Kitabı oku: «An English Squire», sayfa 6
Chapter Nine.
Ruth
“She has two eyes so soft and brown.”
There was a little oak-panelled bedroom at Elderthwaite, which had been called Ruth’s ever since, as a curly-haired, brown-skinned child, the little orphan cousin had come from her grandmother’s in London and paid a long visit in the North some five or six years before the winter’s day on which she now occupied it, when she came to be present at the Lesters’ ball. She was a nut-brown maid still, with rough, curly hair and great dark eyes, with curly, upturned lashes – eyes that were like Virginia’s in shape, colour, and fervour, but which glanced and gleamed and melted after a fashion wholly their own. She was slender and small, and though with no wonderful beauty of feature or perfection of form, whether she sat or stood she made a picture; all colours that she wore became her, all scenes set off her peculiar grace. Now, her brown velvet dress, her rusty hair against the dark oak shutter, as she sat crouched up in the window-seat, were a perfect “symphony in brown.”
Ruth Seyton was an orphan, and lived with her grandmother, Lady Charlton, a gentle, worldly old lady, whose great object was to see her well married, and to steer her course safely through all the dangers that might affect the course of a well-endowed and very attractive girl. The scorn which Ruth felt for the shallow feelings and worldly notions with which she was expected to enter on the question of her own future was justifiable enough, and led to a violent reaction and to a fervour of false romance. Ruth had found her hero and formulated her view of life, and the hero was Rupert Lester, whom she was about to meet at the ball given in Alvar’s honour, and between whom and herself lay the memory of something more than a flirtation.
The theory was, that the hero once found, the grand passion once experienced, was its own justification, itself the proof of depth of character and worth of heart. A girl who paused to consider her lover’s character or her friends’ disapproval, when she had once given her heart away, was a weak and cold-natured creature in her opinion. She knew that many difficulties lay between her and Rupert Lester, and she gloried in the thought of how they should be overcome, rejoiced in her own discrimination, which could see the difference between this real passion and the worldly motives of some of her other admirers, or the boyish fancy of Cheriton Lester, who talked to her about his brothers and his occupations, and had room in his heart, so it seemed to her, for a thousand lesser loves. Ruth believed that she despised flirtation; but there could be no harm in being pleasant to a boy she had known all her life and whose attentions just now were so convenient. Besides, Cheriton was really very like his cousin Rupert, very like the photograph which she now hid away as Virginia came in search of her.
The two cousins had been a great deal together at intervals and were fond of each other, and Virginia knew something about Rupert; but Ruth knew better than to give her full confidence on the subject.
“Well,” she said, as her cousin entered, “and how does the world go with you? Do you see much of the Lesters?”
“Yes; while the frost lasted I used to go down to the ice with the boys, and we met there. Cheriton comes over here sometimes, and once he brought his brother.”
“What, the Spaniard? How do they manage? Is he very queer?”
“Oh, no! Of course he is very unlike the others. Cherry gets on very well with him. I believe Mr Lester does not wish the boys to come here much,” added Virginia, abruptly.
“Well, it wasn’t approved of in Roland’s time,” said Ruth.
“Were we always bad company?” said Virginia. “I have had a great deal to learn. Why did you never make me understand better what Elderthwaite was like?”
“But, Queenie,” said Ruth cautiously, using a pet name of Virginia’s girlhood, “surely you were told how tumbledown the place was, and how stupid and behindhand everything would be. Poor dear Uncle James ought to have lived fifty years since.”
“I don’t believe that parish priests taught their people nothing but to catch rats fifty years since,” said Virginia, with a touch of the family bitterness in her voice. “Is it because papa is poor that the men-servants get tipsy, and Dick and Harry are always after them? Oh, Ruth,” suddenly softening, “I ought not to have said it, but the boys aren’t brought up well; and if you saw how wretched the people in the village are – and they look so wicked.”
