“’Tis a common tale,
A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed
In bodily form.”
_The Excursion._
Mr. Leicester, at Violet’s request, was invited to dine with Mr.
Osborne a few days afterwards. Having heedlessly put himself into
Albert’s hands for the occasion, and Albert rarely attaining to the
virtue of punctuality, the company had sat down to dinner before he
arrived. Violet was much vexed at this _contretemps_; but punctuality
was a point dear to Mr. Osborne; his time and tide, though forced, he
said, occasionally to wait for a woman, waited for no _man_.
With cordial kindness, however, on Leicester’s entrance, he went to
meet the stranger, and set him, as he hoped, at ease, by directing
him to a vacant seat; but the vacant seat was far from Violet, and
as, except in her mind, no particular interest was felt regarding the
stranger, he remained silent during the principal part of dinner.
When he first appeared, observing his tall and dignified figure, and
the countenance on which, though remarkably handsome, the seal of
middle age was lightly set, she blushed as she thought of her destined
purposes of kindly encouragement; but before dinner was over, they had
been formed anew--the very same purposes, only with much more interest
and much more zeal. And this because his diffidence even during that
hour had become apparent to her eyes. When addressed by her father from
a distance, which happened twice in the course of dinner, she had seen
him colour, as a young girl in his circumstances might have done; and
though his answers were given with great composure, he sank back with
an appearance of relief when allowed to relapse into obscurity again.
All the guests except Leicester were at home in the house; and when
they appeared in the drawing-room, disposed of themselves with easy
unconcern. But he was a stranger, and alone, and with the perversity
common to shy strangers, he placed himself on a seat whose inaccessible
position cut him off from notice.
There is in Miss Edgeworth’s novel of “Patronage” a description of what
is there called _mauvaise honte_. She says of one of her characters:
“He was subject to that nightmare of the soul who sits herself upon
the human breast, oppresses the heart, palsies the will, and raises
spectres of dismay, which the sufferer combats in vain; that cruel
enchantress, who hurls her spell even upon childhood, and when she
makes the youth her victim, pronounces--
“‘Henceforward you shall never appear in your natural character;
innocent, you shall look guilty--wise, you shall look silly. That
which you wish to say, you shall not say; that which you wish
to do, you shall not do; you shall appear reserved, when you
are enthusiastic--insensible, when your heart sinks in melting
tenderness,’” &c., &c.
The passage speaks of an extreme case, and is highly coloured; yet
in its general features it as truly as forcibly describes the common
trials of a shy man. John Leicester was one of this unhappy race. With
talents above the average, with personal advantages which alone would
have brought most men into notice, an unaccountable diffidence had
laid its frozen hand upon his soul. The world in general is too busy
to observe those who withdraw themselves from notice; but even among
those who did observe, Leicester was misunderstood. He had, by the
exertion of common sense and by natural strength of character, so far
conquered his shyness as to subdue some of its outward signs. He had
learnt not to stand waving his tall body, as many shy men do, when a
seat would set him at ease; he taught himself to go through the common
forms of society, and to speak common forms of speech with a grave
composure which concealed his inward trepidation; but the very conquest
of outward weaknesses made him but the more liable to be misunderstood;
and, while it displaced pity, brought criticism in its stead. He was
called proud, when often he would have been thankful for a child’s
notice; cold and indifferent, when his heart was beating with
sympathy; dull and apathetic, when, had he dared to speak, his words
would have won golden opinions from men. He knew his infirmity, and
owned his weakness; but knowledge brought neither strength nor comfort;
he felt his bonds, but could not burst them.
Thus it was that in general, as Albert had said, he was neglected and
overlooked. He could not put himself forward, and no kindly feeling
went forward to drag him out; and thus too it was that, neglect acting
and reacting upon his character, he withdrew further and further from
notice, into the solitude of his own soul.
