Chapter Thirty Five.
A Summons.
“Once from high Heaven
Is 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 young Sevillanos, 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 not good, 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—how dear 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 the Angel 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, till
The 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, I must tell 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.”
“I must go,” said Cheriton. “Don’t waste any words about it. I know he 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 had but come 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 he must rest 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 that he knew 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 of my eyes—the light of my eyes 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. Be a 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.”
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.”