“Yes,” said Ruth, as Virginia’s tears silenced her, “but you know we Seytons are a bad lot. We’re born, they say, with a drop of bad blood in us. Look at Aunt Julia, she was driven desperate and ran away – small blame to her – when her lover’s father forbade the match; but they caught and stopped her. After that she never cared what she did, and just lived by making fun of things.”
Virginia shuddered. Could her lazy, sarcastic aunt have ever known the thrillings and yearnings which were beating in her own heart now?
“There is not much fun in it,” she said. “No. As for Dick, I don’t think much of him. Poor old Roland was worth a dozen of him. I don’t care what people do as long as they are something. But Dick has no fine feelings.”
“Ruth,” said Virginia, “I think I was not taught better for nothing. I am sure papa is very unhappy; he thinks how wrong everything is. Poor papa! Grandpapa was such a bad father for him. I cannot make friends with Dick, and Harry will go back to school. Indoors I have nothing to do; but I am going to ask Uncle James, and then if I go to the cottages and get the children together a little, perhaps it may be better than nothing. Old nurse says they all grow up bad. Poor things, how can they help it!”
“Well, Queenie,” said Ruth dubiously, “I don’t think the people are very fit for you to go to. I don’t think Uncle Seyton would like it.”
“I should not be afraid of them,” said Virginia. “It would be doing something for papa, and doing good besides.”
To think of her father as an involuntary victim to the faults of others was the one refuge of Virginia’s heart; his graceful, melancholy gentleness had caught her fancy, and she was filled with a pity which, however strange from a child to a father, vibrated in every tender string of her nature. On the other hand, all her notions of right were outraged by the more obvious evils prevailing at Elderthwaite, and she went through in those first weeks a variety of emotions, for which action seemed the only cure. She felt as if the sins of generations lay on her father’s shoulders, and she wanted to pull them on to her own – wanted to stand in the deadly breach with the little weapon that her small experience had put into her hand. She wanted to teach a few poor children, a thing that might only be a pleasant occupation or the most commonplace of duties. But it was turning her face right round on the smooth slope the Seytons were treading, and trying to make a step up hill.
Ruth did not think that first step would be easy, and would have liked to see Virginia go downstairs in a somewhat less desperate humour, to find her uncle chatting to Miss Seyton in the drawing-room.
“Ha, ha, Miss Ruth! Come North just in time to make a conquest of the fine Frenchman at Oakby.”
“I thought he was a Spaniard, uncle,” said Ruth.
“Eh, pretty much of a muchness, aren’t they? I’ve got a card for a grand ball to go and see him. Ha, ha! I’d sooner see him with a red coat on at Ashrigg meet next Thursday.”
“But you must go to the ball, uncle, and dance with me,” said Ruth.
“That’s a bargain,” said the jolly parson, striking his hands together. “Any dance I like?”
“To be sure.”
“Ah, mind you look out, then. When you’re sitting quiet with the Frenchman you’ll see your old uncle round the corner.”
“I never dance with any one who doesn’t know the trois temps, uncle.”
“Bless my soul! My favourite dance is the hornpipe, or old Sir Roger – kiss the girls as you pop under. That’s an old parson’s privilege, you know.”
All this time Virginia had been standing apart, working up her courage, and now, regardless of the unities of conversation, and with a now-or-never feeling, she began, her fresh young voice trembling and her colour rising high.
“Uncle James, if you please. I wanted to tell you I shall be very glad to do anything to help you, if you will allow me.”
“Help me, my dear? Teach me the troy tong, or whatever Ruth calls it?”
“To help you in the parish, uncle.”
“Parish? Ha, ha! Do they have the pretty girls to read prayers in the grand Ritualistic places nowadays?”
“I thought I might perhaps teach some of the children,” faltered poor Virginia through her uncle’s peal of laughter.
“Teach? We don’t have many newfangled notions here, my dear. Do your wool-work, and dance your troy tong, and mind your own business.”
“I have always been accustomed to do something useful,” said Virginia, gaining courage from indignation.
