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 one could 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 I am glad 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. “You are young, 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, do help 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—”
“But there 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 with Jack,” 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 home via Madrid 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 ask you to 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 it any time.”
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, “I am honest, 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, “He is 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. She meant to say, “I love you all 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 have that happen 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.