Chapter Thirty Nine.
The Dragon Slayer.
“Life has more things to dwell on
Than just one useless pain.”
There are few places where the charm of a bright June day is felt more perfectly than in a London garden. The force of contrast may partly account for this; but The Laurels, as the Stanforths’ house was called, was a lovely place in itself, dating from days before the villas by which it was now almost surrounded. Within its old brown sloping walls flourished white and pink acacias, magnolias, wisterias, and quaint trees only found in such old gardens; a cork-tree, more curious than beautiful; a catalpa, which once in Gipsy’s memory had put out its queer brown and white blossoms; and a Judas-tree, still purple with its lovely flowers. The house, like the garden-walls, was built of brown old brick, well draped with creepers; and Mr Stanforth’s new studio had been so cunningly devised that it harmonised wonderfully with the rest. That garden was a very pleasant place in the estimation of a great many people, who liked to come and idle away an hour there, and was famous for pleasant parties all through the summer; while it was a delightful play-place for the little Stanforths, a large party of picturesque and lively-minded children, who, in spite of artistic frocks and hats, and tongues trained to readiness by plenty of home society, were very thoroughly educated and carefully brought up. They were a great amusement to Cheriton Lester, who was always a welcome guest at The Laurels, and felt himself thoroughly at home there.
Cheriton’s London life was in many ways a pleasant one. He found himself in the midst of old friends and schoolfellows, he could have as much society as he wished for, he was free of his uncle’s house and of the ‘Stanforths’, and he had none of the money anxieties which troubled many of those who, like him, were beginning their course of preparation for a legal life. He saw a good deal, in and out, of Alvar, who had established himself in town, and was an exceedingly popular person in society; and as the obligations of his mourning, which he was careful to observe, diminished, was full of engagements of all sorts, enjoyed himself greatly, and thought as little of Oakby as business letters allowed. Lady Cheriton thought that he ought to have every opportunity of settling, “so much the best thing for all of them,” and arranged her introductions to him accordingly; but Alvar walked through snares and pitfalls, and did not even get himself talked of in connexion with any young lady. Cheriton was much less often to be met with; he found that he could not combine late hours and anything like study, and so kept his strength for his more immediate object—an object which, however, was slowly changing into an occupation. Cheriton soon found out that the pleasures and pains of hard and successful labour were no longer for him; that though he did not break down in the warm summer weather, the winter would always be a time of difficulty, and that his strength would not endure a long or severe strain—in short, that though reading for the bar was just as well now as anything else for him, and might lead the way to interests and occupations, he could not even aim at the career of a successful lawyer. Besides, London air made him unusually languid and listless.
“Yes, he is a clever fellow, but he is not strong enough to do much. It is a great pity, but, after all, he has enough to live on, and plenty of interests in life,” said Judge Cheriton; and his wife made her house pleasant to Cherry, and encouraged him to come there at all hours, and no one ever said a word to him about working, or gave him good advice, except not to catch cold; while he himself ceased to talk at all about his prospects, but went on from day to day and took the pleasant things that came to him. And sometimes he felt as if his last hope in life was gone—and sometimes, again, wondered why he did not care more for such a disappointment. But now and then, in these days that were so silent and self-controlled, there came to him an indifference of a nobler kind, an inward courage, a consoling trust, the reward of much struggling, which a year ago he could never have brought to bear on such a trial.
Mr Stanforth’s presence always gave him a sense of sympathy, and he spent so many hours at The Laurels, that his aunt suspected him of designs on Gipsy, though Jack’s secret, preserved in his absence, was likely to ooze out now that the end of the Oxford term had brought him to London for a few days, previous to joining a reading party with some of his friends.
The Laurels, with its pretty garden, might be a pleasant resting-place for Cheriton, but it was a very Arcadia, a fairy-land to Jack, when he found his way there late on one splendid afternoon, so shy that he had walked up and down the road twice before he rang the bell, happy, uncomfortable, and conscious all at once, looking at Gipsy, who had just come home from a garden party, in a most becoming costume of cream colour and crimson, but quite unable to say a word to her, as she sat under the trees, and fanned herself with a great black fan, appealing to Alvar, who was there with Cheriton, whether she had quite forgotten her Spanish skill. Gipsy was very happy, and not a bit shy as she peeped at her solemn young lover over the top of the fan, and laughed behind it at Jack’s look of disgust when Cherry remarked that he had grown since Easter.
