“Love that makes
The day pass lightly on, when foresight sleeps,
And wisdom and the pledges interchanged
With our own inner beings are forgot.”
_The Prelude._
“I am so glad, Rachel, to have found you alone,” said Margaret one day,
softly opening the door of her sister’s room; “I do so want to speak to
you.”
It was many weeks after the date of the last chapter. The London season
was over, and a broiling August sun was driving every inhabitant of
London who could leave it to seek for cooler shades. Every alternate
year Leicester took his sisters for a month or two to the sea-side;
but in those days to move a large family, who liked when they did move
to have all their comforts undisturbed, was a costly affair; and the
alternate trips of pleasure in peace and comfort had been preferred
to yearly visits paid in less luxuriant style. The Leicesters were
therefore still in London; and, with the exception of Rachel and
Margaret, they were content to be there.
“What is it, Margaret?” Rachel said, looking up from a book she was
reading.
Margaret closed the door as softly as she had opened it, and began to
speak in an under-tone.
“It is about John, Rachel. What do you think? Here is London quite
over, and Miss Osborne gone, and nothing has come of that friendship
we thought so much about. And how grave John looks; does he not?”
“He does _look_ grave,” Rachel said, “but he is as cheerful as usual.”
“Yes--for us. He thinks that his duty; but I watched him as he walked
down the street this morning, and I felt I could not bear to see him
look so grave any more. I wish you would ask him what is the matter,
Rachel?”
“I cannot. He might not like it.”
“But if he did not, what then? Why do we stand in such terrible awe of
each other? He never is angry; but if he was, what would that matter?”
“It is not that exactly,” Rachel said, musingly, “but I cannot bear
that he should think we watch his proceedings, and gossip about his
concerns.”
“Is it gossiping to take an interest?” Margaret asked. “Jessie does
gossip about him I know, but I cannot call it gossiping to feel sorry
to see him unhappy, and to long to know what is the cause.”
“I am sure I don’t think it is, my dear Margaret; I feel the wish to
know quite as much as you do! All I mean is, that when a man has five
sisters, they should be very careful in their questions and remarks.
I think they should try in every way to show him that they do _not_
watch. That is always what I feel, at least, and it makes me afraid of
questioning.”
“I have a great mind, then, to do it myself,” Margaret said. “I must
say it seems very unnatural to see one’s brother look grave and
worried, and never to ask him why.”
“What should you say?” asked Rachel, with curiosity.
“I should begin by telling him that I beg he will never think of such
a thing as marrying without our consent, and that my consent I _never_
will give.”
“But, my dear Margaret!” said Rachel, with a look of dismay.
“Oh! that will be only to begin, and to see how he takes it. If I was
to do it sentimentally, I should be frightened; but if I begin by being
cross, we may get into conversation; and if once he will let me talk to
him, I will give him some good advice.”
“Then do. You will do it much better than I should. Are you not going
with him to Windsor to-morrow?”
The voices had a little forgotten their under-tone during the last part
of the conversation; and Jessie, who, by some natural magic, always
discovered when any confidential conversation was going on, looked into
the room, and seeing two sisters together, immediately joined them.
“Why do you come to talk up here?” she began. “It is so dull
downstairs. It is rather hard if there is anything to hear that I may
not hear it.”
“Come and hear it, by all means,” said Margaret, pushing a chair
towards her. “Now, what do you want to know?”
“That is always the way you answer; but it does not deceive me. I know
you were talking about some particular thing, and I think it was about
John, and I do so want to know. Do you think he is in love? do you
think Miss Osborne likes him? do you think she has refused him? do you
suppose they write to each other? do....”
“My dear Jessie, do hold your tongue,” Margaret said, quickly. “If you
wish to ask all these questions, you had better ask John.”
“And so I would, only that if I do, you abuse me, and say I have no
tact.”
“Well, that is true,” Margaret replied, laughing; “but don’t ask _us_,
for we cannot give you any information.”
“I am sure Rachel knows,” Jessie said, fretfully; “and as I am older
than Margaret, I think it is very hard, Rachel, that you have Margaret
up here in your room; you never have me, and nobody ever tells me
anything.”
