Chapter Fourteen.
Virginia’s choice.
“Things that I know not of, belike to thee are dear.”
There was the shadow of such a thought on the blushing face of Virginia Seyton as she sat in a great chair in the old drawing-room at Elderthwaite and listened to the wooing of Alvar Lester. She held a bouquet on her lap, and he stood, bending forward, and addressing: her in language that was checked by no embarrassment, and with a simplicity of purpose which had sought no disguise. Alvar had reflected on his father’s hints over many a cigarette, he had thought to himself that he was resolved to be an Englishman, that Miss Seyton was charming and attractive beyond all other ladies, it was well that he should marry, and he would be faithful, courteous, and kind.
Assuredly he was prepared to love her, she made England pleasant to him, and he had no strong ties to the turbulent life of Spain, from which his peculiar circumstances and his natural indolence had alike held him aloof. He had no thought of giving less than was Virginia’s due, it was a simple matter to him enough, and he had come away that morning, with no false shame as to his intentions, with a flower in his coat and flowers in his hand, and had demanded Miss Seyton’s permission to see her niece, heedless how far both households might guess at the matter in hand.
With his dark, manly grace, and tender accents, he was the picture of a lover, as she, with her creamy skin rose-tinted, and her fervent eyes cast down, seemed the very type of a maiden wooed, and by a favoured suitor. But if the hearts of this graceful and well-matched pair beat to the same time, the notes for each had very different force, and the experiences and the requirements of each had been, and must be, utterly unlike those of the other.
Alvar recognised this, in its obvious outer fact, when he began,—
“I have a great disadvantage,” he said, “since I do not know how best to please an English lady when I pay her my addresses. Yet I am bold, for I come to-day to ask you to forget I am a stranger, and to help me to become truly an Englishman. Of all ladies, you are to me the most beautiful, the most beloved. Can you grant my wish—my prayer? Can I have the happiness to please you—Virginia?”
Virginia’s heart beat so fast that she could not speak, the large eyes flashed up for a moment into his, then dropped as the tears dimmed them.
“Ah! do I make you shed tears?” cried Alvar. “How shall I tell you how I will be your slave? Mi doña, mi reyna!—nay, I must find English words to say you are the queen of my life!” and he knelt on one knee beside her, and took her hand.
Perhaps it was all the more enchanting that it was unlike a modern English girl’s ideal of a likely lover.
“Please don’t do that,” said Virginia, controlling her emotion with a great effort. “I want to say something, if you would sit down.”
With ready tact Alvar rose at once, and drew a chair near her.
“It is my privilege to listen,” he said.
“It is that I am afraid I must be very different from the girls whom you have known. My ways, my thoughts, you might not like them; you might wish me to be different from myself—or I might not understand you,” she added very timidly.
“In asking a lady to be my wife, I think of no other woman,” said Alvar. “In my eyes you are all that is charming.”
“This would not have occurred to me,” said Virginia; “but since I came home I have not been very happy, because it is so hard to accommodate oneself to people who think of everything differently from oneself. If that was so with us—with you—”
“My thoughts shall be your thoughts,” said Alvar. “You shall teach me to be what you wish—what my brother is. I know well,” and he rose to his feet again and stood before her, “I am not clever, I do not know how to do those things the English admire; my face, my speech, is strange. Is that my fault; is it my fault that my father has hated and shunned his son? Miss Seyton, I can but offer you myself. If I displease you—”
Alvar paused. Virginia had been pleading against herself, and before his powerful attraction her misgivings melted away. She rose too, and came a step towards him.
“I will trust you,” she said; and Alvar, more moved than he could himself have anticipated, poured forth a torrent of loving words and vows to be, and to do all she could wish. But he did not know, he did not understand, what she asked of him, or what he promised.
“But we must be our true selves to each other,” she said afterwards, as they stood together, when he had won her to tell him that his foreign face and tones were not displeasing to her—not at all. No, she did not wish that he was more like his brothers.
“I will be always your true lover and your slave,” said Alvar, kissing the hand that she had laid on his. “And now must I not present myself to your father? He will not, I hope, think the foreigner too presuming.”
“There is papa,” said Virginia, glancing out of the window; “he is walking on the terrace. Look, you can go out by this glass door.” And leaving Alvar to encounter this far from formidable interview, she ran away up to the little oak room in search of her cousin.
There were tears in Ruth’s great velvety eyes as she turned to meet her, but she was smiling, too, and even while she held out her arms to Virginia, she thought—“What, jealous of the smooth course of her little childish love! I would not give up one atom of what I feel for all the easy consent and prosperity in the world.” But none the less was she interested and sympathetic as she listened to the outpourings of Virginia’s first excitement, and to the recital of feelings that were like, and yet unlike, her own.
“You see, Ruthie, I could not help caring about him, he was so gentle and kind, and he never seemed angry with the others for misunderstanding him. But then I thought that our lives had been so wide apart that he might be quite different from what he seemed; and one has always heard, too, that foreigners pay compliments, and don’t mean what they say.”
“I should have despised you, Queenie, if you had thrown over the man you love because he was half a foreigner.”
“Oh, no, not for that. But I didn’t—I hadn’t begun to—like him very much then, you see, Ruth. And if he had not been good—”
“And how have you satisfied yourself that he is what you call ‘good’ now?” said Ruth curiously.
