, while Mr Ellesmere was standing by the fire. The vicar greeted him kindly and quietly, and Alvar poured out some coffee for him; and then Mr Ellesmere began to explain some of the arrangements he had been obliged to make, and that he had sent to their father’s solicitor, Mr Malcolm, to come in the afternoon. Cheriton thanked him, and asked a few questions; but Alvar did not seem to take the conversation to himself, till the butler, having taken away the breakfast things, paused, and after looking first at Cheriton, turned to Alvar, and said rather awkwardly,—“Do you expect the judge by the five o’clock train, sir, and shall the carriage be sent to Hazelby to meet him?”

There was a moment’s silence, the three younger brothers coloured to their very hair roots, and Cheriton made a half step away from Alvar’s side. The sudden pang that shot through him by its very sharpness brought its own remedy. He put his hand on Alvar’s arm as if to call his attention.

“The train comes in at five—we had better send, hadn’t we?” he said.

“Oh, yes!” said Alvar.

He had grown a little pale, and he turned his large black eyes on Cheriton with a look half-proud, half-appealing, and so sad as to drown all Cheriton’s momentary shrinking in self-reproach.

“Alvar,” said Mr Ellesmere, “if you will come with me, I have a message for you from your father.”

He led the way into Mr Lester’s study, and Alvar followed him to the room, of which his last vivid recollection was of the painful dispute after the breach of his engagement. He stood by the fire in silence, and the vicar said,—

“Alvar, your father desired me to tell you that, of all the actions of his life he most regretted the neglect which for so many years he showed you. He bid me say that on his death-bed he desired his son’s forgiveness.”

“My father made me every amends in his power,” said Alvar, in a low voice.

“He commended your grandmother and your sister to your protection and kindness; your brothers also, and thought thankfully of all that you and Cherry have become to each other.”

Alvar was much agitated, for some moments he was unable to speak, then he said vehemently,—

“This is my inheritance, as it was my father’s; but to my brothers I seem an interloper. This is the wrong my father did to me, he made me a stranger in my own place.”

“It was a wrong of which he deeply repented.”

“It does not become me to speak of it,” said Alvar proudly.

“You must not exaggerate,” said Mr Ellesmere. “It would be hard for Cheriton to see any one in his father’s place; but you have won from him, at any rate, a brother’s love.”

“I am his dear friend,” said Alvar; “but it is different with Jack.”

“Don’t draw these fine distinctions.Bea worthy successor to your father; live here among your people, as he did, in the fear of God, and doing your duty as an English gentleman, and be, as you have ever been, patient and kind to your brothers. Doubtless it seems a hard task to you, but I earnestly believe that by God’s blessing you may be all to them that even Cheriton might be in your place. Nay, the very differences between you may be,—nay have been—the means of good.”

“You are very kind to me, sir, and I thank you,” said Alvar courteously; but Mr Ellesmere felt as if his words had fallen a little flat. He felt sorry for Alvar, but he could not look forward to the future without uneasiness. He saw that the wrong was neither forgotten nor forgiven, and that there was in the young Spaniard’s nature a background of immovable pride that promised ill for accommodating himself to unfamiliar duties, and a want of moral insight that would be slow in recognising them.

It seemed rather inconsistent when Alvar said meekly, “Cheriton will tell me in all things what I should do,” and led the way back to the library.

Here they found the others gathered in a group by the fire; Nettie sitting on a stool at Cheriton’s feet, Jack leaning over the back of his chair, and Bob close at hand. How much alike they looked, with their similar colouring and outline, and faces set in the same sorrowful stillness and softened by the same feelings! Alvar paused and looked at them for a moment, but Cheriton, seeing him, rose and came forward.

“We have been waiting for you, Alvar,” he said. “I have been to see grandmamma, but I did not stay—she could not bear it; but now—will you come upstairs with us?” He gave a look of invitation to Mr Ellesmere also, and he followed them silently into the chamber of death.

There lay their father, all the irritable marks of human frailty smoothed away, and the grand outline and long beard giving him a likeness to some kingly monument. The twins held by each other, their grief almost overpowered by shrinking awe. Jack frowned and set his mouth hard, and wrung Cherry’s hand in his stress of feeling till he almost crushed it, while Cheriton stood quite still and calm by Alvar’s side.

“Let us pray,” said Mr Ellesmere; and as they all knelt down he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and such other words as came to him.

When they rose up again Cheriton bent down and kissed his father’s brow, and one by one the younger ones followed his example. Only Alvar stood still, till Cheriton turned to him, and taking his hand, with a look that Mr Ellesmere never forgot, drew him forward.