“Don’t be spiteful, Cherry,” said Mr Stanforth, with a smile. “Shall we come and see the picture?”
Jack and Gipsy were left to the last as they came up towards the house, and she made a little mischievous gesture of measuring herself against him.
“Yes, I think it’s true!”
“Well,” said Jack gruffly, though his eyes sparkled, “I shall leave off growing some time, I suppose. I say, are you going to dine at my aunt’s to-morrow?”
“Yes,” said Gipsy. “Lady Cheriton has been here, and she brought your sister. How handsome she is; but she was so silent. I was afraid of her. I wonder if she liked me,” said Gipsy, blushing in her turn.
“Shy with Nettie?” exclaimed Jack. “You might as well be shy of a wild cat. She doesn’t like any one much but Bob and her pets.”
“All, young ladies grow as well as young gentlemen,” said Gipsy. “Next year—”
“Yes; next year—” said Jack; but Gipsy opened the studio door, and ended the conversation.
Mr Stanforth’s studio was arranged with a view more to the painting of pictures than to the display of curtains, carpets, and china; but it was still a pretty and pleasant place, with a few rare works of art by other hands than those of its owner. There were few finished pictures of Mr Stanforth’s there then; but one large canvas on which he was working, and, besides various portraits in different stages, the drawing of Mr Lester, which Jack had not hitherto seen. Mr Stanforth brought it forward, and asked him to make any comment that occurred to him. It was a fine drawing of a fine face, and brought out forcibly the union of size and strength with beauty which none of the sons fully equalled, though there might be more to interest in all their faces. For, after all, the little imperfections of expression, that which was wanting as well as that which was present in the coming out and going in, the pleasures, the duties, and the failures, the changes of mood and temper, the smiles and the frowns of daily life, had made the individual man, and could not be shown in a likeness so taken. It was a picture that would satisfy them better as the years went by. Indeed Alvar thought it perfect, and Jack could hardly say that he saw anything wanting; but Cherry, after many praises and some hesitation, had said, “Yes, it is very like, but it is as if one saw him from a distance. Perhaps that is best.”
After this picture had been put away, Jack began to look round and to relieve the impression made on him by a little artistic conversation, evidently carefully studied from the latest Oxford authorities. He looked at the pictures on the wall, found fault so correctly with what would have naturally been pleasing to him, and admired so much what a few months before he would have thought hideous, that Cheriton’s eyes sparkled with fun, and Alvar, for once appreciating the humour of the situation, said,—
“We must ask Jack to write a book about the pictures at Oakby;” while Gipsy, seeing it all, laughed, spite of herself.
“Ah, Gipsy, he is carrying his lady’s colours, like a true knight,” said Cherry softly, as Jack faced round and inquired,—
“What are you laughing at?”
“Who lectures on art at Oxford, Jack?” said Cherry. “What a first-rate fellow he must be!”
“Ah, he is indeed a great teacher,” said Alvar, “who has taught Jack to love art.”
“A mighty teacher,” said Cherry, under his breath.
“Of course,” said Jack, “as one sees more of the world, one comes to take an interest in new fields of thought.”
“Why, yes,” said Gipsy, recovering from Cherry’s words, and flying to the rescue, “we all learned a great deal about art at Seville.”
“My dear,” said Mrs Stanforth, “aren’t you going to show them the knights?”
For she thought to herself that if a year was to pass before Jack’s intentions could meet with an acknowledgment, his visits had better be few and far between, especially in the presence of Cherry’s mischievous encouragement. “Mr Stanforth himself being as bad,” as she afterwards remarked to him.
Now, however, Mr Stanforth turned his easel round and displayed the still unfinished picture for which he had begun to make sketches in Spain, when struck with the contrast of his new acquaintances, and with the capabilities of their appearance for picturesque treatment.
The picture was to be called “One of the Dragon Slayers,” and represented a woodland glade in the first glory of the earliest summer—blue sky, fresh green, white blossoms, and springing bluebells and primroses, all in full and yet delicate sunshine—a scene which might have stood for many a poetic description from Chaucer to Tennyson, a very image of nature, the same now as in the days of Arthur.
