“A mind by nature indisposed to ought
So placid, so inactive as content.”
_The Excursion._
“I heard you say you were going to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy
to-morrow afternoon, Violet,” said Albert to his cousin one evening,
two years after the date of the last chapter. “May I go with you?”
“Certainly. We shall like it, shall we not, mamma? Be here at four
o’clock, and we will take you. But this is a new fancy, Albert? I never
knew you to care about pictures before.”
“One need not care because one wants to go. Everybody is going.
Besides, I suppose one may sometimes fancy a new thing. People don’t
always run in the same track. They would be nice ignoramusses if they
did.”
“You have no reason, then, for wishing to go?” Violet persisted,
looking as if she was convinced he had.
“None in particular. Leicester went the other day, and talked about the
pictures, and so I thought I should like to go.”
Violet laughed and nodded; but Albert, not observing her, went on--
“He says there is a little picture there that nobody seems to notice,
which is worth all the others put together.”
“And who made Mr. Leicester a supreme judge of pictures?” Violet asked,
ironically.
“His own good taste, I suppose. I cannot tell why it is, Violet, but
you seem to have no pleasure so great as cutting up Leicester. I see
no fun in it at all.”
“Mr. Leicester does provoke me, I own. Always forming strange opinions,
and setting up his opinion against the world.”
“Leicester setting himself up against the world!” exclaimed Albert,
in surprise and indignation. “What extraordinary fancies you do have!
Leicester, who is too shy, poor fellow, to express his opinions at all,
and only neglected because he is too humble and diffident to allow his
merit to be seen.”
“Mr. Leicester shy and diffident! My dear Albert, I am quite tired of
hearing all the strange things he says.”
“He talks to _me_ because I like to hear him; but he talks to very
few besides, because most people are too full of themselves to draw
him out. He never says strange things, and if I tire you, it is my
fault, not his. _He_ never tired anybody, poor fellow; and since you
are so unjust, Violet, I will never mention him--though he is my best
friend--any more.”
He spoke with so much warmth, that Violet’s interest was excited.
“Why do you say neglected, Albert?” she asked. “Mr. Leicester is a
lawyer, is he not? I suppose he will get on in his turn as others do.”
“He is neglected because he is too shy to put himself forward. I don’t
suppose there is such a modest, retiring man in Europe; but it’s only
for a time. He’s too clever to be overlooked, and some day, poor
fellow, he will be appreciated as he ought to be.”
During Albert’s last two speeches a very singular change took
place in Violet’s mind. She had hitherto--without knowing Mr.
Leicester--indulged in an antipathy to him, simply because her cousin
appeared to look up to him. She had set him down in her vivid
imagination as a young, intolerable prig; and as such, a proper object
for her dislike and sarcasm. But there was that in her nature which
ever stood up for the oppressed, and stooped down to the neglected.
Observers, who were very desirous to discover the flaws in human
virtue, would have said this disposition sprang from the love of
patronizing and of power; and undoubtedly this was Violet’s temptation.
But the fault had wound about the virtue after it had grown up; the
root was in her own generous and kindly nature. Albert’s few words
regarding the fortunes of his friend, dispelled him from her fancy in
his first priggish form, and a new vision of a young retiring genius
springing up in its place, all her sympathies became enlisted in his
favour. In less than a minute the transformation from dislike to
interest was effected, and she began to plan kindnesses to encourage
modest merit.
“Do you think Mr. Leicester would go with us to the Exhibition
to-morrow, Albert?” she inquired, after a short silence. “We could take
him as well as you, and it would be a means of making acquaintance. I
feel sorry for him after what you have said.”
“I am sure he would,” said Albert, delighted. “I think I can answer for
that. He knows you all too well from my description to be shy about it;
or if he is, I can soon persuade him. All he wants, poor fellow, is
for people to come forward to meet him. Do you know, Violet, I have so
often wished you would notice him.”
“Then why did you never say so?” she asked with quickness.
“Because I did not choose. He is a great deal too good to force upon
anybody. If you did not like to know him, I did not wish you to know
him. But I am very much obliged to you now.”
“Mamma,” cried Violet, approaching her mother and kissing her, “you
will not mind our taking Albert’s friend with us to-morrow, shall you?
I have told him you will.”
The question was asked with Violet’s accustomed dutiful attention to
her mother; but it was a mere form. Mrs. Osborne had no will but her
daughter’s.