Alvar obeyed him, but as his lips touched his father’s face the thought suddenly struck Cheriton that it must have been for the first time—that never, even in babyhood, had a caress passed between the father and son; and then, in contrast, he thought of himself, and the grief, hitherto unrealised, broke forth at last. He hid his face in his hands, and hurried out of the room into his own, away from them all.

Part IV.

“A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep,A raiser of huge melons and of pines,A patron of some thirty charities,A quarter-sessions chairman.”

“A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep,A raiser of huge melons and of pines,A patron of some thirty charities,A quarter-sessions chairman.”

The Squire of Oakby.“A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep,A raiser of huge melons and of pines,A patron of some thirty charities,A quarter-sessions chairman.”Chapter Thirty Six.The Funeral.“Wild March wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?”It was on a wild March morning, when sudden gleams of radiant sunlight contended with heavy storm-clouds, that Mr Lester of Oakby was buried. There was no rain, but the violent wind carried the sound of the knell in fitful gusts over the mourning village, through the well-cared-for fields and plantations of Oakby, away to Ashrigg and Elderthwaite, bringing all the countryside in a great concourse to the funeral. For it was a real mourning, a real loss. Long years ago, Fanny Lester, with her bright smile, and clear, upward-looking eyes, had said to her husband, “We have a piece of work in the world given to us, Gerald; let us try and do it.” And under her strong influence the dutiful and honourable traditions of conduct to which Gerald Lester was born, widened and were drawn higher; the various offices he held were exercised with conscientious effort for the benefit of his neighbours; and his tenantry, mind, soul and body, were the better for his life among them. They could trust him, and if he sometimes made mistakes from which the wise Fanny might have saved him, her death had consecrated for him every simple duty that she had pointed out. Now, while “the old Squire” still meant his father, while he was still in the strength of his manhood, he was gone; and at the head of his grave there stood, not the son they knew, with his father’s fair face and his mother’s fair soul, but the dark, stately stranger, who—among all those north-country gentlemen, farmers, and labourers who crowded round, those “neighbours” all so well known to each other—looked so strangely out of place.So thought another stranger who, when he had travelled northwards, had little thought to find himself present at such a scene.The Stanforths had long since returned to London, and Gipsy found herself once more in the midst of as pleasant a home-circle as ever a girl grew up in, while her attention was claimed by numerous interests, social, intellectual, and domestic. Her mother shook her head over the story of Jack’s proposal; but she said very little about the matter, secretly hoping that Gipsy would cease to think of it on returning to another atmosphere. All the advances, she said to her husband, must now come from the other side, and she could not but regard the future as doubtful, and was slightly incredulous of the charms of the travelling companions whom she had not herself seen. But Jack, while he was at Oxford, wrote to Mr Stanforth, about once a fortnight, rather formal and sententious epistles, which did not contain one word about Gipsy, but which in their regularity and simplicity impressed her mother favourably. One long, pleasant letter arrived from Cheriton during his last weeks at Seville, and of this Gipsy enjoyed the perusal. She did not show any symptoms of low spirits, and being a girl of some resolution of character, held her tongue and bided her time. Perhaps a bright and fairly certain expectation was all she as yet wanted or was ready for. She was young in feeling, even for her eighteen years, and in truth they were “beginning at the beginning.”Still she wished ardently that her father should accede to a request from Sir John Hubbard, that he should come down to Ashrigg Hall, and paint a companion picture of his wife to the one that he had taken of himself long ago. Lady Hubbard was infirm and could not come to London, or Sir John would not have made such a demand on Mr Stanforth’s time, now, of course, even more fully occupied than it had been ten years before.Mr Stanforth hesitated; he did not like the notion of any possible meeting with Mr Lester, while Jack’s views remained a secret from him; but Sir John had shown him a good deal of kindness, and he felt curious to hear something of his young friends in their own neighbourhood. So the first week in March found him at Ashrigg, in the midst of a large family party, for the eldest son and his wife were staying there, and there were several daughters at home.“We had hoped to give a few of our friends the pleasure of meeting you, Mr Stanforth,” said Sir John, after dinner, when the wine was on the table, “but our neighbourhood has sustained a great loss in the death of a valued friend of ours, Mr Lester, of Oakby.”“Mr Lester of Oakby! You don’t say so! Surely that is very sudden,” said Mr Stanforth, infinitely shocked. “I saw a great deal of his sons in the south of Spain,” he added in explanation.“Indeed! They are at home now, poor fellows. They were just too late. I had this note from Jack—that’s the second son—no, the third—this afternoon.”“I know Jack, too,” said Mr Stanforth, as he took the note. It was a very brief one, merely announcing his father’s death, and adding,—“My brothers returned from Spain this morning. We hope that the journey has done Cheriton no harm.”“Ah, poor Cheriton!” said Mr Stanforth. “I fear he must have run a great risk. It will be a terrible blow to him. We formed something more than a travelling acquaintance.”“Poor Mr Lester was here only a fortnight ago, speaking with delight of Cheriton’s entire recovery,” said Lady Hubbard.“Yes, he was much better,” said Mr Stanforth, a little doubtfully, “and full of enjoyment. But this will be indeed a startling change.”