Читать книгу An English Squire - Christabel R. Coleridge - Страница 7

“Young barbarians all at play.”

Some few years ago Mr Gerald Lester was the head of a family of good blood and position, and the owner of Oakby Hall, the great house of a village of the same name in the county of Westmoreland. The border line between Westmoreland and Yorkshire crossed his property; but his house and park were in the former county, for which he was a deputy sheriff and justice of the peace.

He was not a man of very large fortune, and Oakby Hall was not a show place, but a well-built mansion of the last century, with some architectural pretensions, and standing in the midst of that sort of wild and romantic scenery which, perhaps more than any other, fixes the affections of its inhabitants. Oakby, at any rate, was very dear to its owner.

The great sweeps of heather-clad moor, the fell sides, with their short green turf, the fertile valleys, had a character of their own, inferior as they were to the better-known parts of Westmoreland.

Oakby village was situated in one of the largest of these valleys, and the Hall lay low on the side of a hill over which the well-planted park stretched on either side. The house could be seen all the way up the long carriage drive, for it was only shut off from the park by an iron railing, within which the turf was mown close and fine, instead of being left to be cropped by sheep and cattle. The gardens were at the side, and there were no trees in front of the house but one oak of great size and beauty. There was a wide carriage sweep, and the space between this and the house was paved, and on either side of the front-door was a stone wolf of somewhat forbidding aspect—the crest of the Lesters.

The grey stone house thus exposed to view was stately enough, and though too open and free to be exactly gloomy, this northern front was bleak and cold, especially on a frosty winter twilight, when the light was dying away in the distance, and the piece of ornamental water and the pleasant bits of woodland, beyond were not distinctly visible. No such thought ever crossed the minds of the young Lesters, who came back to it from school and college as to the dearest of homes; but to a stranger, a little doubtful of a welcome, it might perhaps look formidable.

Within doors a blazing fire and abundance of rugs and skins made the hall the most attractive place in the house, both for dogs and men; especially between the lights, when there was little to do anywhere else, and all were tired with their day’s work, or ready to discuss their day’s amusement.

Just before Christmas play was legitimate; and the young Lesters, skates in hand, had just returned from the lake, and were grouped together round, the fire, noisily praising and criticising each other’s recent performances.

“I never should have had a tumble all day if Bob hadn’t come up against me like a steam engine,” cried the one girl, a tall creature of sixteen, big, fair, and rosy.

“I came against you! That’s a good one. Who could keep out of your way?” ejaculated the aggrieved twin brother. “You can no more guide yourself than—”

“A balloon,” put in the more softly accented voice of the eldest brother present, as he unfastened his skates from the neck of his great Saint Bernard, who had dutifully carried them home for him.

“Now, Cherry, that’s not true!” cried the girl in loud indignation. “Of course I can’t be expected to do figures of eight and spread-eagles like you and Jack.”

“I saw an American fellow the other day who skated twice as well as either of us.”

“No? All! I don’t believe that!” from the girl.

“But then they’ve ice all the year round,” from Bob.

“I daresay they can’t do anything else,” from Jack.

“Jack always is so liberal!” from Cheriton; and then, “Hush! here’s the squire.”

It was sometimes said that no one of the young Lesters would be so fine a man as his father; and certainly Mr Lester was a splendid specimen of an English gentleman, though the big Jack rivalled him in inches, and promised equal size and strength, while Cheriton, who was of a slighter build, inherited his blue eyes and brilliant colouring. But they were his own children—every one fair, and tall, and healthy; and their characteristic differences did not destroy their strong resemblance to each other and to their handsome father, who now stood in the midst of them with a foreign letter in his hand, at which the children glanced curiously.

He was not much above fifty; his hair and beard, which had once deserved to be called golden, had rather faded than grizzled, his skin was still fresh and healthy, and his eyes bright in colour and full of expression; the level brows met over them. His children, as has been said, were curiously like him—Annette, or Nettie, as she was commonly called, perhaps the most so. Although she was big and unformed, she had the promise of great beauty in her straight sulky brows and large sky-blue eyes, resplendent colouring which defied sunburn, and abundant yellow hair. Her nose was straight and fine, like her father’s, but her full red lips were a trifle sullen; the contour of her face was heavy, and though she looked well born and well bred, she lacked the refinement of intelligent expression. But if her great blue eyes looked stupid and rather cross, they were as honest as the day; and at sixteen there was still time for thoughts and feelings to come and print themselves on this beautiful piece of flesh and blood.

She was very untidily though handsomely dressed, and had the awkwardness of a girl too big for her age; but as she stood leaning back against the oak table, there was such vigour and life in her strong young limbs as to give them a kind of grace. She had a low voice of refined quality, but she spoke with a strong north-country accent, as did her father. In the brothers it was much modified by their southern schooling. The twin brother, Robert, retained, however, a good deal of it. He was a heavier, less handsome likeness of her, and might have been described as a fine lad or a great lout, according to the prepossessions of the speaker. The next brother, John, or, as he was usually called, Jack, had, at nineteen, hardly yet outgrown the same ungainliness of manner; but his height, and the strength trained by many an athletic struggle, could not fail to be striking; and though he had something of the same sullen straightness of brow, the eyes beneath were thoughtful and keen. There was no lack of mental power in Jack’s grave young face, and he was a formidable opponent to his schoolfellows in contests of brain as well as of muscle.