The two years that had passed had brought its natural changes to
both Violet and Albert. The manners of both had lost their first
marked freshness, and been toned into the softer manners of common
life. With Albert the change ended here. He was in mind still a boy;
careless and wayward, yet with good dispositions, and some shrewd
perceptions into men and things. He had lately been called to the bar,
and he dawdled away a large portion of his time among lawyers and
law books; attending trials and propounding questions; snatching up,
with instinctive quickness, many pieces of valuable information, but
eschewing all the profounder parts of the profession on which he had
entered.
With Violet the changes had gone deeper. At seventeen she had been a
lively, sweet-tempered, wilful girl--a spoilt child, _unspoilt_; at
nineteen she was a woman, with a woman’s thought and feeling; lively,
sweet-tempered, and wilful still, but thinking much, and questioning
her thoughts. She had passed through the severe ordeal of two seasons
as a reigning beauty; rich, lovely, and inviting in manner; sought,
flattered, and loved. But the spoiled beauty was like the spoiled
child, _unspoilt_! She did not think little of herself; she knew she
was very charming; thought so, and rejoiced in the thought; but the
knowledge exercised no influence on her mind and manners. She was
as simple and honest as when a child; as careless of herself, as
thoughtful for others, as earnestly desirous to do what she considered
right, and to be all that she ought to be. If her standard was not
high, it was true, and truth is the best of foundations.
Violet expected, with some interest, the arrival of Albert and his
friend. She was at the age when fancy is busy, and of the temperament
when it is vivid; and fancy gives to the simplest events of life
an importance of its own. With a disappointment, therefore, most
disproportioned to the real importance of the circumstance, she saw
Albert arrive alone.
“Well, Albert, and where is Mr. Leicester?” she said eagerly.
Albert, not having given to the invitation as much thought as Violet
had, answered, indifferently:
“Oh! he was very sorry, Violet, but he could not come.”
Violet coloured.
“Of all things I hate,” she said, with warmth, “it is for people to
break their engagements!”
“It was no engagement, Violet; that is, it was none of his. He was
very sorry, and very much obliged, and would have liked it, but he was
particularly busy to-day, and could not help himself. You must ask him
another time.”
The vision of the modest youth and bashful genius faded from Violet’s
fancy, and the intolerable prig resumed his place.
“I see Mr. Leicester is just what I thought he was!” she observed,
quickly; “gives himself airs to make his importance felt. I am very
glad he did not come, for I know I should hate him.”
“Leicester give himself airs! Poor fellow! What extraordinary fancies
you do have! I say, Violet, I think you are the oddest mixture I ever
knew! There is nobody more good-natured than you can be, but, at the
same time, I know nobody so ill-natured, or so easily vexed, if people
don’t receive your kindnesses just as they are meant. You should learn
to be more calm, and not flurry about trifles.”
Violet’s truthful conscience told her he was right. She could not bear
the shadow of ingratitude, and was certainly prone to expect large
returns for her kindnesses. She coloured angrily, but refrained from
the sharp words she would willingly have returned to this plain-spoken
admonition.
Without being a connoisseur, Violet was fond of painting, and had an
instinctive appreciation of what was good. She and her mother--the eyes
of the latter instructed by her daughter--went slowly through the rooms
of the Exhibition, leisurely examining such good things as were to be
seen. Albert lounged about by himself, discovering what was good and
what was bad, without one rule of art to guide him.
“Come here!” he exclaimed, suddenly coming up to Violet in the second
room. “I have found the thing Leicester likes, and I want you to look
at it. It’s a very good thing, and you will like it too.”
Assuring him she should _not_ like it, Violet followed him. The picture
was called in the catalogue, “Ruth’s First-born Son;” and the subject
was treated with a grave simplicity and pathos, which, while it
glaringly attracted no attention, riveted attention when once it was
caught. The position of Naomi, bearing away the child as her own; the
glad thankfulness in the eyes of the young mother; and something of awe
and prophecy in those of Boaz as they followed it--were depicted with
a master’s hand; yet such a master’s hand as seemed unconscious of the
effect he produced; homely and harmonious, without effort or caprice.
Violet looked, and was touched. She had expected some eccentricity
of genius, some strange thing which the young prig had chosen to
patronise. She could not conceal her surprise.
“Yes,” she replied, in answer to Albert’s inquiry, “it is very pretty,
but I don’t understand why Mr. Leicester likes it. It is not at all the
sort of thing I should have expected a young man to choose.”
