“Oh! never say that I was false of heart;
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify,
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love; if I have ranged
Like him that travels, I return again.”
SHAKESPEARE.
Leicester arrived in England in the June following. He came with only
two sisters. Three had married during the sojourn in India. Marian
had very early attracted the attention of a widower with several
small children, and was now presiding over his household instead of
her brother’s. Henrietta had been the next to marry. Hers was a love
marriage, and her lover was a lawyer friend of Leicester’s. Jessie had
remained disconsolate, until another widower, mourning over the loss of
a “superior woman,” was attracted by her pretty face and helpless ways.
When Leicester, to whom the proposal was made, mentioned it to Jessie,
she burst into tears, and said he was so old and so frightful she would
rather die than marry him. But before the discouraging message could be
conveyed, she changed her mind and said she thought she would try him;
and since her marriage she had twice written word to Margaret that she
liked her husband very well.
These marriages were all good marriages in point of money arrangements.
Leicester, therefore, was satisfied to give small portions to these
sisters. Jessie’s portion, indeed, was entirely rejected by the ardent
and generous widower, who had laid himself and all he had at the feet
of his young wife. When, therefore, they returned to England, the
circumstances of the family had changed, and Leicester was able to
contemplate a marriage for himself, and a separate establishment for
his remaining sisters, without any conscientious fears lest he might be
securing his own good at the expense of theirs.
Before he had been a fortnight in England he mentioned one morning
at breakfast that he was going out of town for a few days. He spoke
indifferently, but a faint glow that stole over his face revealed to
Rachel’s eyes the direction his steps would take.
Leicester had returned unchanged; unchanged within and without;
in body, in mind, and in heart. A few more grey hairs were perhaps
sprinkled on his dark head, but he was not yet thirty-eight, and though
at thirty-two he had looked old for his age, at thirty-eight it was no
longer so. The rest which India had procured for his wearying domestic
cares, the diversion it had given to his sore heart and troubled
thoughts, had arrested the premature symptoms of middle age, and he was
greeted by many a friend with the agreeable greeting, “Why, you have
grown younger!”
But in character also he was unchanged; such renovation and refreshing
as his body had received had not penetrated there. The same diffidence,
not of his mental powers, but of his powers to win and please, still
laid its freezing hand upon his soul; the same shy and sensitive pride
made him still shrink from the idea of putting himself forward, and
shudder at the thoughts of a rebuff.
Nevertheless, Violet was in his heart and in his hopes, and he did
contemplate one more attempt to win her to himself. He had made no
efforts to preserve his constancy. He had looked on their separation
as one for life; yet, as Mrs. Osborne had said, he was not a man
to change, and as years rolled on, he began, unconsciously first,
and afterwards with full purpose of his heart and soul, to turn his
thoughts to her. She alone could yet build up for him a bright picture
in the future.
He determined to seek her, not as a lover, but as a friend; to read for
himself, in her speaking countenance, whether or no any thought of him
lingered in the chambers of her fancy.
He left London buoyant and hopeful in spirit. In the distance
excitement primed and warmed his cowardly soul, and all seemed easy.
It seemed an easy and natural thing to be a friend, to say that as a
friend he had on his return desired to renew acquaintance with them
all. He pictured his calm, sedate entrance into the drawing-room, the
tranquil talk over India, and his sisters, and the voyage; pictured
it, and all seemed peaceful and serene. Thus he left London, but, like
Acres in the “Rivals,” as the time drew near, his courage oozed out at
the palms of his hands.
He arrived late at the inn of the little town five miles from
Holywell, and there slept. When movement was over, when he found
himself five miles from Violet, he wondered how he had ever dared to
come; and when at half-past ten he heard the horn of the late coach
passing through on its London way, he started up in a sudden impulse to
return as he came.
That impulse was checked; but, still as he sat in the dingy room with
two inn candles for his light, cowardice so crept over and paralyzed
him, that he began to look on himself as a madman for the resolution
that had brought him down. He again pictured his entrance to the
drawing-room; he saw himself agitated within, but cold and silent
without; no thought in his head, no word on his tongue; without a
charm to recommend himself to her notice, or lure her heart if still it
had to be won; he pictured it till the picture became intolerable, and
he felt that his plan of operations must be changed. If he was to meet
Violet, it must be by chance. He rang the bell.
“Is there anything like an inn or a respectable public-house near the
village of Holywell?”