“Of course,” replied Virginia, “it is not as if he had been brought up in England. He cannot have the same notions. But then he cannot talk enough of Cherry’s goodness, and seemed so grateful because he was kind to him. Cherry is a very good, kind sort of fellow of course; but don’t you think there is something beautiful in the humility that makes so much of a little kindness, and recognises good qualities so ungrudgingly?”
Ruth laughed a little. Perhaps she thought Alvar’s “bonny black eyes” had something to do with the force of these arguments.
“Since you love each other,” she said, “that is a proof that you are intended for each other. What does it matter ‘what he is like,’ as you say?”
“But ‘what he is like’ made all the difference in the first instance, I suppose?” said Virginia.
“Perhaps,” said Ruth, with a little shrug. “But now you have once chosen, Virginia, nothing ought to make you change, not if he were ever so wicked—not if he were a murderer!”
“Ruth,” exclaimed Virginia, “how can you be so absurd! A murderer!”
“A murderer, a gambler, or a—well, I’m not quite sure about a thief,” said Ruth, cooling down a little; and then the girls both laughed, and Virginia sank into a dreamy silence. She did not even yet know the story of her mother’s married life, or she could not have laughed at the thought of a gambler for her husband; but she did know enough of her family history to give definiteness to the natural desire of a high-principled girl to find perfection in her lover. Virginia’s nature inclined to hero-worship; reverence was a necessary part to her of a happy love. She had thought often to herself that she would never marry a man of whose good principles she was not satisfied. And since Alvar’s offer had not entirely taken her by surprise—his gallantry having been tenderer than he knew—she had considered the point with an effort at impartiality, and had justified the conclusion to which her heart pointed by Alvar’s admiration for the brother, whom, in Virginia’s opinion, he idealised considerably. Of course, if she had chosen wisely, it was instinct, and not knowledge, that led her aright. She knew absolutely nothing of Alvar; and just as from insufficient grounds she now gave him credit for many virtues, it might be that, when the differing natures jarred, a little failure, a little defectiveness, might make her judgment cruelly hard, at whatever cost to her own happiness.
It might come to a struggle between the girl’s ideal and the woman’s love—and in such a struggle compromises and forgivenesses and new knowledge on either side would lead to final comprehension and peace. But it comes sometimes to a fight between heart and soul, between the higher self and the love that seems stronger than self. To this extremity Alvar Lester was not likely to drive any woman; but impatience and inexperience sometimes mistake the one contest for the other. Virginia would have something to bear, he much to learn, before mutual criticism ceased, as they became indeed part of each other’s existence, before Virginia’s flutter of startled joy subsided into unquestioning content.
“You talk, Ruthie,” exclaimed Virginia, after a little more confidential chatter, “but you cannot make up your own mind. You cannot decide whether you will have poor Captain Lester.”
“Hark! hark!” cried Ruth, “they are calling you! Every one is not so lucky as you.” And as Virginia obeyed her father’s summons, and she was left alone, she pulled out the locket that contained Rupert’s portrait, kissed it passionately, and exclaimed, half-aloud,—
“Not make up my mind! Do I doubt and hesitate? What do I care ‘what you are like,’ my darling? I love you with all my heart and soul! I love you—I love you! What would life be without love?”
The congratulations of Virginia’s family on the occasion were characteristic. Her father had but a nominal consent to give. Virginia was of age, and besides, the trustees of her fortune could not of course take any exception to such an engagement; but he rejoiced exceedingly, as at the first good and happy thing that had happened in his family for long enough.
“And so you have got a husband, though you are a Seyton?” said her aunt. “Well, Roland’s a long way off, and I don’t suppose Dick and Harry can create scandal enough to put an end to it before next October.”
“But you’ll give me a kiss, auntie?” said Virginia; and in the warmth of her embrace she tried to show the sympathy for that long past wrong which she never would have dared to utter.
Miss Seyton was silent for a moment, and patted her soft hair; then suddenly, with an expression indescribably malin and elfish, she said, “And all those poor little neglected children, whose souls you were going to save, what will become of them when you are married? Do you think your uncle will teach them himself?”
“And I shouldn’t be surprised if he did, Aunt Julia,” interposed Ruth briskly, “now Virginia has shown him the way.” Parson Seyton’s remark was somewhat to the same effect, though made in a more genial spirit.
“Well, my lass, so you’ve caught the Frenchman? Why didn’t you set your cap at Cherry? He’s worth a dozen of him.”
“Cherry didn’t set his cap at me, uncle,” said Virginia, laughing.
“And all the little lads and lasses? Ha, ha, I must set about learning the catechism myself. What’s to be done, my queen?—what’s to be done? Send away Monsieur Alvar; we can’t do without you.” Virginia had not forgotten the children; but as her marriage was not to take place till the late autumn, there was no immediate question of her leaving them.
Mr Lester thought that it would be far better that Alvar should see something of England before his marriage, and Alvar acquiesced readily in his father’s wish; and he very shortly left Oakby for London, after receiving congratulations from his brothers, in which astonishment was the prevailing ingredient, though Cheriton softened his surprise with many expressions of satisfaction.
He was glad that Alvar had chosen an English wife; still more glad that he had no disposition to choose Ruth.