The Sun.
London, England, 1864-09-01 00:00:00

EVERARD CHALCOTE.

And now, while Everard is endeavouring to answer a
storm of affectionate inquiries from his father, I will fully
introduce him to my readers.
Well, then, to begin with—" my boy," as Sir klugh
called him—was not a boy at all, but a dignified looking
man of thirty; tall, broad-shouldered, and, like the rest of his
family, fair-complexioned—with that singularly beautiful
hair which could be traced in the portraits of the Chalcotes
back to the time of Queen Elizabeth,' and beyond that—
very curly, very light—positively yellow hair it was,
" paley gold," as Sydney called it. There was something
of a military air about him, as there was abr.ut his father.
Only, it must be confessed, that in Everard's case, it was
due to a connection with no more exalted position than the
Devon yeomanry cavalry.

His whole outer man was of the true English type. His
face, from forehead to chin, was square and massive, with
few but firmly marked lines, and one deep cleft between the
eyebrows. The lips, what you could see of them for a
thick moustache, were sharply cut and compressed together,
but when they did smile, there came all at once such a
gleam of white teeth that you were positively dazzled.
Altogether there was a cold, hard expression about his face,
as if from a lack of shadow, as if he had been too happy
all his life to know what happiness or tenderness meant.
Only he had a pair of most winning sea-blue eyes, which,
when he addressed any one, looked straight into theirs with
a frank, boyish simplicity ; and when he was silent, had in
them a dreaming, abstracted, far-away look, as though they
saw things that nobody else did.

He was not at all clever ; he was not remarkable in any
way. Ho was a born country gentleman, and would never
have made himself a name in any of the professions. He
took a keen interest in country matters, in politics and agri-
culture; he was passionately fond of out-door sports, rode
well to hounds, was a dead shot, and a first-rate cricketer.
The author has bestowed great pains upon the de•
lineation of Everard,s character, and the result has
been singularly felicitous. The minor faults and
weaknesses of his nature, which are exemplified in
the description of his early happy days, add a two-
fold intensity to the bitterness of his after trial,
more especially his pride, his morbid, sensitive pride
undergoes " a fall," the anguish of which no
stranger could realise. Very appropriate is the
quotation from Sir Henry Wotton on the title
page—

"Lord of himself, whate'er befall,
And losing all things, yet hath
Such, in few words, is the epitome of the career
and character of Everard Carew Chalcote, for one
brief while, Baronet and owner of Chalcote Place.
We must not reveal too much of the story. The
following glimse of Sir Hugh's fatal indecision will
give a faint idea of the interest of the tale without
betraying its mystery :
PROCRASTINATION.
Sir Hugh was left standing in the middle of the room,
eyeing, uneasily, the cabinet, which looked at him out of
its corner like a great ill-omened raven. He scratched his
head, pulled hies moustache, groaned and unuttered to him-
self—
" I'd better do it at once. He may find out some day—
perhaps after I'm dead and gone."
He had not moved, however, when a servant knocked at
the door and said that my lady had returned from her
drive, and wished to see Sir Hugh. He gave a guilty start,
ran to the cabinet, locked it, shook the doors to see if they
were fast, thrust the key into his waistcoat pocket, and
hurried out of the room.
So once more Sir Hugh put off to a more convenient
season, doing that which in the end he was forced to leave
undone, to his great grief—that which Everard was forced
to do, to his-0 how immeasurably greater grief.
When Everard ultimately makes the discovery, he
is bound by a solemn oath to his dead father to pre-
serve his secret, and he finds himself, he—with hit
morbid pride and sensitive feeling of honour—finds
himself under the alternative of doing an act of in-
justice, or breaking a solmenly sworn vow:! The
situation is very p3werfully and very naturally
described, Like the Cid in a similar perplexity,
he might exclaim—
" 0 .Dieu Petrange peine"—
Oa de trahir ma flamme
Ou de vivre en infarae—
Des deux cotes mon mal est infini."
His choice is decided by an infallible rule to a
noble nature—Self-sacrifice—
" He never errs who sacrifices self."
A subdued tenderness—after the stormy struggle
of the preceding portion—pervades the closing
volume of the story. Like Junius " the sole de-
pository of his secret," no solace of sympathy or
approbation sustains or rewards the struggle of
Everard Chalcote, yet is he blessed with the tender
love of a true woman's heart—a love that for a time
only adds a greater poignancy to the depths of
his affliction, Sydney Chalcote, Everard's cousin
and betrothed, is most admirably depicted,
Wayward and petulant in her girlish pride—
" A Creature not too bright or good"
by the double discipline of love and sorrow, she
becomes developed into a noble specimen of a true,
devoted woman, ready, for love's sake, to sacrifice
love itself, and, with the sublime trust of true
affection, " hoping all things, believing all
things !" No .shadow of a doubt dims the sun-
shine of her heart's affection when the conduct of
her lover is most inexplicable. She loves him, she
would die for him, and she cannot doubt him. This
one solace is vouchsafed to Everard—this and
the friendship of honest, genial Ralph Leth-
bridge, a capital character, who rapidly endears
himself to the reader. In the descriptions of the
different characters, the author of " Son and Heir"
is very felicitous. Lady Chalcote, in her selfishness
and serenity—Frank, the despicable and treacher-
ous heir-presumptive—Pendarvis, the honest, de-
voted servitor, and many others, are described with
a life.like fidelity. Av specimens of the natural
writing and vivid descriptions which abound in the
pages of "Son and Heir," here is---
A HOME PICTURE.
Certainly it was a grand old room; everything about it
was richly hued and warmly toned. The heavy crimson
curtains drawn across the oriel, shutting out the chill grey
world without; the mellow brown panels, the burnished
floor with just a square of soft rose-red carpet in its centre ;
the walls of hooks in antique binding, in scarlet and purple
and gold ; the quaint old furniture black from age—with
its scrolls and arabesques, and griffins' heads and heraldio
shields—were all in harmon) ; and over all floated the
golden lamp light, and flickered the ruddy fire-glow.
The table, once sacred to books and papers and literary
ware, was invaded by a small detachment of wafer-like tea-
cups and saucers, all over pagodas and Chinese trees, and
long-tailed birds commanded by a diver tea-urn, which
could boast of being an heirloom.
And hero is a charming glimpse .
HORNTNG.
Morning came, fresh, grey, chilly. A thrill and murmur
of Emakened life seemed to run through the whole world,
From far-off fields and farms cause pleasant country sounds
—cocks crowing, cattle lowing, sheep bells tinkling. A
fresh day had begun, a day just like any other working day.
The -world would go on just the same as usual, for all that
happened in one small room at Chalcote Place. The spar-
rows came out of the ivy, and hopped and chirruped boldly
on the window sill—that room was so quiet. And from
tree to tree blackbirds and thrushes sang, and their notes
swelled into a chorus of what seemed like praise and thanks-
giving. For God is great.
As a contrast to whis;h we may take the following :
EVENING.
The run was low in the wept. The woods that bounded
their horizon were drowned in floods of molten gold, and
the level sward of the park, what with buttercups, and the
long streaks of sunlight, looked like a "Field of the Cloth
of Gold," Upon the terrace th4ranito urns were likewise