An English Squire

“Eh!” he said, “I’d like to see him – I’d like to see him.”

“He mustn’t see any one,” said Virginia; “they will hardly let his father go in.”

“Well, it’s a pity it’s not the Frenchman. Eh! bless my soul, my darling, I forgot.”

“Alvar is almost ready to think so too, uncle,” said Virginia, hardly able to help laughing.

“If I could do anything that he would like – catch him some trout – ” suggested the parson.

“Uncle,” said Virginia timidly, “in church, when any one is sick or in trouble, they pray for them. They will mention Cherry’s name at Oakby to-morrow. Could not we – ”

“Ay, my lass, it would show a very proper respect,” said the parson; “and the lad would like it too.”

And of all the many hearty prayers that were sent up on that Sunday for Cheriton Lester’s recovery, none were more sincere than rough Parson Seyton’s.

The Edinburgh doctor could only tell them what they knew before, that though there was very great danger, the case was not hopeless. A few days must decide it. In the meantime he must not talk – he must not see any one who would cause the slightest agitation; and poor Mr Lester, whose self-control had suddenly broken down before the interview, was about to be peremptorily banished; but Cherry put out his hand and caught his father’s, looking up in his face.

“Send for the boys,” he said.

“Yes, but you know you mustn’t see them, my boy – my dear boy.”

“But Cherry will like to know they are here,” said Alvar, in the steady voice that always seemed like a support.

“They shall come. What else – what is it, Cherry?” said Mr Lester, as his son still gazed at him wistfully.

“Nothing – not yet,” whispered Cheriton. “Oh! I want to say so much, father! I am so glad Alvar came home!”

The words and the sort of smile with which they were spoken completely overpowered Mr Lester; but the doctor, who was still present, would not permit another word.

“You destroy his only chance,” he said; and after that nothing would have induced Mr Lester to let Cheriton speak to him. That evening, however, when he was alone with Alvar, Cherry’s confused thoughts cleared themselves a little. He had been told to be hopeful, and he did not feel himself to be dying! while with his whole heart he wished for life – the young bright life that was so full of love and joy, of which no outward trouble, no wearing anxiety, and no cold and selfish discontent had rendered him weary. Home and friends, the long lines of moorland that were shining in the sunset light, the hard work in the world behind and before him, the answering love of the woman whom he had chosen, were all beautiful and good to him; he felt no need of rest, no lack of joy.

He prayed for his life, not because he was afraid to die, but because he wished to live; and when, with a sort of awful, solemn curiosity, he tried to realise that death might be his portion, his thoughts, not quite under his own control, turned forcibly to those near to him. If he was to die, there were things he must say to his father, to Jack, to Alvar, a hundred messages to his friends in the village – they would let him see Mr Ellesmere then – when it did not matter how much he hurt himself by speaking; but one thing could not wait —

“Alvar, I must say something.”

“Yes, I can hear,” said Alvar, seeing the necessity, and leaning towards him.

“When there is no chance, you will tell me?”

“Yes.”

“But I must tell you about – her – a secret.”

“I will keep it. Some one you love?”

“It is Ruth; we are engaged. Does she know – this?”

Alvar’s surprise was intense; but he answered quietly, —

“I suppose that Virginia will have told her.”

“Let her know; it would be worse later. Write to her – you – when it is hopeless.”

“Yes,” said Alvar.

“My love – my one love! And say she must come and see me once more. She will —I would go anywhere.”

“Hush, hush! my brother; I understand you. I am to find out if Virginia has written to her cousin; and if you are worse, I write and ask her if she will come. I will do it.”

“Thanks. I can’t thank you. God knows how I love her.”

“Not one more word,” said Alvar, steadily. “Now you must rest.”

“I shall get better,” said Cherry.

But as the pain grew fiercer, and his strength grew less, this security failed; and then it was well indeed for Cheriton that, be his desires what they might, he believed with all his warm heart that it was a loving Hand that had given him life both here and hereafter.

Time passed on, and Cheriton still lay in great danger and suffering. It was a sorrowful Sunday in Oakby when his name headed the list of sick persons who were prayed for in church. Every one could tell of some boyish prank, some merry saying, some act of kindness that he had done; and now that he was believed to be dying, be the facts what they might, there was a sort of sense that he had been deprived of his rights by his foreign brother.

“It had a deal better a’ been yon black-bearded chap. What’s he to us?” many a one muttered.

Alas! that the thought would intrude itself into the father’s mind, spite of the gratitude he could not but feel!

But Alvar went on with his anxious watching, heeding no one but his brother. That Sunday was a day of great suffering and suspense, and all through the afternoon came lads from the outlying farms, children from the village, messengers from half the neighbourhood to hear the last report. Silence and quiet were still so forcibly insisted on, that even Mr Lester was advised by the doctor to keep out of his son’s room; but Mr Ellesmere came up to the house at his request and waited, for all thought that the useless prohibition would soon be taken away; and in the meantime his presence was a support to the father and grandmother, the latter of whom, at least, could bear to hear Cheriton praised.

Towards evening, Alvar, who had scarcely stirred all day, was sent downstairs by Mr Adamson to get some food, and as he came into the dining-room, where the customary Sunday tea was laid on the table, he was greeted with a start of alarm. The two poor boys, tired, hungry, and frightened, had arrived but a few minutes before, and were standing about silent and awestruck.

Jack leant on the mantelpiece, with his lips shut as if they would never unclose again; Bob was staring out of the window; Nettie sat forlorn on one of a long row of chairs. Not one of them made an attempt to comfort or to speak to the others; they were almost as inaccessible in the sullen intensity of their grief as the two dogs, who, poor things! shared it, as they sat staring at Nettie, as dogs will when they do not comprehend the situation.