“Now look here, Virginia,” said Parson Seyton emphatically. “Don’t you go putting your finger into a pie you know nothing of. There’s not a cottage in the place fit for a young lady to set her foot in. There’s a vast deal too much of young women’s meddling in these days; and as for Elderthwaite, there’s an old Methody, as they call him, who groans away to the soberer folks, and comforts their hearts in his own fashion. What could a chit of a lass like you do for them? Go and captivate the Frenchman with your round eyes – you’ve a grand pair of them – and give me a kiss.”
Parson Seyton put out his hand and drew her towards him.
“But, uncle,” she stammered, yielding to the kiss in such utter confusion of mind that she hardly knew what she was doing – “But, uncle, do you like that Methodist to – to attract the people?”
“Bless your heart, child, people must have their religion their own way. They’d stare to hear me convicting them of their sins. ‘What’s the parson done with his own?’ they’d ask. But it comforts them like blankets and broth, and it’s little they get of either,” with a side glance at his sister; “so I take good care to keep out of the way. I told Cherry Lester I should go and hear him some Sunday afternoon. ‘Hope it would do you good, parson,’ says he, coolly. Eh, he’s a fine lad. What a confounded fool old Lester must think himself to have this foreign fellow ready to step into his place.”
“Are you and Cheriton as great friends as ever, uncle?” asked Ruth.
“Friends! Oh, he’s like Virginia here. Wants to teach me a lesson now and then. Got me over last year to their grand meeting of clergy and laity for educational purposes, and there I was up on the platform with the best of them.”
“Did you make a speech, uncle?” asked Ruth.
“I did, my lass, I did! When they had quarrelled and disputed, and couldn’t by any means agree, some one asked my opinion, and I said, ‘My lord,’ – Lord – was there, you know, – ‘and my reverend brethren, having no knowledge whatever of the subject, I have no opinion to give.’ And old Thorold – he comes from the other side of the county, mind you, – remarked that ‘Mr Seyton’s old-fashioned wisdom might find followers with advantage.’ Ha – ha – you should have seen Cherry’s blue eyes down below on the benches when I gave him a wink! ‘Old-fashioned wisdom,’ Miss Virginia; don’t you despise it.”
“Hallo, uncle!” shouted Harry, putting his head in, “here’s a fellow come tearing up to say the wedding’s waited an hour, and if the parson isn’t quick they’ll do without him.”
“Bless my soul, I forgot all about ’em. Coming – coming – and I’ll give ’em a couple of rabbits for the wedding dinner. Virginia’ll never ask me to marry her, that’s certain.” And off strode the parson, while poor Virginia, scandalised and perplexed as she was, was fain, like every one else, to laugh at him.
Chapter Ten.
The Old Parson
“He gave not of that text a pulled hen
That saith that hunters ben not holy men.”
Perhaps no amount of angry opposition to her wishes could so have perplexed Virginia as her uncle’s nonchalance, which, whether cynical or genial, seemed to remove him from the ranks of responsible beings, and to make him a law unto himself. When we read of young high-souled martyrs, we are apt to fancy that their way was plain before them; that however hard to their flesh, it was at least clear to their spirit; that Agnes or Cecilia, however much afflicted by the wickedness of their adversaries, were never perplexed by anything in them that was perhaps not wicked. Virginia Seyton was full of desires as pure, wishes as warm to lead the higher life, was capable of as much “enthusiasm of humanity” as any maiden who defied torture and death; but she was confronted by a kind of difficulty that made her feel like a naughty girl; the means to fulfil her purpose were open to so much objection that she could hardly hold firmly to the end in view. It may seem a very old difficulty, but it came upon her as a startling surprise that so much evil could be permitted by those who were not altogether devoid of good. For she was inclined to be sorry for this jolly, genial uncle, and not to wish to vex him; while yet his every practice and sentiment was such as she had been rightly taught to disapprove.