“Yes,” said Sir John; “one does not know how to think of Alvar in his father’s shoes. It was a sadly mismanaged business altogether.”“There is a great deal to like in Alvar Lester,” said Mr Stanforth; “but of course the circumstances are very peculiar.”“Yes. You see while the elder brother, Robert, was alive, no one thought much of Gerald, and when this Spanish marriage came out, it was a great shock. And he was too ready to listen to all the excuses about the boy’s health. If he had come home and been sent to school in England he might have grown up like the rest, and black eyes instead of blue ones would have been all the difference.”“I have always thought his long absence inexplicable.”“Well, Lester hated the thought of his boyish marriage, and these other boys came, and Cherry was his darling. His wife did make an effort once, and Alvar was brought to France when he was about seven years old; but they said he was ill, and took him back again. Then when old Mrs Lester came into power she opposed his coming, and things slipped on. I don’t think he was expected to live at first, and, poor fellow! no one wished that he should.”“The second Mrs Lester must have been a very remarkable person,” said Mr Stanforth.“She was,” said Lady Hubbard warmly. “She was a person to raise the tone of a whole neighbourhood. She made another man of her husband, and he worshipped her. She was no beauty, and very small, but with the brightest of smiles, and eyes that seemed to look straight up into heaven. No one could forget Fanny Lester. She influenced every one.”There was much more talk, and many side lights were cast on Mr Stanforth’s mind when he heard of Alvar’s broken engagement to Virginia Seyton, and of her pretty cousin Ruth’s recent marriage to Captain Lester, “though at one time every one thought that there was something between her and Cheriton.” He could not but think most of how his own daughter’s future might be affected by this sudden freeing of her young lover from parental control; but he was full of sympathy for them all, and the note that he wrote to Cheriton was answered by a request that he would accompany Sir John Hubbard to the funeral: “They could never forget all his kindness in another time of trouble.”It was a striking group of mourners. Alvar stood in the midst, dignified and impassive, and by his side a tall, girlish figure, with bright hair gleaming through her crape veil, the three other brothers together, looking chiefly as if they were trying to preserve an unmoved demeanour; Rupert’s face behind them, like enough to suggest kindred, and Judge Cheriton’s keen cultivated face; Mr Seyton, pale, worn, and white-haired, and his brother’s tanned, weather-beaten countenance, ruddy and solemn, above his clerical dress. Many a fine, powerful form and handsome outline showed among the men, whose fathers had served Mr Lester’s; and behind, crowds of women, children, and old people filled the churchyard and the lanes beyond.As the service proceeded the heavy clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunlight fell, lighting up the violet pall and the white wreaths laid on it, the surplices of the choristers, and the bent heads of the mourners. Cheriton looked up at last away from the open grave, through the break in the clouds, but with a face strangely white and sad in the momentary sunlight. Jack, as they turned away, caught sight of Mr Stanforth, and the sudden involuntary look of pleasure that lightened the poor boy’s miserable face was touching to see. When all was over, and, in common with most of those from a distance, Mr Stanforth had accompanied Sir John Hubbard up to the house, Jack sought him out, hardly having a word to say; but evidently finding satisfaction in his presence.“Oh, we have nothing picturesque at home, but still I should like to show you Oakby,” Cheriton had said, as they walked together in the beautiful streets of Seville; but the long table in the old oak dining-room, covered with family plate, the sombre, faded richness of colouring that told of years of settled dignified life, were not altogether commonplace, any more than the pair of brothers who occupied the two ends of the table. It was not till there was a general move that Cheriton came up and put his hand into his friend’s.“We all like to think that you have been here,” he said. “You will come again while you are at Ashrigg?”“I will, indeed. And you,—these cold winds do not hurt you?”“No, I think not. My uncle wishes Sir John Hubbard to hear some of our arrangements; you will not mind waiting for a little.”He spoke very quietly, but as if there were a great weight upon him, while his attention was claimed by some parting guest.“Well, Cheriton, good-bye; this is a sorrowful day for many. You must try and teach your poor brother to fill your father’s place. We are all ready to welcome him among us, and we hope he will take an interest in everything here.”“You are very land, Mr Sutton,” said Cheriton, rather as if he thought the kindness too outspoken.Then a much older face and voice took a turn.“Good-bye, my lad. Your grandfather and I were friends always, and I little thought to see this day. Keep things going, Cherry, for the old name’s sake.”“I shall be in London soon,” said Cherry ungraciously, for the echoes of his own forebodings were very hard to bear. Then Rupert came up with a warm hand-shake.“Good-bye, my dear fellow. I hope we shall see you in London. Don’t catch another bad cold. I hope you’ll all get along together.”“I dare say we shall. But thank you, it was very good of you to come just now.”“Just off your wedding trip, as I understand?” said the old gentleman.