“Oh! law, sir, yes. There’s a famous little place; one can’t call it
an hotel, but a neat little place, about half a mile off. The young
artists lodge there, and young gentlemen for fishing and hunting, and
so on, and invalids now and then. It’s kept by a nice respectable body
enough.”
“Tell the Boots to call me at seven,” was Leicester’s reply, and he
walked over on the following morning, guided by minute directions from
the landlord, to the little inn in question. There, receiving a smiling
answer to his request for a private room and breakfast, he sat down to
ruminate.
Though shy with all men, rich and poor, there was something in
Leicester’s look, in his smile, and in his voice, which won those
beneath him on the very first address; and when he courteously roused
himself from an abstracted gaze on the landscape, to assist the
landlady in extricating her gown from a nail which held her fast, she
took him into her good graces, and made much of him accordingly.
“Bless you, sir, don’t trouble yourself. It’s a nasty rusty nail,
which didn’t ought to be there. Thank you, sir; no matter for the rent;
the gown’s an old gown now, though it’s been a good servant in its day.
There, sir, I hope you find yourself comfortable.”
“Very comfortable, thank you.”
“And have everything you want, sir?”
“Everything, thank you.”
“Ah! sir, you’re not like some young gentlemen. No sooner do I get to
the door, but they cry, ‘Come back, good woman,’ and, bless you, they
ask for some sauce or other that my precious wits never so much as
heard of.”
“I am not young enough for that,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps I may have
done it in my time.”
“Never, sir. You never done it, that I know. You never like to give
trouble to no person whatsoever, that I know; you’d sooner black your
own boots than ask a body to do them, unless the proper person offered
himself.”
Leicester coloured slightly, and shrinking from this minute and
clear-sighted inspection, said,
“You have a fine view from this window.”
“You may say that, sir. Mr. Pope says it’s a paradise on earth; and if
it bean’t profane to say so, and I suppose it bean’t, as the rector
says it, it’s true, sir.”
Leicester rose from the breakfast-table and walked to the window.
He longed for the ready tongue that would draw from his loquacious
landlady the name he desired to hear; but questions would not come at
his call. She, however, interpreting the movement as expressive of the
inquiries which she was well-accustomed to hear, placed herself at his
side, and pointed out, as Mr. Pope had done to Mr. Osborne and Violet,
the chief features, or rather the human interests of the scene. At
every change of person, she looked pitifully round and said,
“_Won’t_ your breakfast be spoiled, sir?” yet went on remorselessly,
till she had sketched the varied occupants, past and present, of
Boscombe and Ashford Park. When this was done she said--
“Now _do_, sir, go to breakfast, or it _will_ be spoiled,” and
remembering other guests to whom she had to attend, left the room.
When she was gone Leicester marvelled at his folly. He might have heard
not only the name for six years unpronounced in his presence, but he
might have heard details of her life and state of mind; he might have
gathered hints for his present guidance, and he would not. Nor even
then, in his solitude, could he frame to himself the inquiries which
would elicit all that he desired to know.
When breakfast was over he sat down in the window, drew a pamphlet from
his pocket, and proceeded to ruminate on the steps which should be
taken to secure a sight of Violet, if not an interview with her, during
the day.
Some time passed before his landlady returned to remove the breakfast.
“Bless the folks,” she then observed, “they wouldn’t a done with
their talk, and I vowed I’d wait on you myself, sir. And what do you
think, sir? I never thought o’ telling you that there’s a kind of a
feast to-day in my lord’s park. You see, sir, that Mr. Vane, the young
gentleman I spoke about, he warn’t at home when he came to his age;
and so he said he’d have a kind of a feast now, after the hard times
and all; and he’s a good sir to think of it. But he _is_ a good young
gentleman; not one of your young sirs, taken up with his sauces and his
nonsense! And if you please to see the feast, sir, why you can, for the
tables will be spread on the spot of green just beyond the village, and
the villagers will all be looking on, I’ll be bound.”
“I think I will try and see it. I am a Londoner, and such a sight will
be new to me.”
“You a Londoner, sir! Well, I never _should_ have thought it.”
“What shall I see?” Leicester asked.
“For one thing you’ll see two young ladies, sir, not to be matched
for handsomeness, nor goodness neither, neither in these kingdoms nor
any other, be they who they may.” Leicester turned slightly towards
the window and looked out. He guessed what now would come, and he was
afraid even of his landlady’s eyes. “The one is Miss Hamilton, Sir
William’s daughter, his only child, as I mentioned, sir; she’s a nice,
sweet, comely maid, and as good as she’s comely; and the other is the
very dearest young lady that ever trod the earth, be she who she may,
and does more good in her blessed life than fifty rectors, be _they_
who they may.”