Anxious for a chance of settling her confused ideas, she slipped away by herself, and went out into the muddy lanes, heedless of a fast-falling shower.
The thaw had set in rapidly, and rich tints of brown, green, and yellow succeeded to the cold whiteness of the snow on moor and hill-side. A thaw, when the snow has fairly gone, even in the depth of winter, has a certain likeness to spring; the violent, buffeting wind was warm and soft, and the sky, instead of one pale sheet of blue, showed every variety of wild rain-cloud and driven mist.
Virginia plunged on through the mud with a perplexity in her soul as blinding as the tears that rose and confused the landscape already half-blotted out by wreaths of mountain mist. Suddenly, as she turned a corner, something bounced up against her, nearly knocking her down, and a voice exclaimed, —
“Down, Rolla! How dare you, sir! Oh, dear me, how sorry I am! that great brute has covered you with mud;” and Cheriton Lester, very muddy himself, and holding by the neck an object hardly recognisable as Buffer, appeared before her.
“I was very muddy before,” said Virginia. “Why, what has happened to the puppy?”
“He fell into the ditch. Nettie will wash him; it’s her favourite amusement. I was coming up here to ask after a young fellow I know, who works at this farm; he hasn’t been going on very well lately.”
“I suppose you know every one in Oakby,” said Virginia, abruptly.
“Pretty well,” answered Cherry. “I couldn’t help doing so.”
“I should like to know the people in Elderthwaite,” said Virginia.
“It would be a very good thing for some of them if you did.”
“Ah!” she said, suddenly, “but Uncle James will not let me do so.”
“Ah!” said Cherry, with an inflection in his voice that Virginia did not understand. Then he added quickly, “What did you want to do?”
“I wanted,” said Virginia, moved, she hardly knew why, to confidence as they walked on side by side, “to go to the cottages sometimes, and perhaps teach some of the children. Don’t you think it would be right?”
“I think it would hardly do for you to go about at haphazard among the cottagers.”
“But why? I am used to poor people,” said Virginia.
Her sentences were short, because she was afraid of letting her voice tremble; but she looked at him earnestly, and how could he tell her that many of the people whom she wished to benefit owed her family grudges deep enough to make her unwelcome within their walls, how betray to her that the revelations they might make to her would affect her relations to her own family more than she could hope to affect their lives in return. But Cheriton was never deaf to other people’s troubles, and he answered with great gentleness —
“Because we’re a rough set up here in the North, and they would scarcely understand your kind motives. But the children – I wish you could get hold of them! I do wish something could be done for them. What did the old parson say to you?”
“He said he didn’t approve of education.”
“Oh, that’s no matter at all! I declare I think I see how you might do it, and we’ll make the parson hunt up a class for you himself! What! you don’t believe me? You will see. Could you go down to the vicarage on Sunday mornings?”
“Oh, yes! but Uncle James – ”
“Oh, I’ll make him come round. They might send over some benches from Oakby, and the children would do very well in the vicarage hall.”
“But, Cheriton,” exclaimed the astonished Virginia, “you can’t know what my uncle said about it!”
“He said, ‘Eh, they’re a bad lot. No use meddling with them,’ didn’t he?” said Cheriton, in the very tone of the old parson.
“Something like it.”
“Never mind. He would like to see them a better lot in his heart, as well as you or I would.”
“Ruth says he is really very kind,” said Virginia; “and I think he means to be.”
“Ah, yes, your cousin knows all our odd ways, you know. She is with you?”
“Yes, she came yesterday.”
“Ah! she knows that he is a very kind old boy. He loves every stone in Elderthwaite, and you would be surprised to find how fond some of the people are of him. Now I’ll go and see him, and come and tell you what he says. May I?”
“To be sure,” said Virginia, “and perhaps then Aunt Julia will not object.”
“Oh, no, not to this plan,” said Cherry. He called Rolla, and went in search of the parson.