Whether shyness proceeds from pride or humility is a question often
asked; and since it probably proceeds from both, will be often
disputed. It is a very true humility that causes a poor soul to doubt
of its powers to please; that causes it--comparing itself with other
more gifted beings--sadly to feel that the charm of attraction is
wanting. But it is pride that makes it acquiesce in this want of
attraction; and, rather than seem to court a notice not freely given,
to hide for ever the gifts it is conscious it does possess. The
different ingredients are variously blended in different characters;
in some, pride prevails; in some, humility; but probably both are
necessary to produce shyness in any aggravated form. In Leicester, the
humility was very genuine. The talents that were overlooked by others,
he overlooked himself; and in the power to attract, he was but too
painfully conscious of a deficiency. But though thus genuinely humble,
it was also true that pride was slumbering in no small proportion
within.
After waiting in the vain hope and expectation that he would approach
her during the evening, Violet at length summoned Albert, and said:
“I cannot bear to see Mr. Leicester sit there by himself. I must go to
him--or you, Albert, must bring him to me. Which shall it be?”
“I will bring him to you,” replied Albert, discreetly. “It was my being
so late that put him out to-night. If we had been in time he would have
made acquaintance, and all would have been easy before now.”
“It shall soon be easy,” said Violet, confidently. “But what a strange
thing it is to see such a man so shy! It surpasses my understanding.”
“Come, along Leicester,” exclaimed Albert, approaching his friend, “my
cousin wishes to make your acquaintance, so lay aside that newspaper,
and follow me.”
He arose at once, very thankful, in truth, for the notice that brought
him out of his self-chosen, yet awkward position.
“There,” continued Albert, pushing him with easy familiarity into a
chair, “now be comfortable, do! I was telling Violet that you were very
much ashamed and put out by being so late; but what can’t be helped is
best forgotten. It is of no importance now.”
“It was not a very civil way, on our side, I mean, of beginning an
acquaintance,” said Violet, laughing; “but we shall be all the better
friends for beginning uncivilly.”
The ease and friendliness of her manner thawed Leicester’s frost-bound
powers, and he became himself.
After a little conversation, Albert, overhearing a discussion between
his uncle and another gentleman, regarding a disputed will, walked
off to give his attention to, and his opinion on, the subject, leaving
Leicester and Violet to themselves.
“I am so glad to have seen you, Mr. Leicester,” she began, with a
manner that, in some, might have been over-forward, but in her was only
characteristic; “for you must know that you have been my enemy for some
months!”
“How so?” he asked, with a smiling surprise.
“Only from perversity, I believe. Albert chose to look up to you, and
to quote your opinions, and, in consequence, I pictured to myself a
very disagreeable image of what his friend must be; a very different
one, in short, to the reality.”
“Ellis and I are great friends,” he observed, quietly.
“Where did you make acquaintance with Albert?” she asked, suddenly. “I
have never heard.”
He was silent for a moment, then replied:
“Ellis is so much younger than I am that there can be nothing strange
in my telling you that our acquaintance arose out of a piece of advice
I one night gave him; which he--instead of resenting, as many would
have done at his age--accepted as it was intended. We have been great
friends ever since.”
“Great friends, I am sure, from Albert’s account; but it surprises me
still; in fact, I cannot understand it. You must be so different.”
“Friendships spring much more from circumstances than rules,” he said,
smiling. “You must have hard work if you try to account for all the
fancies and intimacies of all your friends.”
“Never so hard work as now,” Violet did not say, but thought to
herself; for she could see no possible ground of union between the
grave, thoughtful man, and the good-natured, shallow boy.
“Do you go out much, Mr. Leicester?” she presently inquired.
“Never for my own pleasure--sometimes as chaperon.”
“As chaperon!” and Violet almost screamed in her surprise.
“Well, I daresay I look like an awkward chaperon,” he observed, with a
smile; “but a man must do what falls to his lot, nevertheless.”
“Indeed, that was not what surprised me; I am only surprised at your
being so different to the fancy I had formed of Albert’s friend. But
who do you take under your chaperonage?”
“My sisters. Two accept of me when they can get no better--one is kind
enough to say that she prefers me to others.”
“Albert never told me you had sisters.”
“I have five; but only three go out into the world.”
“And what do you do as chaperon?” Violet asked, laughingly.