“Yes; we came back from Paris a few days ago, and I must get back to town to-night,” said Rupert, as Cheriton moved away to join his uncle for a sort of explanation of the state of affairs to the younger ones, and for the reading of the will, though, its chief provisions were well known to him.Alvar, as his father had done before him, inherited the estate free from debt or mortgage, with such an income as sounded to his Spanish notions magnificent; but which those better versed in English expenditure knew would find ample employment in all the calls of such a place as Oakby. It was quite sufficient for the position, but no more. The estate, of course, still remained chargeable with old Mrs Lester’s jointure. Mr Lester had enjoyed the interest of his wife’s fortune during her life, the bulk of which had come to her from an aunt, and was secured to her daughter; her three sons succeeding to five thousand pounds apiece, and for this money Judge Cheriton, and a certain General Fleming, a relation of the Cheritons, were joint trustees. So the will, made almost as soon as Mr Lester inherited the property, had stood, and indeed most of its provisions had been made by his father. Since his illness, however, a codicil had been added, stating that Mr Lester had intended to leave the small amount of ready money at his disposal equally among his three younger sons, but that now he decided to leave the whole to Cheriton, “whose health might involve him in more expenses, and prevent him from using the same exertions as his brothers.” He also joined his two elder sons, with their uncle, Judge Cheriton, in the personal guardianship of John, Robert, and Annette. There were a few gifts and legacies to servants and dependants, and that was all.“Nothing,” remarked Judge Cheriton, after a pause, “could be more proper than this decision with regard to Cheriton, though we hope its necessity has passed away; but under the very peculiar circumstances every one has felt that it would have been well if a somewhat larger proportion of his mother’s fortune could have come to him.”“Of course,” said Jack, “it is all right.”“But my father might have trusted him to me,” said Alvar.“Such things should always be in black and white,” said the judge. “Your father has shown marked confidence both in you and in Cheriton by giving you a share in the charge of the younger ones, and this desire will, of course, naturally affect our arrangements for them. Annette’s home at least must be fixed by her grandmother’s.”“But my grandmother will stay here,” said Alvar, in a tone of surprise. “Why should she change? It will be all the same. And the boys too, and my sister, and Cheriton—of course—we must be together.”He spoke warmly, and crossing over to Cheriton, took his hand as he spoke.“This is your home, my brother, always.”“You areverygood to us, Alvar, thank you,” said Cheriton, hardly able to speak.“Most kind,” said the judge; “whatever may be decided on, your offer is suggested by a most proper feeling, of which I hope all are sensible.”“Alvar is very kind,” said Jack shyly.“Would you not expect that Cheriton should be ‘kind’ to you? Then why not I, as well?” said Alvar.“Such an arrangement,” said the judge, “would not bebindingon Cheriton even in your place. I am rejoiced to see so good an understanding between you. Alvar has a great deal of business before him, and it would be a pity to make any changes at present. But as for you, Cheriton, is it wise to remain here so early in the year?”“No,” said Alvar; “I think we should go to the south for a little.”“I think the calls upon your time—” began the judge, but Cheriton interposed.“I don’t think I am any the worse for the weather,” he said, “and I should not like to go away now. We shall all have a great deal to do.”Sir John Hubbard spoke a few friendly words and offered any assistance or advice to Alvar in his power, and then took his leave, as did Mr Malcolm. Alvar and Jack, with the judge, accompanied them into the hall; and no sooner had the door of the study closed than Nettie, who had been a silent spectator of the scene, suddenly burst out,—“I don’t care! I will say it! It may be very kind of Alvar, but it is horrible,horribleto thinkheis master and may do what he pleases with us. I hate to stay here ifheis to give us leave.”“I told you, Nettie,” said Bob, with masculine prudence, “that no one ought tosaythose things.”“Nor feel them, I hope,” said Cherry. “Nettie, my dear child, you must not make it worse for us all. We feel our great loss; but you know the future will not be easy for Alvar himself.”“I know,” sobbed Nettie, with increasing vehemence, “that he will not be like—like papa. I can’tbearto think that the dear place all belongs tohim, and the things, and the animals even, and the horses.Hedoesn’t love them, nor the place, and ice do!”“Be silent, Nettie,” said Cheriton, with unusual sternness; “I will never listen to one word like this. There is nothing wrong about it. Think of all that Alvar has done for me, and then say if such words are justifiable.”The severity of the tone silenced Nettie—it was meant to silence poor Cheriton’s own heart. He was stern to his sister because he felt severely towards himself; but Nettie thought him unjust, and only moved by partiality for Alvar. He saw complications far beyond her childish jealousy, and yet he shared it. And above all was the anguish of a personal loss, a heavy grief that filled up all the intervals of perplexing anticipations and business cares.The twins went away together, and Cherry sat down in his father’s chair and leaned his head back against the cushion of it. It was all over, all the love that had had so many last thoughts for him, and, alas! no last words. They had indeed parted for ever in this life; but how differently from what he had expected last year. Over! and the future looked difficult and dark. “Hedoes not love them, and we do.” It was too true. Cherry was tired out with the long, hasty journey, the succeeding strain of occupation, and with the sorrow that weighed him down—a sorrow that only now seemed to come upon him in all its strength. He was not conscious of the passing of time till a hand was laid on his shoulder, and Alvar’s voice said softly, “I have been looking for you,Cherito mio.”“Oh, I am very tired,” said Cherry.How strange it was to rouse himself from thoughts in which Alvar’s image brought such a sense of trouble and perplexity, to feel the accustomed comfort of his presence! How strange to shrink so painfully from the thought of his foreign brother’s rule in his father’s place, and yet to feel the fretting weariness soothed insensibly by the care on which he had learned to depend. He could not think this crooked matter straight, he could not even feel compunction for his own fears. He was tired and wretched, and Alvar knew just what was restful and comforting to him.