There was no mistaking whom she meant, but Leicester was mute. He
could not even ask her name. His landlady was making a clatter with
the breakfast things, which she had now piled on a tray; he feared the
conversation was at an end, yet could not think how to renew it.
At last as she, occupied for the moment with household cares, was
detecting a crack in a favourite plate, he cleared his throat and said--
“Miss Hamilton, I think you said, is Sir William’s only child?”
She laid down the plate and came joyfully for another talk.
“Yes, sir, only daughter and heiress at present, for Sir William is
unmarried. Some say he will marry Miss Osborne, the young lady I spoke
about just now; but I doubt it.” And she looked knowing and wise, while
Leicester startled, put his elbows on the window-sill and gazed fixedly
forward. “She is _his_ only child, and Mr. Vane is my lord’s only
child, and some say there is to be a marriage between them; but I doubt
it. Unless my eyes are blind he has another lady in his thoughts, and,
bless you, my eyes are _not_ blind. Why, when they walk along together,
walking and talking, I can see who he’s taken up with fast enough. I’m
none of your beetles. Why, he just worships the very ground she treads
on.”
Not a sound from Leicester. But the words not the less penetrated and
paralyzed the life, the very life of love, within him. He rose up from
his position--the eyes of the landlady forgotten.
“It’s true, sir, _unless_ I’m blind; and if she be ‘my lady,’ why, she
well deserves it, for there’s no sweeter lady in Christendom, that I’ll
wager my life upon. But bless you, sir, I’ve been telling out my secret
thoughts, which I didn’t ought to do; but there’s something about you,
sir, that makes me feel at home, sir, begging your pardon.”
“Your words are safe with me,” he said in a firm but hoarse voice.
“I fear you have a cold, sir, and you _do_ look pale. Rest a bit here,
sir. It’s a pleasant room; and I’ll bring you a bit of lunch, and
then you can stroll down towards my lord’s park. It’ll be a fine day,”
she added looking out, “but showery. There’s a blackish cloud far out
there. It’ll be down upon us in the course of the day.”
She left Leicester alone to his meditations. Was this, then, what he
had dreaded? As he drew near to her abode, was it the shadow of this
disappointment that had come forth to meet him and to withhold him from
a vain approach? He was not superstitious, but it seemed to him as if
by his last night’s cowardice he had been benignly stayed from a rash
venture, whose ill-success would have killed him.
Yet he was not going to yield the point. His eyes, his own eyes, alone
should be trusted, and though all thoughts of a visit had vanished, he
determined to make an effort to see, and possibly to be seen.
He waited for several hours before he set forth, and with a stubborn
resolution, which long habits of self-conquest had taught him, mastered
the pamphlet, a stiff legal work, on which his opinion had been asked.
Towards two o’clock he set forth, and guided by the words and gestures
of his landlady, found the spot she had mentioned. It was a broad flat
piece of green grass situated just within Ashford Park, and enclosed by
trees young and old; a kind of natural platform, so fitted for rural
sports and pastimes, that it had been given as a half-grant, a grant
with reservations that is, to the villagers, by a former Lord Ashford.
It was enclosed on three sides by woods, but towards the village the
park wall made a sudden dip, and for upwards of twenty yards became a
battlement on which the old men of the village could lean their elbows
and watch the youthful sports that went on within.
On this spot several long tables were spread out, and two or three
tents containing the food and the crockery which was needed for the
feast. One of these tents was nearly opposite the dip in the wall just
described.
The villagers were congregated without. None had yet been admitted
within, and by the side of two or three old men, leaning his arm
against the buttress that supported the wall where it suddenly fell,
Leicester paused and looked on.
Several figures were busily occupied in covering the tables, but none
so active as Violet. He discovered her in a moment, though she was at
a distance, and saw with an ache of the heart that a young man was
constantly at her side.
He became so fascinated in watching the scene; in wondering, as she
drew nearer, whether she would discover him amongst the crowd, that he
did not notice the gradual rising of the black cloud his landlady had
pointed out as a threatening one. It was equally unperceived by the
busy figures within, and the eager crowd without, and all alike were
startled when it suddenly burst, and the rain fell as from buckets.
At this moment Violet was at the table nearest to the dip in the wall.