“I do the best I can,” he said, with a kind of quiet humour. “I lean my
back against the wall when I am not wanted; I move when I am desired;
sometimes I walk down to supper and up again; and once I extricated my
sister from a dilemma respecting a disagreeable partner--but this, she
said, was so awkwardly done, that I have since been spared any active
business.”
“And does it bore you very much?”
“No, indeed, I am never bored.”
“It would amuse me beyond anything to have a girl to take care of,”
said Violet, laughing. “I think, when I am old enough, I shall
advertise myself as a chaperon. The only fear would be that I should
wish too much, and plan too much.”
“Yes, that is the danger,” he remarked gravely. “An unoccupied
observer--for I am an inactive chaperon--sees many plots passing under
his eyes.”
“Does he?” she asked eagerly. “I wish I was an observer; but I am too
busy myself to see much of what others do. What do you see?”
“Some things that please me, some that I had rather not see--but I only
observe. It would not do for an observer to be a reporter.”
“I should like to meet you out in the world,” said Violet, frankly.
The eager speech, the implied expression of pleasure in his society, so
natural to her to speak, so uncommon for his ears to hear, affected
him in a way she could never have imagined possible. It gave him
inwardly indeed a strange thrill of pleasure, but its outward effect
was to make him nervously draw back into himself.
It also caused something to slip from his hands and fall at her feet.
She stooped and picked it up. She had observed that while he conversed
with her, his fingers were engaged in fidgeting with a piece of paper;
the result of the fidgeting, as she raised it from the ground, drew
from her an exclamation of wonder;
“Mr. Leicester, did you really make this?”
It was the minute form of a little monkey, pinched and twisted into the
most perfect proportions.
“Yes, I believe I did,” he replied, colouring deeply. “I hope I have
destroyed nothing--I really was not aware what I was doing.”
Too full of curiosity and pleasure to remember how much he might
dislike to be brought into notice, Violet called to her father to
admire.
“A perfect little monkey,” Mr. Osborne observed, examining the small
creature through his glasses, as a naturalist examines a plant.
“And five minutes ago the little thing was an old letter,” said Violet.
“I call it wonderful, Mr. Leicester.”
Her exclamations drew the rest of the company to the spot, and, as is
customary, the expressions of admiration were beyond what the occasion
required, especially from the female part of the assembly. Leicester
looked as if he had been found guilty of some crime.
For the truth was, the production of the little creature was a
weakness, and he knew it. It was the effect of a nervous temperament,
which laid hold on any employment which drew him from himself. Again
and again he had resolved to be guilty of the weakness no more; but in
vain. In shy moments no piece of paper ever came in his way without
bearing the traces of his hands. That his productions were full of
genius, that other men would have used them to win attention and
admiration, was nothing to him. In his eyes they were memorials of his
weakness, and nothing more.
“Put the thing down--do, Violet,” whispered Albert, angrily, in her
ear; “can’t you see how you bore him?”
Violet glanced her eyes towards Leicester, and saw it.
“Tea is ready,” she remarked with quickness. “Give me my treasure, and
let us go.”
And taking it from some hand, she opened a drawer, and tossed it in.
“I make tea myself in an old-fashioned way,” she said to Leicester as
she passed, anxious to put him at his ease; “I hope you will have some.”
He followed with Albert. But it was not at Violet’s tea-table that he
or such as he could ever shine. It was famed for its agreeableness by
the habitual guests of the house; and the party, from the spirit and
vivacity that reigned around it, was sometimes prolonged to a late hour
in the evening. Courted and admired by all, Violet had no shyness;
and while her own liveliness and playfulness gave the spring to
conversation, the kindliness with which she drew others out, and made
much of what others said, set all at ease, and made most men happy.
But that which is inspiriting to some is depressing to others; that
which gives wings to some, even laggard tongues, lays leaden chains
on those of others. Leicester had rarely felt so intensely wretched,
so densely dull as during this hour. He knew that Albert wished him
to make the best of himself; he saw--it needed no keen perception to
see--that Violet was anxious to make him at home and happy; but, though
touched by her kindness, gratitude was powerless to untie the fetter
that bound him down. He remained speechless; a burden to himself, and
to others.