“A young man, my dear Violet, has quite as good taste as a young
woman, I can assure you,” said Albert, with dignity.
“I mean that I wonder at the subject interesting him. It is all so
simple, and all about a baby.”
“But there may be particular thoughts about the baby, and there are. I
can see that myself. The baby was something or some body, I am pretty
sure; and they seem all to be thinking about it.”
“Yes--so he was,” said Violet, thoughtfully, “the grandfather of David,
and therefore.... yes--I see what you mean. Still I am surprised. It
is not at all what I should have expected Mr. Leicester to like. And I
am very sorry, too,” she added, laughing, “because I agree with him in
liking it best, and that is very disagreeable to me.”
“Why?--I don’t see why,” said stupid Albert.
“Because I hate him, and I don’t want to agree with people I hate. But
come with us now to the miniatures; we have not much more time, and we
must look at them before we go.”
In the miniature room another surprise awaited her, regarding the
individual who seemed suddenly destined to engage her thoughts.
“Who is that, Albert?” she exclaimed, pointing to a crayon head above
the rows of miniatures; “I think it must be _somebody_, and I like it.”
It was the head of a man; not an intellectual abstraction, not a
poetical study, but a man, seeming to live and breathe on the canvas.
The features of the face were marked and strong, yet the expression
of countenance was very soft, and there was something in the grave
sweetness of the dark eyes which arrested the spectator with a force
he could not withstand.
“Why, it’s Leicester!--it must be!” cried Albert, seizing the
catalogue. “Yes--sure enough--‘John Leicester, Esq.’ Well, this is the
most extraordinary thing I ever knew!”
“_That_ Mr. Leicester?” exclaimed Violet, almost stupefied with her
surprise.
“Yes, and a capital likeness--the very man! But what I can’t understand
is, how it comes to be here. I should have thought he was the last man
in the world who would have made an exhibition of himself.”
“That is true,” said a voice behind them, proceeding from a pale,
clever-looking young man; “but Mr. Leicester never refuses a boon to
a person in distress. I asked him to sit to me, and he consented; and
having succeeded beyond my hopes, he allowed me to make of my study
such use as I could.”
Violet was startled at this sudden explanation; but Albert, who, with
the exception of this picture’s appearance, was never surprised at
anything, quietly replied,
“Thank you; that is just like him. I hope it has been of use to you.”
“It has already in some degree; and as, since its appearance here, it
has been approved by very competent judges, I have good hope that it
will be still more so. But do not let me interrupt you,” and bowing,
the young man disappeared.
“We ought to be careful how we speak in a crowd,” said Albert,
composedly.
“So I have been quite wrong!” said Violet. “I thought Mr. Leicester was
a young man.”
“Young!--why, so he is. Do you call two-and-thirty old?”
“I call it a very good age; not the least bit of a _boy_,” and there
was contempt in the emphasis. “But, Albert, what puzzles me is this: if
Mr. Leicester is, as he seems to be, such a very _superior_ person, how
does he come to be your friend?”
“Ah! Violet,” said Albert, nodding his head, “you are quite in the
wrong box. It is not your clever people who appreciate superior
characters--they are too full of themselves to care. I may not be very
clever, but I know what is worth liking better than clever ones do.”
“I believe you mean to give me a hint,” said Violet, laughing. “I
daresay I am a great deal too full of myself, and think myself much
cleverer than I am; but if you suppose I do not appreciate superior
people, you are wrong. Goodness and worth is what I look for, as a
jeweller hunts for diamonds; and when I find a grain of goodness,
I feel as elated as the jeweller does. So now I want to make
acquaintance with Mr. Leicester, and you must bring him to us.”
“I will manage it,” replied Albert, with dignity. “But you must
remember he is shy, and not be surprised if you find him dull at first.”
“He will not be shy with me. No one is. So, Albert, it is a settled
thing, and don’t let me be disappointed. But, dear mamma!” she suddenly
exclaimed, “how I have been talking, and how tired of standing you must
be!”
“Not at all, dear. I like to look about me, and that,” pointing to
the crayon head which had occupied so much of the conversation of her
companions, “is a very pleasing countenance. Look in the catalogue and
see whose picture it is.”
Albert, who never could become accustomed to his aunt’s infirmity,
stared at this request; but Violet obeyed, and gave the information she
desired.