Alvar, with his olive face and grave dark eyes, looked, after all his fatigue, less changed than Jack, who was deadly pale, and hardly able to control his trembling.

“Ah! Jack,” said Alvar, in his soft, slow tones, “he will be glad to hear that you are come!”

Jack did not speak at first, and Alvar, as silent as the rest, went up to the table and poured out some claret and took some bread.

“It’s quite hopeless, I suppose?” said Jack, suddenly.

“No, do not say so!” said Alvar, half fiercely. “It is not so; but, oh, we fear it!” he added, in a voice of inexpressible melancholy.

Jack could not utter another word – he was half choking; but Nettie, unable to restrain herself any longer, began to cry piteously.

“Don’t Nettie,” said Bob, savagely.

“Ah!” said Alvar, “poor child, she is breaking her heart!” he went over to her, and took her in his arms and kissed her. “Poor little sister!” he said. “Ah! how we love him!”

The simple expression of the thought that was aching in the minds of all of them seemed to give a sort of relief. Nettie submitted to be caressed and soothed, and the boys came a little closer, and gave themselves the comfort of looking as wretched as they felt.

“Now I must eat some supper, for I dare not stay,” said Alvar; “and you – you have been travelling – come and take some.”

The poor boys began to find out how hungry they were, and Bob began to eat heartily; while the force of example made Jack take a few mouthfuls, till the vicar came into the room.

“Jack,” he said quietly, “Cherry is so very anxious to see you that Mr Adamson gives leave for you to go for one moment. Not the twins – they must wait a little. Can you stand it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack, though, great strong fellow as he was, his knees trembled.

“Then, Alvar, are you ready? Have you really eaten and rested? You had better take him in.”

Jack stood for a moment beside the bed, without attempting a word, hardly able to see that Cherry smiled at him, till he felt the hot fingers clasp his with more strength than he had looked for, and his hand was put into Alvar’s, while Cheriton held them both, and whispered, “Jack, you will– ”

“Yes, Cherry, I will,” said Jack, understanding him. “I will, always.”

“There, that must be enough,” said Alvar. “Jack is very good – he shall come again.”

“Oh! don’t send me quite away,” whispered Jack, as they moved a little. “Let me stay outside. I could go errands – I’ll not stir.”

Alvar nodded, and Jack went out into the deserted gallery, where, of course, he and Bob were not to sleep at present. The old sitting-room was full of things required by the nurses, and Jack sat down on a little window-seat in the passage, which looked out towards the stables. He saw Bob and Nettie arm-in-arm, trying to distract their minds by visiting their pets, and his grandmother, too, coming slowly and heavily to look at her poultry. He had not seen his father, and dreaded the thought of the meeting. Idly he watched the ordinary movement of the servants, the inquirers coming and going, and he thought of the brother, best-loved of all and most loving – oh! if he could but hear Cherry laugh at him again!

Upstairs all was silent, save for poor Cheriton’s painful cough and difficult breathing; and presently it seemed to Jack that the cough was less frequent, till, after an interval of stillness, the doctor came out. Jack’s heart stood still. Was this the fatal summons?

“Your brother is asleep,” said Mr Adamson. “I feel more hopeful. I am obliged to go, but I shall be here early. Every one who is not wanted had better go to bed.”

He went downstairs as he spoke, but Jack remained where he was, thinking he might be at least useful in taking messages or calling people. He had never sat up all night before, and, anxious as he was, the hours were woefully long.

Once or twice his grandmother came to the head of the stairs, and Jack signalled that all was quiet. At last, over the stable clock, the dawn came creeping up; there was the solitary note of a bird, then a great twitter and the cawing of the rooks.

Jack put his head out of the window, and felt the fresh, sharp air blowing in his face. A cock crowed – would it wake Cherry? Some one touched him on the shoulder; he drew his head in, and Alvar stood by his side.

“He is much better,” he said. “He has been so long asleep, and now the pain is less, and he can breathe – he is much better.”

Jack was afraid to speak, but he gave Alvar’s hand a great squeeze.

“Now, will you go and tell my father this? Ah, how he will rejoice! But do not let him come.”

Jack sped downstairs and to his father’s door, which opened at the sound of a footstep.

“Papa, he is better. Alvar says he will get well.”

Half a dozen hasty questions and answers, then Mr Lester put Jack away from him and shut his door.

They could hardly believe that the relief was more than a respite, but the gleam of hope brightened as the day advanced. Cherry slept again, and woke, able to speak and say that he was better.

“And I must tell you, sir,” said Mr Adamson, afterwards, “that it is in a great measure owing to your son’s good nursing.”

Mr Lester turned round to Alvar, who was beside him.

“I owe you a debt nothing can repay. I can never thank you for my boy’s life,” he said, warmly.

“Ah, do you thank me? You insult me!” cried Alvar, suddenly and fiercely. “Is he more to you than to me – my one friend – my brother —Cherito mio!” And, completely overcome, Alvar clasped his hands over his face and dashed out of the room.

Jack followed; but his admiration of Alvar’s self-control was somewhat shaken by the sort of fury of indignation and emotion that seemed to stifle him, as he poured out a torrent of words, half Spanish, half English, walking about the room and shedding tears of excitement.

“I say,” said Jack, “they won’t let you go in to Cherry next, and then what will he do?”

Alvar subsided after a few moments, and said, simply and rather sadly, —

“It is that my father does not understand me. But no matter – Cherry is better – all is right now.”