“A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep,A raiser of huge melons and of pines,A patron of some thirty charities,A quarter-sessions chairman.”

“A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep,A raiser of huge melons and of pines,A patron of some thirty charities,A quarter-sessions chairman.”

“Wild March wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?”

“Wild March wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?”

It was on a wild March morning, when sudden gleams of radiant sunlight contended with heavy storm-clouds, that Mr Lester of Oakby was buried. There was no rain, but the violent wind carried the sound of the knell in fitful gusts over the mourning village, through the well-cared-for fields and plantations of Oakby, away to Ashrigg and Elderthwaite, bringing all the countryside in a great concourse to the funeral. For it was a real mourning, a real loss. Long years ago, Fanny Lester, with her bright smile, and clear, upward-looking eyes, had said to her husband, “We have a piece of work in the world given to us, Gerald; let us try and do it.” And under her strong influence the dutiful and honourable traditions of conduct to which Gerald Lester was born, widened and were drawn higher; the various offices he held were exercised with conscientious effort for the benefit of his neighbours; and his tenantry, mind, soul and body, were the better for his life among them. They could trust him, and if he sometimes made mistakes from which the wise Fanny might have saved him, her death had consecrated for him every simple duty that she had pointed out. Now, while “the old Squire” still meant his father, while he was still in the strength of his manhood, he was gone; and at the head of his grave there stood, not the son they knew, with his father’s fair face and his mother’s fair soul, but the dark, stately stranger, who—among all those north-country gentlemen, farmers, and labourers who crowded round, those “neighbours” all so well known to each other—looked so strangely out of place.

So thought another stranger who, when he had travelled northwards, had little thought to find himself present at such a scene.