Cheriton, except that his brows arched a little, so that he could not attain to the perfection of the family frown, and that he was an inch or two shorter and much slighter, was so like Jack that when he was grave and silent his brighter colouring and the moustaches to which he had attained were, at first sight, the chief points of difference between them. But then Jack’s face to-day would be his face to-morrow, while Cheriton’s expression varied with almost every word he spoke, so that he was sometimes said to be the image of his father, sometimes to be the one Lester who was like nobody but himself; while, now and then old friends wondered how this handsome young man came to have such a look of the mother, who had been no beauty, but only a high-minded and cultivated woman. He was his father’s favourite, and somehow his brothers were not jealous of the preference. “Cherry,” as they called him, was the family oracle, though he risked his place now and then when his utterances were not in accordance with the prevailing sentiment.

Mr Lester’s expression was now dark enough to indicate annoyance of no common kind; but it did not take much to make him look cross, and if his sons and daughter had not known that there was an unusual speck on the family horizon, they would have surmised that the keepers were in disgrace, the newspaper late in arriving, or that they themselves had unwittingly transgressed.

As it was they were all silent, though Cheriton looked up with a question in his eyes, and the twins glanced at each other.

“I have had a letter from—your brother; he has started on his journey, and will be here in a day or two.”

No one spoke for a moment, and then Cheriton said,—

“Well, father, I shall be very glad to see him. It’s a good time for him to come, and I hope we shall be able to make it pleasant for him.”

“Pleasant for him,” growled Bob.

“It won’t be at all pleasant for us,” said his sister. “Fancy a foreign fellow interfering in all our concerns. And Granny says he’s sure to set us a bad example.”

“Ay,” said the father, “you lads needn’t be in too great a hurry to get up an intimacy.”

“There’s not much fear of that,” said Cheriton.

“Ah, my boy,” said Mr Lester, turning to him, “you take it very well; but it’s hard on you; no one knows better than I do.”

“As for me,” said Cheriton, with a shade of the characteristic family gruffness in his much pleasanter voice, “you know it has always been my wish that he should come, and why should we set ourselves against it?”

“He ought to have come sooner,” said Jack.

“That’s no affair of yours, Jack,” said his father sharply. “Don’t be so ready with your comments. He is coming now, and—and I’ll hear no more grumbling. I’m hanged if I know what we are all to make of him, though,” he muttered as he left the hall.

“He’d better not interfere with me,” said Bob. “I shall take no notice of him.”

“Poor fellow!” said Cheriton satirically. “I won’t kiss him, I declare,” cried his sister.

“Now you boys, and Nettie, look here,” said Cheriton seriously. “Alvar is our father’s son and our brother. He is the eldest, and has his rights. That’s the fact; and his having lived all his life in Spain doesn’t alter it. And if his coming is strange to us, what will it be for him? Isn’t it an awful shame to set our backs up before we see him? Is it his fault?” Cheriton’s influence in the family was considerable, and the younger ones had no answer to his arguments; but influence and arguments are weak compared to prejudice; and no one answered till Jack grumbled out,—

“Of course we must do our duty by him, and perhaps he’ll improve.”

“On acquaintance,” suggested Cheriton, with half-suppressed fun. “Suppose he’s a finer fellow than any of us, and a better sort altogether. What shall we do then?”

“Oh, but he’s a foreigner, you know,” said Nettie, as if this settled the question. “Come, Bob, let’s go and see the puppies fed.”

“What I say is,” said Jack, as the twins went away and left their elders to a freer discussion, “that the thing has been left too late. Here is Alvar,—twenty-five, isn’t he?”

“Yes; he is only two years older than I am.”

“How can he turn into an Englishman? It’s all very well for you to chaff about it, and lecture the young ones; but the squire won’t stand him with patience for a day; there’ll be one continual row. Everything will be turned topsy-turvy. He’ll go back to Seville in a month.”

Cheriton was silent. He was older than Jack by nearly four years, and perhaps should not have attributed so much importance to the grumbling of his juniors; but his wider out-look only enabled him to see that their feelings were one-sided, it did not prevent him from sharing them; and the gift of a more sympathetic nature did but make him more conscious of how far these feelings were justifiable. Home life at Oakby had its difficulties, its roughnesses, and its daily trials; but what did this signify to the careless boys who had no dignity to lose, and by whom a harsh word from their father, or a rough one from each other, was forgotten and repeated twenty times a day? He himself had hardly grown into that independent existence which would make an unkindness from a brother an insult, an injustice from a father a thing to be resented beyond the day. It was still all among themselves, they knew each other, and suited each other, and stood up for each other against the world. They were still the children of their father’s house, and that tie was much too close and real for surface quarrels and disputes to slacken it. But this stranger, who must be the very first among them all, yet who did not know them, and whom they did not know, who had a right to this same identity of interest, and yet who would assuredly neither feel nor win it!

Jack accused his father of having acted unjustly to them all; the younger ones rebelled with a blind prejudice which they did not themselves understand. Cheriton was vividly conscious of the stranger’s rights, yet shrank from all they claimed from him; to the father he recalled resentment, weakness of purpose, and a youthful impulse, from the consequences of which he could not escape. The grandmother upstairs, no inconsiderable power in the Oakby household, formulated the vague distaste of her descendants, and strongly expressed her belief that a foreign heir would grieve his father, corrupt his brothers, and ruin his inheritance.

And now who was this foreign heir, this unknown brother, and what was the explanation of his existence?