Chapter Thirty One.
Broken Links.
“Love is made a vague regret.”
Virginia, when she parted from Jack, walked slowly homewards through the mist and the falling leaves, and thought of the bloom and the brightness of that fair Seville which she had so often pictured to herself. How happy the two brothers would be there together, among all the surroundings which she had heard described so often! Alvar would never think of her. “At least, I should have had letters from him if I had not sent him away,” she thought; and though she did not regret the parting in the sense of blaming herself for it, she felt in her utter desolation as if she had rather have had her lover cold and indifferent than not have him at all.
For life was so dreary, home so wretched, and Virginia could not mend it. Indeed in many ways a less high-minded girl with stronger spirits and more tact might have been far more useful there. Virginia held her tongue resolutely; but she could not shut her eyes. She had lost her bearings, and could not possibly understand the proportion of things. Thus even in her inmost soul she never blamed her father for his life-long extravagance, for the vague stories of his dissipated youth—these things were not for her to judge; but the conversation, which he intended to be perfectly fit for her ears, was full of small prejudices, small injustices, and trifles taken for granted that grated on her every hour. She tried very hard to be gentle and pleasant to her aunt; but she could not bring herself, as Ruth could, to laugh at scandalous stories, old or new, or even to think herself right in listening to them. And though her father and aunt so far as they knew how, respected her innocence, the latter only laughed at the ignorance that thought one thing as bad as another. For there were virtues, or at least self-denials in their lives, for which, with all her love and with all her charity, she could not possibly credit them. It was something that Mr Seyton had pulled through without utterly succumbing to debt and difficulty, it was something that when writhing under an injury which she never forgot or forgave, his sister stuck to him and kept things as straight as they were. It was a godless, idle, aimless household, above stairs and below; but it was not a scandalous one, and, with all the antecedents, it easily might have been. But the obvious outcome of this hard narrow life was a deadness to all outer or higher interests, an ignorance of the ordinary views of society, and of modern forms of thought never attained save by selfish people, an absence of restraint of temper, a delight in utter littleness, which were intensely wearying. Higher principles would have made life more interesting if nothing more. The narrowest form of belief in religion and goodness would have given a wider outlook. Virginia was sick to death of tales of little local incidents spiced with ill-nature, or incessant complaints of someone’s ill-behaviour about a fence or a cow. If she had lived at Oakby she would have heard a good deal of the same sort of thing; but there there would have been something else to fall back on, and she would not have heard small triumphs over small overreaching, which Mr Seyton did not mix enough with his kind to hear commented on.
Virginia used to wonder if she would grow like her aunt, her life was so empty. All her young-lady interests, the essay and drawing clubs, the correspondence and the art needlework, with which like other girls she had amused herself, had languished entirely during her engagement, and she did not care to resume them. She would have liked to be a resource to Dick; but she was not used to boys, and had not much faculty for amusing them, and Dick did not care for her. Her Sunday class tired her, and were naughty because her teaching was languid; the children by no means offering the consolations to her depression which they are sometimes represented as doing in fiction. The Ellesmeres, who were always kind to her, were away for their annual holiday, and the library books for which she subscribed, and which might have amused her, could never, by any chance be fetched from the station when she wanted them.
Her uncle showed his sympathy by scolding her roundly for fretting for a black-eyed foreigner, till she was almost too angry to speak to him.
Under all these circumstances Ruth’s urgent invitation had been welcome, and as she received others from her friends at Littleton, she resolved to go and try to pick up the threads that Alvar had broken. Soon after she parted with Jack she met the Parson, and told him what she knew would be welcome news, that Cherry was better.
“Ay,” said Mr Seyton, “Jack brought me a message from him that he would write me an account of a bull-fight. Wonder he’s not ashamed to go near one. Cruel, unmanly sport—disgraceful!”
“Well, uncle,” said Virginia, “I think you ought to be pleased that Cherry is well enough to go.”