The Stanforths had long since returned to London, and Gipsy found herself once more in the midst of as pleasant a home-circle as ever a girl grew up in, while her attention was claimed by numerous interests, social, intellectual, and domestic. Her mother shook her head over the story of Jack’s proposal; but she said very little about the matter, secretly hoping that Gipsy would cease to think of it on returning to another atmosphere. All the advances, she said to her husband, must now come from the other side, and she could not but regard the future as doubtful, and was slightly incredulous of the charms of the travelling companions whom she had not herself seen. But Jack, while he was at Oxford, wrote to Mr Stanforth, about once a fortnight, rather formal and sententious epistles, which did not contain one word about Gipsy, but which in their regularity and simplicity impressed her mother favourably. One long, pleasant letter arrived from Cheriton during his last weeks at Seville, and of this Gipsy enjoyed the perusal. She did not show any symptoms of low spirits, and being a girl of some resolution of character, held her tongue and bided her time. Perhaps a bright and fairly certain expectation was all she as yet wanted or was ready for. She was young in feeling, even for her eighteen years, and in truth they were “beginning at the beginning.”

Still she wished ardently that her father should accede to a request from Sir John Hubbard, that he should come down to Ashrigg Hall, and paint a companion picture of his wife to the one that he had taken of himself long ago. Lady Hubbard was infirm and could not come to London, or Sir John would not have made such a demand on Mr Stanforth’s time, now, of course, even more fully occupied than it had been ten years before.

Mr Stanforth hesitated; he did not like the notion of any possible meeting with Mr Lester, while Jack’s views remained a secret from him; but Sir John had shown him a good deal of kindness, and he felt curious to hear something of his young friends in their own neighbourhood. So the first week in March found him at Ashrigg, in the midst of a large family party, for the eldest son and his wife were staying there, and there were several daughters at home.

“We had hoped to give a few of our friends the pleasure of meeting you, Mr Stanforth,” said Sir John, after dinner, when the wine was on the table, “but our neighbourhood has sustained a great loss in the death of a valued friend of ours, Mr Lester, of Oakby.”

“Mr Lester of Oakby! You don’t say so! Surely that is very sudden,” said Mr Stanforth, infinitely shocked. “I saw a great deal of his sons in the south of Spain,” he added in explanation.

“Indeed! They are at home now, poor fellows. They were just too late. I had this note from Jack—that’s the second son—no, the third—this afternoon.”

“I know Jack, too,” said Mr Stanforth, as he took the note. It was a very brief one, merely announcing his father’s death, and adding,—

“My brothers returned from Spain this morning. We hope that the journey has done Cheriton no harm.”

“Ah, poor Cheriton!” said Mr Stanforth. “I fear he must have run a great risk. It will be a terrible blow to him. We formed something more than a travelling acquaintance.”

“Poor Mr Lester was here only a fortnight ago, speaking with delight of Cheriton’s entire recovery,” said Lady Hubbard.

“Yes, he was much better,” said Mr Stanforth, a little doubtfully, “and full of enjoyment. But this will be indeed a startling change.”

“Yes,” said Sir John; “one does not know how to think of Alvar in his father’s shoes. It was a sadly mismanaged business altogether.”

“There is a great deal to like in Alvar Lester,” said Mr Stanforth; “but of course the circumstances are very peculiar.”

“Yes. You see while the elder brother, Robert, was alive, no one thought much of Gerald, and when this Spanish marriage came out, it was a great shock. And he was too ready to listen to all the excuses about the boy’s health. If he had come home and been sent to school in England he might have grown up like the rest, and black eyes instead of blue ones would have been all the difference.”

“I have always thought his long absence inexplicable.”

“Well, Lester hated the thought of his boyish marriage, and these other boys came, and Cherry was his darling. His wife did make an effort once, and Alvar was brought to France when he was about seven years old; but they said he was ill, and took him back again. Then when old Mrs Lester came into power she opposed his coming, and things slipped on. I don’t think he was expected to live at first, and, poor fellow! no one wished that he should.”

“The second Mrs Lester must have been a very remarkable person,” said Mr Stanforth.

“She was,” said Lady Hubbard warmly. “She was a person to raise the tone of a whole neighbourhood. She made another man of her husband, and he worshipped her. She was no beauty, and very small, but with the brightest of smiles, and eyes that seemed to look straight up into heaven. No one could forget Fanny Lester. She influenced every one.”

There was much more talk, and many side lights were cast on Mr Stanforth’s mind when he heard of Alvar’s broken engagement to Virginia Seyton, and of her pretty cousin Ruth’s recent marriage to Captain Lester, “though at one time every one thought that there was something between her and Cheriton.” He could not but think most of how his own daughter’s future might be affected by this sudden freeing of her young lover from parental control; but he was full of sympathy for them all, and the note that he wrote to Cheriton was answered by a request that he would accompany Sir John Hubbard to the funeral: “They could never forget all his kindness in another time of trouble.”