Cherry liked management; it was partly the inheritance of his father’s desire for influence, and partly his tender and genial nature, which made him take so much interest in people as to enjoy having a finger in every pie. As he walked along, he contrived every detail of his plan.
Jack was wont to observe that Elderthwaite was a blot on the face of the earth, and a disgrace to any system, ecclesiastical or political, that rendered it possible. But then Jack was much devoted to his young house-master, and wrote essays for his benefit, one of which was entitled, “On the Evils inherent in every existing Form of Government,” so that he felt it consistent to be critical. Cheriton had a soft spot in his heart for a long existing form of anything.
He soon arrived at the vicarage, a picturesque old house, built half of stone and half of black and white plaster. It was large, with great overgrown stables and farm-buildings, all much out of repair. Cheriton found the parson sitting in the old oak dining-room before a blazing fire, smoking his pipe. Some remains of luncheon were on the table, and the parson was evidently enjoying a glass of something hot after it. Cheriton entered with little ceremony.
“How d’ye do, Parson?” he said.
“Ha, Cherry! how d’ye do, my lad? Sit down and have some lunch. What d’ye take? there’s a glass of port in the sideboard.”
“Thanks, I’d rather have a glass of beer and some Stilton,” said Cherry, seating himself.
As he spoke, a little bit of an old woman came in with some cold pheasant and a jug of beer, which she placed before him. She was wrinkled up almost to nothing, but her steps were active enough, and she had lived with Parson Seyton all his life.
“Ay, Deborah knows your tastes. And what do you want of me?”
“I want to give you a lecture, Parson,” said Cherry coolly.
“The deuce you do? Out with it, then.”
“Virginia has been telling me that you will not let her teach the little kids on a Sunday.”
“Bless my soul, Cheriton! d’ye think I’m going to let the girl run all over the place and hear tales of her father and brothers, and may be of myself into the bargain?”
“No,” said Cherry; “but you ought to be very much obliged to her, Parson. It’s a shame to see those little ruffians. Now you’re going to call on half-a-dozen decentish people and tell them to send their children down here of a Sunday morning at ten o’clock. Virginia will teach them in the hall. I’ll get them to send over a couple of forms from Oakby. Don’t let her begin with above a dozen, and don’t have any big boys at first. Deborah might give them a bit of cake now and again to make the lessons go down. What do you say?”
“I say you’re the coolest hand in Westmoreland, and enough to wile the flounders out of the frith!” said the old parson, as Cherry peeped at him over his shoulder to see the effect of his words.
“What are we coming to?”
“A model school, perhaps.”
“And a model parson. Eh, Cherry, these enlightened days can’t do with the old lot much longer.”
“Oh, you’re moving with the times,” said Cherry, as he came and stood with his back to the fire, looking down at the parson as he filled his pipe, and smiling at him. Perhaps no other being in the world could have got Parson Seyton to consent to such an innovation, but he loved Cheriton Lester, who little knew how much self-respect the allegiance of his high-principled, promising youth was worth to the queer old sporting parson. One atom of pretence or of priggishness in a well-conducted correct young man would have been of all things odious to him, but the shrewd old man believed in Cheriton to the backbone, and of all the admiration and affection that the popular young man had won perhaps none did him so much credit as the love that made him a sort of good angel to rough Parson Seyton.
“You got my best dog out of me when I gave you Rolla,” he said, “so I suppose you’ll have your own way now.”
“And it’ll turn out quite as well as Rolla,” said Cherry rather illogically.
Parson Seyton set about fulfilling his promise after a manner of his own.
He rapped with his dog-whip at a cottage door and thus addressed the mother: —
“Eh, Betty, there’s a grand new start in Elderthwaite. Here’s Miss Virginia going to turn all the children into first-rate scholars. Wash them up and send them over to my house on Sunday morning, and I’ll give a penny to the cleanest, and a licking to any one that doesn’t mind his manners.”
If Parson Seyton had been a school-board visitor he could hardly have put the matter more plainly, and on the whole could hardly have adopted language more likely to be effectual.