Violet was vexed, but she had never felt so great an interest in any
agreeable member of society as she now did in this shy man. Her love of
protecting, perhaps, came strongly into play, but it was united with
interest of a totally different kind.
When the party broke up, Albert lingered behind to make some
arrangements with his uncle. He desired Leicester to wait for him, and
the latter did so, placing himself once again in the most impracticable
seat he could find, and this, notwithstanding an earnest desire to
behave rationally, and to remove the impression his silence might have
caused.
But Violet was not to be daunted; and, moving from one chair to
another, she addressed him.
“I forgot to tell you, Mr. Leicester, how much we liked your picture.
I mean the picture in the Exhibition, which Albert says is your
favourite.”
“I am glad you did,” he replied, rising at once, and approaching her
with a look of pleasure; “then I suppose I was right in the opinion I
gave.”
“Not because I admire it, for I am no judge, that is, no good judge of
what is good. But you are right, because the thing _is_ pretty, and
your opinion needs no confirmation.”
“It is at all events pleasant to be agreed with.”
“Sometimes; but it is also pleasant to be disagreed with. I like a good
fight.”
“Agreement is more to my taste,” he said, smiling; “when the world goes
against me, I am apt to mistrust my strongest opinions.”
“And yet in your profession I should have thought _convincing_ was the
greatest of pleasures.”
“Ah! yes--convincing! I was not thinking of that. To convince is a rare
pleasure, and worth a good fight, certainly.”
“And I never thought of defeat,” replied Violet, laughing; “it is a
thing whose existence I deny.”
“Then you are a great fool, Violet,” said Albert, joining them, “for
one side must be defeated. Come, Leicester, if you are ready, I am.”
“I hope we shall soon have the pleasure of seeing you again, Mr.
Leicester,” said Mr. Osborne; while Leicester stood silent, feeling he
ought to make some acknowledgment for the kindness which had prompted
his invitation.
“Thank you--good night,” was, however, all he said, and they departed.
“I asked Mr. Leicester to come again, Violet, because I saw in your
face that you wished me to do so,” said her father; “but I confess
Albert’s friend appears to have but little to say for himself.”
“He will say more when we know him better, papa. I like him very much.”
“Then I will like him, too,” said the fond father; “outward manners are
often deceiving. He may be clever enough within.”
Meanwhile Albert strolled homewards with his friend.
“Well, Leicester,” he exclaimed, after waiting a very short time for an
opinion to be expressed, “how did you like Violet?”
“You are too hasty, Ellis,” was the reply; “I have not had time to
think.”
“How I do hate people who give a correct reply,” said Albert; “to be
sure, it takes a world of thought to see whether a woman is pretty or
not.”
“Oh! as to beauty, I can answer at once; a child could see she was
beautiful.”
“And not conscious of it--is she? Know it of course she does, but she
does not seem to think about it.”
“Not in the least.”
“Then you do like her, I think.”
“I must give you another correct reply,” he said, smiling; “to tell
you the truth, I admired your cousin too much to feel satisfied to
say I _liked_ her, when you asked the question. That answer does for a
common, good-tempered girl. Miss Osborne is much more than that. Even
now, if you repeat the question, I cannot say yes.”
“Very well; be as roundabout as ever you please. I see you like her,
and I am quite satisfied. I know what she thought of you--I mean I
_saw_,” he added, discreetly.
“If she thought at all,” he said, with sadness, “she must have wondered
why so dull a soul ever burdened society with his presence.”
“No, she did not; she is too clear-sighted for that. But, I must say,
Leicester, you did not do your best. You looked as if you were going to
be hanged. I can excuse it when people are careless and neglectful, but
when everybody was bent on making you comfortable....”
“Very true,” he interrupted, quickly, “but it is not worth discussing.
Here we are at No. ----; it is too late to ask you to come in. Good
night.”
And opening the door of a house in Clarges Street, Leicester entered,
and Albert went on his way.