Dimly visible, as if he had crawled away among the brambles and bracken to die, was the gigantic form of the slain dragon, while, newly arrived on the scene, having dismounted from his horse, which was held by a page in the distance, was a knight in festal attire—a vigorous, graceful presentment of Alvar’s dark face and tall figure—who with one hand drew towards him the delivered maiden, a fair, slender figure in the first dawn of youth, who clung to him joyfully, while he laid the other in eager gratitude on the shoulder of the dragon slayer, who, manifestly wounded in the encounter, was leaning against a tree-trunk, and who, as he seemed to give the maiden back to her lover, with the other hand concealed in his breast a knot of the ribbon on her dress; thus hinting at the story, which after all was better told by the peculiar beaming smile of congratulation, the look of victory amid strife, of conquest over self and suffering—a look of love conquering pain, which was the real point of the picture.
Jack stood looking in silence, and uttering none of his newly-acquired opinions.
“Is it right, Jack?” said Mr Stanforth. “Yes, I know,” said Jack briefly; and then, “Every one will know Alvar’s portrait. And who is the lady?”
“She is a little niece of mine—almost a child,” said Mr Stanforth; while Cheriton interposed,—
“It is not a group of photographs, Jack. Of course the object was the idea of the picture, not our faces.”
“Well, Cherry,” said Mr Stanforth smiling, “your notion of sitting for your picture partakes of the photographic. You did not help me by calling up the dragon slayer’s look.”
“That was for the artist to supply,” said Cherry; “but it seems to me exactly how the knight ought to have looked.”
“For my part,” said Alvar, “I should not have liked to have been too late.”
“It is very beautiful,” said Jack; “but I don’t think I approve of false mediaevalism. At that date these fellows would have fought, and the best man would have had the girl.”
“Pray, at what date do you fix the dragon?” said Cherry.
“Jack is as matter-of-fact as the maiden herself,” said Mrs Stanforth, “who will not be happy because her uncle will not tell her if the knight got well and married somebody else.”
“No—no, mamma,” said one of the Stanforth girls, “he did no such thing; he was killed in King Arthur’s last battle. We settled it yesterday—we thought it was nicer.”
“You don’t think he gave in to the next dragon?” said Cherry, half to tease her.
“No, indeed, that knight never gave in. Did he, papa—did he?”
“My dear Minnie, I am not prepared with my knights’ history. There they are, and I leave them to an intelligent public, who can settle whether my object was to paint sunlight on primroses, or a smile on a wounded knight’s face—very hard matters both.”
“Don’t you really like it?” said Gipsy aside to Jack.
“Oh, yes,” said Jack uneasily, “I have seen him look so. I know what your father means. But I hate it. I’d rather have had a picture of him as he used to be, all sunburnt and jolly. Yes, I know, it’s the picture, not Cherry; but I don’t like it.”
Gipsy demurred a little, and they fell into a long talk in the twilight garden. Jack kept his promise, he did not “make love” to her, but never, even to Cheriton, had he talked as he talked then, for if he might not talk of the future, he could at least make Gipsy a sharer in all his past. When Cheriton came out upon them to call Jack away, they looked at him with half-dazzled eyes, as if he were calling them back from fairy-land.
The dinner-party at Lady Cheriton’s offered no such chances, though it was a gathering together quite unexpected by some of the party. Lady Cheriton, when the question of a school for Nettie had been discussed, had renewed her offer of having her to share the studies of her younger daughters; and Cheriton, who thought that Nettie in a London boarding-school would be very troublesome to others and very unhappy herself, had succeeded in getting the plan adopted. So here she was, dignified and polished, in her long black dress, and bent, so said her aunt, in a silent and grudging fashion, on acquiring sufficient knowledge to hold her own among other girls. She was wonderfully handsome, and so tall that her height and presence marked her out as much as her intensely red-and-white complexion and yellow hair. There, too, were Virginia and her brother Dick, Cherry being guilty of assuring his aunt that there was no reason why Alvar should not meet them. For Dick’s examination had at length been successfully passed, and an arrangement had been made that he should board with some friends of Mr Stanforth’s, and Virginia had availed herself of an invitation from Lady Cheriton to come to London with him.
“You did not tell me she was coming,” said Alvar angrily to Cheriton.
“It is impossible that you should avoid so near a neighbour,” replied Cherry.