“Eh? I’ll ask him if he’ll come and see a cock-fight when he comes home. Plenty of ’em here—round the corner. So you’re going to London to get a little colour in your cheeks, I think it’s time.”
“Yes, uncle; Mrs Clement will teach the children while I’m away.”
“Very well, and tell Miss Ruth she was blind of one eye when she made her choice, but I can see out of both.”
“Uncle, I shouldn’t think of telling her such a thing. What do you mean?”
“Never mind, she’ll understand me. Good-bye, my dear, and never mind the Frenchman.”
Virginia smiled, but she could not turn her thoughts away, not merely from Alvar, but from her life without him. Fain would she have refused the invitation which soon arrived to a solemn dinner-party at Oakby; but it had been accompanied by a hint from Mr Lester to her aunt which caused the latter to insist on accepting it, and they went accordingly to meet Sir John and Lady Hubbard, and one or two other neighbours. Mr Lester was markedly polite to Virginia. Mrs Lester wore her best black velvet, and a certain diamond brooch, only produced on occasions of state. Jack looked proper, silent, and bored. Every one wished to ask after the universally popular Cheriton, but felt that Alvar was an awkward subject of conversation, so that the adventures of the travellers could not be used to enliven the dulness. Nettie did not of course appear at dinner, and afterwards sat in a corner of the drawing-room in her white muslin, apparently determined not to open her mouth. Dick strolled up to her when the gentlemen came in, and was instantly followed by Jack, who stood by her silent and frowning. Nettie looked up under her eyebrows, and said, “Dick, I am going to London.”
“So I hear,” said Dick, with a smile and a slight shrug.
“I hate it, but I can’t help it. You go on.”
Dick smiled again and nodded, and then looked at Jack with an air of secret amusement, indescribably provoking. “All right,” he said, but he turned away and made no further demonstration; and Mrs Lester desired Nettie to show Miss Hubbard “Views on the Rhine,” a very handsome book reserved for occasions of unusual dulness.
Altogether the evening did not raise Virginia’s spirits, and she was half inclined to resent the special kindness shown to her by Mr Lester, as implying blame to his absent son.
It was a wonderful change of scene and circumstance, when she found herself, some few days later, sitting in Lady Charlton’s pleasant London drawing-room, full of books, work, plants, and pretty things, with Ruth, bright-eyed and blooming, sitting on the rug at her feet, ready for a confidential chatter.
She was to be married directly after Christmas, she told Virginia. Rupert did not mean to sell out of the army; she did not at all dislike the notion of moving about for a few years, and now the regiment was at Aldershot she could see Rupert often while she remained in London to get her things.
“And, Queenie, you must choose the dresses for the bridesmaids. Grandmamma will have a gay wedding. I think it will be a great bore.”
“Your bridesmaids ought to wear something warm and gay and bright, like yourself, Ruthie. Are you going to ask Nettie Lester?”
“Oh, no!” said Ruth hurriedly. “Why should I?”
“She is Rupert’s cousin, and she is so handsome.”
“I never thought of her! I am angry with them all since Don Alvar has made you miserable. My darling Queenie, I should like to stamp on him! Now, don’t be angry; but tell me how it all came about?”
“I don’t think I could ever make you understand it, Ruth. He did nothing wrong. It was only that—that I did not suit him, and I found it out,” said Virginia, with a sort of ache in her voice, as she turned her head away.
“The more—well, I won’t finish the sentence. Any way, he has spoiled your life for you; for I am afraid he is your love if you are not his,” said Ruth, scanning her sad face curiously. “Queenie, weren’t you ready to kill him and Cherry, too, when they went off comfortably together?”
“No,” said Virginia, “he could not help going—that was not it. And as for Cherry, he was the only person who understood anything about it—he was so kind! Oh, I hope he is really better!”
“I dare say he is, by this time,” said Ruth, rather oddly; “but they are all so easily frightened about him—they spoil him. I wonder what they would all say if he fell in love with a naughty, wicked siren—a female villain, who broke his heart for him—just for fun.”