“I am coming down now, if you will carry my drawing-book,” Rachel said
quietly, and rose from her seat.
“I am glad of that,” Jessie said, quite satisfied at having disturbed
the conversation; “I cannot think why you should come up here to talk;
it is so dull downstairs. At this time of the year too, when we must be
left to our own company.”
Margaret went with her brother to Windsor on the following day, but
it was not till they got near home on their return that she summoned
courage to make her attack. She then began as she had said she would.
“I am not thinking of marrying,” he replied with a slight smile; “I
will remember what you say, but I do not need it.”
“But, my dear John, I hope you do not think I meant what I said,”
Margaret exclaimed eagerly. “I do give my consent; and much more, I
am longing to hear of your marriage. Don’t tell me that you have no
thoughts of it.”
She looked anxiously in his face, but the same grave slight smile was
all his answer.
“I am serious now,” she continued, “do speak to me.”
He did not reply, and she went on--
“Why did you not go to Broadstairs last Saturday? I heard Mr. Ellis ask
you, beg you to go, and I saw, at least I think I saw, that you wished
it. Why did you refuse?”
“You seem determined to know all my thoughts, Margaret,” he said so
gently and kindly that she wondered why she had been afraid, “and so I
suppose I must tell you. I have behaved as only a young man ought to
behave; indulging myself, and consciously, too, in thoughts that I
knew too well could not last. But I mean to do so no more.”
“But why, John? I cannot understand why. I think Miss Osborne likes
you; I am sure you must think so too.”
“Yes, Margaret, I think she _likes_ me. She is clear and open as the
day, and what she feels she shows. She likes me; and I should be, nay,
I am grateful that she does. It should be, it is a pleasure to me; but
it is not enough for me....”--he paused, then added, and again broke
off--“for _me_ to dare....”
“There is no _daring_, John, in a man like you.”
He shook his head.
“I think you are wrong,” Margaret said boldly; “I think sometimes to
be over-humble is very like pride.”
She was sorry for her boldness when she saw the deep flush that
overspread his face. She felt she had touched some too sensitive chord.
“You may be right,” he replied at last, “but man is as he is made;
and we see things, perhaps, with different eyes. _I_ can but feel
my unworthiness and presumption. I dare not hope, and to be refused
I could hardly survive. And now, let us have done. You mean, dear
Margaret, very kindly, and I thank you; but you give me pain.”
And as she saw he spoke the truth, she was forced to submit.
Feeling it due to Rachel, she told her what had passed, expressing,
at the same time, in stronger terms, her astonishment at, and
disapprobation of, his diffidence.
“I can understand it,” Rachel said; “I should feel just as he does.”
“But not being what John is,” Margaret persisted; “he has not worldly
good things, but he has much better things.”
“Yes, Margaret, _we_ know he has, and so, perhaps, does Miss Osborne,
but he does not. He knows what he has _not_; but such a mind and such
qualities as he _has_ are just those of which the possessor himself is
unconscious. He cannot presume on those.”
“Presume,” Margaret repeated, pondering over the word. “No, I don’t
want him to presume, but I do like a man to venture. Men have a great
superiority over women in being allowed the power of choice, and they
ought to be generous, and make ventures, even if in the dark. Women
can only refuse; they ought not to be grudged that very disagreeable
and uncomfortable privilege.”
“But if it is so disagreeable, Margaret, men ought not to force it
rashly upon them. Think what it would be to Miss Osborne to refuse a
man like John.”
“But I don’t think she would refuse.”
“Ah! that is another question. All I mean is, that I do not wonder at
his diffidence. I sometimes think Miss Osborne is in love with him; but
she is so kind and frank, and warm-hearted, that more often I wonder if
it has ever crossed her mind. And as _I_ feel that, it is not strange
that he should feel it also.”
“Well,” said Margaret, totally unconvinced by anything her sister said,
“I must say I like a man to venture, and I think it a great pity to
indulge in over-diffidence. Now, I suppose we must see John’s grave
face all this long autumn.”