“I do not like it,” said Alvar; and the effect on him was to shake his graceful self-possession, make him uncertain of what he was saying, and watch Virginia as she talked to Cherry of Dick’s prospects, with a look that was no more indifferent than the elaborate politeness of Jack’s greeting to Miss Stanforth. She was more self-controlled, but she missed no word or look. But if Cheriton had played a trick on his brother, he himself received a startling surprise when Mr and Mrs Rupert Lester were announced. “You cannot avoid meeting your cousins” was as true as his excuse to Alvar; but he could not help feeling himself watched; and as for Ruth, her brilliant, expressive face showed a consciousness which perhaps she hardly meant to conceal from him as she looked at him with all the past in her eyes. Ruth liked excitement, and the situation was not quite disagreeable to her; but while her look thrilled Cheriton through and through, the fact that she could give it, broke the last thread of his bondage to her. She made him feel with a curious revulsion that Rupert was his own cousin, and that she had tried to make him forget that she was his cousin’s wife; and as, being a man, he attributed far too distinct a meaning to the glance of an excitable, sentimental girl, it repelled him, though the pain of the repulsion was perhaps as keen as any that she had made him suffer. He did not betray himself, and it was left to Jack to frown like a thunder-cloud.
When Cheriton came out of the dining-room, Nettie pursued him into a corner, and began abruptly,—
“Cherry, I want to speak to you. When Jack went to Spain did he tell you anything about me?”
“Nothing that I recollect especially,” said Cherry, surprised.
“Well, I am going to tell you about it. Mind, I think I was perfectly right, and Jack ought to have known I should be.”
“Have you and Jack had a quarrel, then?”
“Yes,” said Nettie, standing straight upright, and making her communication as she looked down on Cherry, as he sat on a low chair. “I taught Dick to pass his examination.”
“You!”
“Yes. You know he wouldn’t work at anything, and I used to make him come and say his lessons to me—the kings of England, you know, and the rivers, and populations, and French verbs. Well, then, if he didn’t know them, I made him learn them till he did. But of course he didn’t wish any one to know, so we had to get up early, and sit in the hay-loft, or down by the bridge. I could not help the boys knowing that Dick and I went out together, and at last Jack found us in Clements’ hay-loft. Dick ran away, but Jack was very angry with me, and insulted me; and Cherry—he went and told papa, and they sent me to London. But I never told the reason, because I had promised Dick. Now, Cherry, wouldn’t it have been very wrong to give up the chance of doing Dick good because Jack chose to be ridiculous? It just made him succeed, and perhaps he will owe it to me that he is a respectable person, and earns his living. You would have helped him, wouldn’t you?”
“Why, yes,” said Cherry; “but that is not quite the same thing.”
“Because I am a girl. Cherry, I think it would be mean to have let that stop me. But now he is through, I shall never do it again, of course; and, Cherry, indeed I meant it just as if he had been a ploughboy.” Here Nettie hung her tall head, and her tone grew less defiant.
“But, after all, Nettie, you should not have done what you knew granny and father would not like,” said Cherry, much puzzled what to say to her.
“It was because papa never knew that I told you,” said Nettie rapidly.
Cheriton asked a few more questions, and elicited that Nettie had, very early in their intimacy, taken upon herself the reform of Dick, and had domineered over him with all the force of a strong will over a weak one. Nettie had acted in perfect good faith, and had defied her brother’s attack on her; but as the lessons went on, her instinct had taught her that Dick found her attractive, and came to learn to please himself, not her. The girl had all the self-confidence of her race, and having set her mind on what she called “doing good” to Dick, she defied her own consciousness of his motives, having begun in kindness dashed with considerable contempt. But lazy Dick had powers of his own, and by the time of her quarrel with Jack, Nettie had felt herself on dangerous ground. “I shan’t marry—no one is like our boys,” she said to herself; but there was just a little traitorous softening and an indefinite sense of wrong-doing which had made her seek absolution from Cheriton, and with the peculiar absence of folly, which was a marked characteristic of the slow-thinking twins, she gave herself the protection of his knowledge.
Cheriton’s impulse was to take up Jack’s line and give her a good scolding, but he was touched by her appeal, and had learned to weigh his words carefully. He said something rather lame and inadequate about being more particular in future, but he gave Nettie’s hand a kind little squeeze, and she felt herself off her own mind. It had been a curious incident, and had done much to make Nettie into a woman—too much of a woman to look on her protégé with favouring eyes. Dick, too, was likely to find other interests, but Nettie had helped to give him a fair start, and her scorn of his old faults could never be quite forgotten.