It was a striking group of mourners. Alvar stood in the midst, dignified and impassive, and by his side a tall, girlish figure, with bright hair gleaming through her crape veil, the three other brothers together, looking chiefly as if they were trying to preserve an unmoved demeanour; Rupert’s face behind them, like enough to suggest kindred, and Judge Cheriton’s keen cultivated face; Mr Seyton, pale, worn, and white-haired, and his brother’s tanned, weather-beaten countenance, ruddy and solemn, above his clerical dress. Many a fine, powerful form and handsome outline showed among the men, whose fathers had served Mr Lester’s; and behind, crowds of women, children, and old people filled the churchyard and the lanes beyond.

As the service proceeded the heavy clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunlight fell, lighting up the violet pall and the white wreaths laid on it, the surplices of the choristers, and the bent heads of the mourners. Cheriton looked up at last away from the open grave, through the break in the clouds, but with a face strangely white and sad in the momentary sunlight. Jack, as they turned away, caught sight of Mr Stanforth, and the sudden involuntary look of pleasure that lightened the poor boy’s miserable face was touching to see. When all was over, and, in common with most of those from a distance, Mr Stanforth had accompanied Sir John Hubbard up to the house, Jack sought him out, hardly having a word to say; but evidently finding satisfaction in his presence.

“Oh, we have nothing picturesque at home, but still I should like to show you Oakby,” Cheriton had said, as they walked together in the beautiful streets of Seville; but the long table in the old oak dining-room, covered with family plate, the sombre, faded richness of colouring that told of years of settled dignified life, were not altogether commonplace, any more than the pair of brothers who occupied the two ends of the table. It was not till there was a general move that Cheriton came up and put his hand into his friend’s.

“We all like to think that you have been here,” he said. “You will come again while you are at Ashrigg?”

“I will, indeed. And you,—these cold winds do not hurt you?”

“No, I think not. My uncle wishes Sir John Hubbard to hear some of our arrangements; you will not mind waiting for a little.”

He spoke very quietly, but as if there were a great weight upon him, while his attention was claimed by some parting guest.

“Well, Cheriton, good-bye; this is a sorrowful day for many. You must try and teach your poor brother to fill your father’s place. We are all ready to welcome him among us, and we hope he will take an interest in everything here.”

“You are very land, Mr Sutton,” said Cheriton, rather as if he thought the kindness too outspoken.

Then a much older face and voice took a turn.

“Good-bye, my lad. Your grandfather and I were friends always, and I little thought to see this day. Keep things going, Cherry, for the old name’s sake.”

“I shall be in London soon,” said Cherry ungraciously, for the echoes of his own forebodings were very hard to bear. Then Rupert came up with a warm hand-shake.

“Good-bye, my dear fellow. I hope we shall see you in London. Don’t catch another bad cold. I hope you’ll all get along together.”

“I dare say we shall. But thank you, it was very good of you to come just now.”

“Just off your wedding trip, as I understand?” said the old gentleman.

“Yes; we came back from Paris a few days ago, and I must get back to town to-night,” said Rupert, as Cheriton moved away to join his uncle for a sort of explanation of the state of affairs to the younger ones, and for the reading of the will, though, its chief provisions were well known to him.

Alvar, as his father had done before him, inherited the estate free from debt or mortgage, with such an income as sounded to his Spanish notions magnificent; but which those better versed in English expenditure knew would find ample employment in all the calls of such a place as Oakby. It was quite sufficient for the position, but no more. The estate, of course, still remained chargeable with old Mrs Lester’s jointure. Mr Lester had enjoyed the interest of his wife’s fortune during her life, the bulk of which had come to her from an aunt, and was secured to her daughter; her three sons succeeding to five thousand pounds apiece, and for this money Judge Cheriton, and a certain General Fleming, a relation of the Cheritons, were joint trustees. So the will, made almost as soon as Mr Lester inherited the property, had stood, and indeed most of its provisions had been made by his father. Since his illness, however, a codicil had been added, stating that Mr Lester had intended to leave the small amount of ready money at his disposal equally among his three younger sons, but that now he decided to leave the whole to Cheriton, “whose health might involve him in more expenses, and prevent him from using the same exertions as his brothers.” He also joined his two elder sons, with their uncle, Judge Cheriton, in the personal guardianship of John, Robert, and Annette. There were a few gifts and legacies to servants and dependants, and that was all.