“She would break something worth having,” said Virginia indignantly. “But, do you know anything about Cherry, Ruth?”
“I? I don’t believe in sirens who break hearts just for fun and vanity. And as for Cherry, if he did meet with a little trouble, he’d mend up again, heart and lungs and all. There’s something happy-go-lucky about him—don’t you think so?”
“I think Cherry is too many-sided to be left without an object in life, if that is what you mean,” said Virginia. “Besides, it is so different for a man, they can always do something.”
Then Ruth put aside the little uneasy feeling of self-reproach and doubt that had prompted her to talk about Cherry, and put her arms round Virginia, kissing her tenderly.
“My darling Queenie! You have been fretting all by yourself at Elderthwaite till things seem worse than they are.”
“No,” said Virginia; “but my life has all gone wrong. When I found that he did not love me everything seemed over for me.”
Ruth interposed a question, and at last acquired a clearer knowledge of the circumstances under which Alvar and her cousin had parted. She had a good deal of knowledge of the world, and some judgment, though she did not always use it for her own benefit, and she did not think that the case sounded hopeless. She tried an experiment.
“If you gave him up, Queenie, because you discovered that he did not come up to your notions of what he ought to be, why there’s an end of it, for he never will; but it looks to me much more like a very commonplace lovers’ quarrel aggravated by circumstances. He isn’t a bad sort of fellow in his own way; but it’s not the way that you think perfection.”
“I did not quarrel with him, and I think the failure was in myself. Why should he love me?—it does not seem as if I was very lovable.”
There crossed Virginia’s young gentle face a look that was like a foretaste of the bitterness and self-weariness that had seized on so many of her race—a sort of self-scorn that was not wholesome.
“Why should you think so?” said Ruth.
“I think I should have got on better at home if I had been.”
She spoke humbly enough, but there was utter discouragement in every line of her face and figure.
“Nonsense!” said Ruth briskly. “Nobody would get on, in your sense, at Elderthwaite. I don’t think you ought to stay there. You know it is quite in your power to arrange differently. You might make them long visits and—come fresh to every one.”
“I’ll never have it said that I could not live there,” said Virginia, colouring deeply. “And if I was away—I could not.—I would not—”
“Go back into the neighbourhood? Well, at any rate you are going to have a holiday now, and see something besides moors and mud.”
The change of scene could not fail to do Virginia good, though there might be something in the courtship of Ruth and Rupert to remind her, with a difference, of her own. It was sometimes breezy, for Rupert loved to tease his betrothed, and having got his will, was a free-and-easy and contented lover, not much liking to be put out of his way, and not quite coming up to Ruth’s requirements.
Ruth, though very kind to her cousin, believed that she had lost her lover in great measure through a feminine scrupulosity and desire to bring him up to her own standard. Ruth would never be so narrow and unsympathetic, she would be prepared to understand all the story of her hero’s life; and being young, and much more simple than she believed herself to be, thought that her indiscriminate reading of somewhat free-spoken novels, gave her the necessary experience. But Rupert took quite another view. He was not aware of having any particular story to tell, and had no intention whatever of telling it. He did not in the least desire Ruth’s sympathy with his past, which was quite commonplace. He was not in a state of repentance, desirous of making a confession; nor had his heart ever been withered up by any frightful experiences. No doubt he could remember much that was not particularly creditable, and which he rightly thought unfit for discussion with his betrothed. Moreover, he did not care at all for poetry, and very little for novels, and at last actually told her that one she mentioned was unfit for her to read.
Ruth was very angry, and had a sense of being put aside. Had Rupert—like herself—a secret, or was she going to be “only a little dearer than his horse?” as she expressed it to herself, and with tears to him. Rupert laughed, and then grew a little angry, and then they made it up again; but he teased her for her romance, laughed at her most muscular and strong-souled heroes, and never would put himself in a heroic attitude. Ruth quarrelled with him, made it up with him, was vexed by him, and sometimes was vexatious; but all the while she never told him about Cheriton.