Christabel Coleridge - An English Squire

It was a very unhappy marriage, and Mr Seyton never forgave his wife for her broken heart, nor himself for breaking it. When she died, her relations took away her daughter, pledging themselves to provide for her, if she were left undisturbed in their hands. The father had enough to do with his sons. The eldest, Roland, was a fine, handsome fellow, and began life with the sad disadvantage of being expected to go wrong. He got a commission, but during the short intervals that he spent at home, was personally unpopular.

In one of these he took a great fancy to Cheriton Lester during an interval between the latter’s school and college life, and Cheriton being warned against him as a bad companion, stuck to him with equal perverseness and generosity. Roland was much the elder of the two, but Cherry’s vigorous youth took the lead in the friendship, and gave it his own impress. It was ended by such a scandal in Elderthwaite village as those which had made the name of Roland Seyton’s grandfather hated by all the country round, as one by whom no man’s hearth was respected, and with whom no man’s daughter was safe.

The discovery shocked Cheriton unspeakably; all the parties concerned were well known to him, and he felt that of such sins he could never think or speak lightly. But he would not join in loud or careless blame of his friend, who perhaps felt his truest pang of repentance at the boy’s confused miserable face in the one parting interview allowed by Mr Lester before Roland joined his regiment, about to sail for India.

“You need not have been afraid, sir,” Roland said, when accused of having set him a bad example; “I knew how to choose my confidant.”

After Roland’s departure, other tales to his discredit, and debts which it was impossible to pay, came to his father’s ears, and these additional troubles helped to strengthen habits of self-indulgence already formed, which had made Mr Seyton a man old before his time, melancholy-faced and gentle-mannered, whom nobody respected and nobody disliked. But the two younger boys had a bad start in life, and seemed little likely to redeem the family fortunes.

It was not often that Mr Seyton thought of anything but the immediate dulness and discomfort of the hour, or of its small alleviations; but to-day these recollections pressed on him. He thought, too, of his shabby furniture, and his ill-conducted household; how unfit a home for his well-dowered daughter; how unlike both her aunt’s house and the pleasant foreign tour which, since her aunt’s death, she had been enjoying.

“Papa, papa!” cried a bright voice behind him, “Good morning,” then as he turned round, the newly-arrived daughter exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck, “Oh, how nice it is to say ‘Good morning, papa!’”

She was a fair creature enough, a true Seyton, with slender frame and pointed chin, creamy complexion and rich brown hair, but the large, round eyes, tender, intense, and full of life, were her mother’s, though clear and untroubled as the mother’s had never been.

“So you are glad to come home, Virginia?” said her father, rather sadly.

“Yes, papa, I am just delighted. I always made stories about home when I was at Littleton. I was very happy, you know, with dear Aunt Mary and all my friends; but it was so uninteresting not to know more of my very nearest relations.”

“You will find it very different, my dear, from what you are accustomed to. This is a dull place.”

“Oh, papa, I think it is so silly to be dull! I shall be quite ready to like anything you wish,” said Virginia warmly.

“My dear, you shall take your own way. It would be hard at least if I could not give you that,” said Mr Seyton, looking at her as if he did not quite know what to do with this gaily-dressed, frank-spoken daughter. “Now let us come to breakfast.”

“I am afraid I am late,” said Virginia; “but it is never easy to be in time after a journey.”

“You are punctual for this house, my dear; we take such things easy. But your aunt is down, you see, in your honour.” As Mr Seyton spoke they came into the dining-room, a long, low room, with treasures of curious carving round its oak-panels, hardly visible in its imperfect light.

A lady sat pouring out the tea. She had the delicate features and peculiar complexion of her family, but her eyes, instead of being like Mr Seyton’s, vague and sad, were sharp and sarcastic; she had more play of feature, and, though she looked fully her age, had the air of having been a beauty.

Miss Seyton had once been engaged to be married, but her engagement had been broken off in one of the storms of discreditable trouble that had overwhelmed her father and brothers, no one knew exactly how or why. She had never married, and had lived ever since with her brother, not always without scandal and remark. Still her presence had kept Elderthwaite on the visiting-list of the county, and made it possible for her niece to live there.

In spite of her sharp, eager eyes, she had an indescribable laziness and nonchalance of manner, and poured out the tea as if it was an effort beyond her. The boys’ places remained vacant. There was a little talk at breakfast-time, but it did not flow easily. Virginia would have had plenty to say, but she had a sense that what she did say caused her aunt inward surprise or amusement, and she began to feel shy.

When the meal was over, Mr Seyton sauntered away slowly, and Virginia said, “Do we sit in the drawing-room in the morning, Aunt Julia?”

“Yes, as often as not,” said Miss Seyton. “You are welcome to arrange all such matters for yourself. Girls have ways of their own.”

“I don’t want to have any strange or uncomfortable ways, auntie,” said Virginia; “I want to feel quite at home, and to be useful.”

“Useful!” said Miss Seyton. “What’s your notion of being useful?”

She did not speak unkindly, but with a curious sort of inward amusement, as if the notions of the bright-eyed girl were an odd study to her.

“I’m afraid I haven’t very clear notions. I want to make it cheerful for papa – Aunt Mary always said he wasn’t strong or well; and perhaps the boys want things done for them; my friends’ brothers always did,” said Virginia a little pathetically.

“There’s one thing, my dear, I wish you to understand at once. I shall never interfere with you; but I don’t mean to abdicate in your favour. I keep house – whatever house is kept – and you’d better shut your eyes and ears to it. It isn’t work for you.”

“Oh, Aunt Julia!” said Virginia distressed, “I would not think of such a thing. It is your place.”

“No, my dear, it’s not; but I mean to stick to it,” interposed Miss Seyton.

“And I know nothing about housekeeping, I’m afraid. I should be very extravagant.”

“Like a true Seyton. So much for that, then. And now another thing. Don’t you ever give your brothers so much as a half-sovereign secretly. You have money, and they know it, and it’s scarce here. Mind what I say.”

A kind of puzzled sense of something that she did not understand crossed Virginia’s face.

“I would rather give them things than money,” she said. “Of course papa lets them have what is right.”

“Of course,” said Miss Seyton, with the same perplexing expression of indescribable amusement.

A good joke had for years been the solace, a bitter sarcasm the natural outlet, of a life which certainly had been neither prosperous nor happy in itself, nor glorified by any martyrdom of self-denial.

Miss Seyton was full of malice, both in the French and English acceptations of the word. She loved fun, and she could not see without bitterness the young, unworn creature beside her. To astonish Virginia offered an almost irresistible temptation to both these tendencies. Her evident unconsciousness of the life that lay before her, was at once so funny, and such a cruel satire on them all.