In this latter supposition she was mistaken. Roused by her questions
to a perception of his gravity, and reproaching himself for having
excited anxiety, Leicester exerted himself tenfold for the amusement of
his sisters; and whatever the effort might have been to him, the long
autumn had never passed so rapidly.
The invitation to Broadstairs was repeated more than once, but was
always refused. He planned Saturday and Sunday excursions with his
sisters in succession, that he might refuse without any appearance of
backwardness. When Violet returned to London, he intended to resume his
visits under certain restrictions; the interval he was employing in
bracing his mind and vanquishing himself.
Mr. Osborne had no country place, and as the sea air was necessary
to Mrs. Osborne’s health after the heat of London, and as Violet
particularly enjoyed the winters in London, he had never established
himself at any villa. Her autumn visits to the sea-side were usually
very agreeable to Violet. Her powers of enjoyment were quick and keen;
her resources in her own self endless; and her kindliness being always
called out by some invalid child, or girl, or old woman, to whom she
devoted herself for the time being, life slipped from under her hands
with the quickness of perfect content. But the days of perfect content
had vanished, perhaps for ever. The intoxication of early youth, that
second but more romantic, more imaginative, more spirited childhood,
rarely lasts above two years; and when that is gone, whatever of
radiant joy, or calmer happiness may be in store, life has no third
cup of single, simple, unqualified content to present. Henceforward,
though differently mixed in different lots, something of care, doubt,
or anxiety is blended with the draught of hope; henceforward, single,
simple content is looked down upon as marking inferiority in the scale
of existence, and with something of a sigh of contempt the days in
which it was sufficient for happiness are recalled.
Violet was possessed of all her usual elements of satisfaction; her
invalid _protégés_ were more than commonly interesting, her schemes
of kindness and charity were wiser and larger. Acquaintance more than
usually agreeable were to be met with if society was desired; the
autumn was finer; the plans for her amusement more unceasing; but she
was restless. Leicester had read her very truly; she had never yet
allowed to herself that she did more than _like_ him--had been far
too happy as she was to think of so dry a thing as marriage, far too
full of her attentions to him, her desires to win and relieve him from
his miserable backwardness, to know how necessary he was becoming
to herself. But now that she saw him no more, she was restless and
dissatisfied. Her nature was too bright and elastic, her hopes for
future pleasures too strong to allow her to pine or brood in melancholy
thought; her confidence in herself perhaps too strong to give her any
real uneasiness of mind; but still the surface of life presented no
longer an unruffled mirror; the present was no longer so blissful a
reality that a future was an intrusive thought.
“How very nice this is,” Albert said, as he stood with her one evening
by the sea. It was in the beginning of October, but the weather was
still mild and pleasant, and a lovely sunset had kept them lingering on
the beach.
“Very,” Violet said, warmly, “and I must stay and see what colours the
clouds will take next. It is like the sunset in ‘Childe Harold.’ Let us
sit down and watch the sky.”
“You look at these things poetically,” he said; “I like them because
they are beautiful, without thinking about poetry, or theorizing
about colours. What a sin and a shame it is to have to live always in
London--to see these things as a sight, and not as one’s natural born
inheritance. But I don’t mean to go on so all my life; that I can tell
you.”
“Not when you have married the heiress you used to speak of. What a
pity it is, Albert,” she said, laughing, “that you never have taken to
me! With your opportunities, there is no telling what you might not
have done.”
“You would not have suited me at all,” he said, placidly; “I have no
idea of marrying a woman who thinks herself my superior.”
“No; neither for husband nor wife would that be an agreeable prospect.
I like superiority, of course, and wish for it in my husband, but
still....”
“Oh, Violet,” Albert said, sarcastically, “we know very well what you
intend to have; the most superior man on the face of the earth, but
perfectly submissive to you for all that.”
“I believe so,” she said, laughing; “superior in principles, and
superior in intellect, but inferior in some things by way of
consolation. The fact is, I was not born submissive, and we must be as
we are born.”
“This _is_ delicious!” Albert said, inhaling the sea-breeze, and
looking at the glorious sky; “talking of colours, there is every colour
of the rainbow there--green, purple, rose-colour.... It _is_ a sin to
go to London. When do you move, Violet?”