“Nothing,” remarked Judge Cheriton, after a pause, “could be more proper than this decision with regard to Cheriton, though we hope its necessity has passed away; but under the very peculiar circumstances every one has felt that it would have been well if a somewhat larger proportion of his mother’s fortune could have come to him.”

“Of course,” said Jack, “it is all right.”

“But my father might have trusted him to me,” said Alvar.

“Such things should always be in black and white,” said the judge. “Your father has shown marked confidence both in you and in Cheriton by giving you a share in the charge of the younger ones, and this desire will, of course, naturally affect our arrangements for them. Annette’s home at least must be fixed by her grandmother’s.”

“But my grandmother will stay here,” said Alvar, in a tone of surprise. “Why should she change? It will be all the same. And the boys too, and my sister, and Cheriton—of course—we must be together.”

He spoke warmly, and crossing over to Cheriton, took his hand as he spoke.

“This is your home, my brother, always.”

“You areverygood to us, Alvar, thank you,” said Cheriton, hardly able to speak.

“Most kind,” said the judge; “whatever may be decided on, your offer is suggested by a most proper feeling, of which I hope all are sensible.”

“Alvar is very kind,” said Jack shyly.

“Would you not expect that Cheriton should be ‘kind’ to you? Then why not I, as well?” said Alvar.

“Such an arrangement,” said the judge, “would not bebindingon Cheriton even in your place. I am rejoiced to see so good an understanding between you. Alvar has a great deal of business before him, and it would be a pity to make any changes at present. But as for you, Cheriton, is it wise to remain here so early in the year?”

“No,” said Alvar; “I think we should go to the south for a little.”

“I think the calls upon your time—” began the judge, but Cheriton interposed.

“I don’t think I am any the worse for the weather,” he said, “and I should not like to go away now. We shall all have a great deal to do.”

Sir John Hubbard spoke a few friendly words and offered any assistance or advice to Alvar in his power, and then took his leave, as did Mr Malcolm. Alvar and Jack, with the judge, accompanied them into the hall; and no sooner had the door of the study closed than Nettie, who had been a silent spectator of the scene, suddenly burst out,—“I don’t care! I will say it! It may be very kind of Alvar, but it is horrible,horribleto thinkheis master and may do what he pleases with us. I hate to stay here ifheis to give us leave.”

“I told you, Nettie,” said Bob, with masculine prudence, “that no one ought tosaythose things.”

“Nor feel them, I hope,” said Cherry. “Nettie, my dear child, you must not make it worse for us all. We feel our great loss; but you know the future will not be easy for Alvar himself.”

“I know,” sobbed Nettie, with increasing vehemence, “that he will not be like—like papa. I can’tbearto think that the dear place all belongs tohim, and the things, and the animals even, and the horses.Hedoesn’t love them, nor the place, and ice do!”

“Be silent, Nettie,” said Cheriton, with unusual sternness; “I will never listen to one word like this. There is nothing wrong about it. Think of all that Alvar has done for me, and then say if such words are justifiable.”

The severity of the tone silenced Nettie—it was meant to silence poor Cheriton’s own heart. He was stern to his sister because he felt severely towards himself; but Nettie thought him unjust, and only moved by partiality for Alvar. He saw complications far beyond her childish jealousy, and yet he shared it. And above all was the anguish of a personal loss, a heavy grief that filled up all the intervals of perplexing anticipations and business cares.

The twins went away together, and Cherry sat down in his father’s chair and leaned his head back against the cushion of it. It was all over, all the love that had had so many last thoughts for him, and, alas! no last words. They had indeed parted for ever in this life; but how differently from what he had expected last year. Over! and the future looked difficult and dark. “Hedoes not love them, and we do.” It was too true. Cherry was tired out with the long, hasty journey, the succeeding strain of occupation, and with the sorrow that weighed him down—a sorrow that only now seemed to come upon him in all its strength. He was not conscious of the passing of time till a hand was laid on his shoulder, and Alvar’s voice said softly, “I have been looking for you,Cherito mio.”

“Oh, I am very tired,” said Cherry.

How strange it was to rouse himself from thoughts in which Alvar’s image brought such a sense of trouble and perplexity, to feel the accustomed comfort of his presence! How strange to shrink so painfully from the thought of his foreign brother’s rule in his father’s place, and yet to feel the fretting weariness soothed insensibly by the care on which he had learned to depend. He could not think this crooked matter straight, he could not even feel compunction for his own fears. He was tired and wretched, and Alvar knew just what was restful and comforting to him.

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