The food was still in the tents, but she was putting down the last
plates from a huge pile, when the storm burst. She stood for a moment,
as if determined to finish her operations, but the force of the shower
was beyond her power to brave, and following the general example,
she flew to the nearest shelter. It was to the tent opposite where
Leicester stood, full in his view, though some hundred feet removed
from the road.
Thither Lionel, who had been at the other end of the same table,
followed her.
Leicester put up his umbrella, and with natural courtesy held it over
an old man in a smock frock, who was leaning on the wall beneath him.
One or two children crept in to share the benefit. A few other old
umbrellas appeared, and a good many women flew away to the nearest
trees. For a few seconds Leicester was engaged in offering his advice
to the crowd; when he looked back again, Violet had seated herself by a
table, and Lionel was bending beside her.
The conversation was eager, and seemed to become more and more so.
For three or four minutes Leicester watched it in the same fascinated
manner, and then suddenly remembered that he was answered. For what
should he wait more? Was it honourable to stand thus and spy upon her
actions.
With the first rising of this thought, he, forgetful of rain and his
neighbours, moved from the spot; but had not taken many steps before he
remembered the old man he had been protecting from the storm. He came
back.
“I beg your pardon, my good man; I took my umbrella away too soon.”
“Thank ye, sir, and welcome. I’m not afeard of a few doo drops.”
He laughed loud and hoarsely at his jest; and once again Leicester cast
his eyes on Violet, anticipating that the shout of laughing would draw
her attention to the spot. But the conversation was too interesting,
or seemed so, to be interrupted; nay, he fancied that her cheek was
flushed; but at the distance at which he was placed this was probably a
fancy.
He stood like a martyr to his old friend during the remaining minutes
of the storm; his eyes, no longer turned to the spectacle that made him
mad, were steadfastly averted in a contrary direction; and the moment
the rain began to abate, he walked with rapid steps away.
“Now, sir, you’re not going off in this way without a glass of wine,”
was the reception of the landlady when he returned to pay his bill and
take his leave. “Now do sit down and rest yourself till the heat of the
day is passed.”
“Thank you, the walk will refresh me,” he said wearily. Then
immediately conscious of the dejected tone, and as if blushing at the
weakness, added, “The rain has refreshed the air.”
“That’s true; and the dust won’t creep into your eyes as it did this
morning. Well, sir, if you must go, ‘God be with you,’ as the old folks
say. And if you come this way again you’ll have a warm welcome.”
“I am not likely to come, I am afraid. I am a Londoner. If I do I shall
not forget your words.”
Wishing her ‘good-bye,’ he returned to the town, and took his place by
the night coach, whose horn had tempted him the previous day.
He did not appear at home till his sisters were going to dress for
dinner. He then walked into the drawing-room as usual.
“John! come back so soon,” Margaret cried, springing up as she flew to
greet him.
Rachel looked, and saw why so soon.
“Yes, come back,” he replied. “And now what have you been doing with
yourselves? Has anything happened?”
“A letter from Henrietta,” Rachel said. And eagerly anxious not to
seem to have observed his countenance, instantly produced it.
“Rachel,” Margaret said, when he left the room, “where has John been?”
“I do not know; but I guess.”
“Not there! Surely not there already.”
“I guess it, but I do not know.”
“And you think without success?” and her cheek crimsoned with
indignation, and she clenched her fist.
“You know as much as I do, Margaret. I do not think he looked
successful.”
“It is impossible!” she cried. “I shall ask Mr. Ellis.”
“Margaret!” Rachel said in a tone of keen reproach.
Margaret blushed.
“It was only a moment’s thoughtlessness,” she said penitently. “I would
not really talk over John’s feelings for the world.”
And but little more was said between them.
Leicester had not known how strong his hope had been till it was flown;
how the picture of Violet had brightened his future, till it was
effaced. But though he had his weakness and his cowardice, he had also
his strength, and he combated the dejection that stole over him, with
the full bent of a sound mind and a strong will.
To work he thankfully turned, and found, as before, relief in it.
Some papers he had written while in India had preceded him, and made
him a reputation, and even Albert allowed that the poor fellow was
beginning to be appreciated. His opinion was asked and followed by
some high in office, and before many weeks passed he was offered a
permanent appointment at the moment vacant. It was accepted, and with
thankfulness, for the work’s sake; but the independence it gave him,
which once would have been a boon, was at the moment an object of
indifference to him.