“In a fortnight,” she replied, eagerly; “and I am so glad!”
“Glad! are you? why?” and he looked intently in her face.
She blushed, and he then discreetly looked away, but Violet was not
sentimental; and, conscious of her blush, she said, boldly,
“I miss Mr. Leicester’s visits; that is one reason. I want to know why
he would not come and see us.”
“You had better not ask him,” Albert observed, with his usual
discretion.
“I certainly shall. Why should I not?”
“Because such questions are not proper for girls. He may have reasons
he does not choose to tell.”
“And he can say so, can he not?”
“Yes; but then you will fancy there is a mystery. Men do not like to be
questioned, and I advise you to hold your tongue.”
“I would take your advice if I could,” Violet said, “but I know I
cannot. I have thought him uncivil--perhaps, to say the truth, a little
ungrateful; and yet I am sorry to think so. I must satisfy myself.”
“Ungrateful! what a word for such a man as Leicester! Why, what have
you done for him so deserving of gratitude?”
“You cannot make me ashamed of the word. I have done all I could
to please him; and though no more than he deserves, a man, however
superior, should be grateful for that. I did not expect he would so
soon forget us all; I did hope he would miss us too much to refuse the
little trouble of coming here to see us. But it is as the ballad says,”
she added, laughing,
“‘Men were deceivers ever,
One foot on sea, and one on land,
To one thing constant never.’”
“He may have good reasons, Violet,” Albert said, gravely.
“And that is what I wish to know,” she replied; and then the
conversation broke off.
But when Leicester and Violet met, she found the question less easy to
ask than she had anticipated.
He called with Albert a few evenings after Mr. Osborne’s return to
London; but the consciousness that he had acted with forethought, and
not as he would naturally have acted, made him constrained. Violet’s
manner added to this constraint. She had determined to show no pique;
but against her will it did appear. A slight coldness, or rather a
slight repression of her usual cordial warmth, was certainly to be
discovered, and (though such a coldness might have reassured Leicester,
could he have argued on the subject) it froze him.
Their conversation was calm, quiet, and indifferent. Leicester had
determined that that visit should begin a new phase of friendship, and
with unspeakable pain he felt it had begun.
But it did not quite end here. When Albert joined them, he casually
alluded to the charms of Broadstairs; and, moved by a sudden impulse,
Violet seized the opportunity to ask the question Albert had forbidden.
“Why would you never come near us, Mr. Leicester?” she said, with
a return to her own natural manner; “we had a nice house, and most
enchanting sea-breezes. I think it would have done you good.”
Leicester had provided himself with an answer to this inquiry. He had
made arrangements, the simplest and most natural, that he might have a
proper excuse; but somehow they escaped his memory at the moment, and
colouring, he only said:
“I was extremely obliged to you all for the kindness of your
invitations. I hope Albert thanked you as I desired him.”
“Oh! yes, he thanked,” she replied, with a little scorn; “but thanks
were not quite all we wished or expected. We were offended, were we
not, Albert?”
“Speak for yourself, Violet,” he replied drily. “_I_ can understand
reason when I hear it;” and, unwilling to see Leicester embarrassed,
he strolled back to his aunt.
“Then I speak for myself,” Violet said gravely.
“There was at any rate no cause for _offence_,” Leicester answered, in
a low tone; and the tone more than the words made Violet’s heart beat
quick.
For an instant she felt embarrassed, and wished her question unasked;
but the next instant she recovered herself.
“I don’t know what is generally considered a just cause for offence,”
she said, with a voice and manner of grave dignity; “but in my opinion
there is no greater cause than when those who have acted like friends
cease to act so. It must come either from a change in themselves, or
else from distrust of the words and actions of others; and unless when
it is a case beyond offence, I think either of these causes may be
allowed to produce it.”
“We cannot rightly judge of the motives of others,” Leicester replied,
with a manner as grave as her own; “and therefore we should not be
hasty in taking offence.”
No more was said either by way of comment or explanation; but Violet
felt, as well as Leicester, that a new phase in their friendship had
indeed begun.