“What you have done hath not offended me.”
HENRY IV.
When Sir William and Ida, at the close of the day, wished Lionel
good-bye, he detained Ida to say,
“I want to speak to you, Ida, to-morrow. Will you be in the garden at
Boscombe at twelve o’clock?”
She acquiesced and followed her father. His manner had not been
loverlike when he made his request, but that was not Lionel’s way; and,
as she walked and thought, she fancied that to-morrow was to be the
eventful day.
Once or twice the suspicion flitted through her mind that he was
going to renounce the purposed connection; but it was driven away, as
injurious to him; and, when quite beyond the influence and recollection
of his dejected manner, her thoughts all merged into the trembling
expectation that the long-delayed announcement was to be made.
She waited for him a full hour before he came.
During the night, Lionel’s mood of mind had undergone a change. The
day before he had felt humbled to the dust, and, had he spoken to Ida
then, it would have been penitently and with humility; but solitude
and meditation had had with him the result of suggesting soothing and
excusing thoughts.
“What had he done after all? Was he not free? Had he spoken for months,
for years even, of his engagement? If he was bound, why was Violet
thrown in his way? How could he see her and not admire her? Was she not
superior to Ida, mentally and bodily too? Was it not like a fascination
to be in her presence? Why should it be expected that he must resist
it?”
These were the first series of thoughts, and, as there was no one to
answer them with other suggestions, they became predominant in his
mind. He looked on himself as an ill-used being.
He then proceeded to consider the consequences of what had occurred.
How mad he had been! He had lost his chance of Violet by his own
rashness. Why had he not first broken with Ida, and then--who in all
the world could have forbidden him to choose Violet for his own?
Now.... he became very dejected as he considered what lay before him.
To have to humble himself to Ida, till now so imperiously treated;
and, worse, to have his father condemning him! As these unpleasant
facts presented themselves, he almost resolved to bury the whole matter
in oblivion; to go abroad for a year, leaving the engagement still
pending, and then to return and see whether it would be possible to
fulfil it. If not, then to state that he had done his utmost to love
Ida, but had failed.
This suggestion cheered him. It even opened a distant vista, in which
he saw Violet pitying him, and relenting; but while under this more
cheerful gleam of light, he suddenly remembered her indignant face when
he had asked her to forget. Could he imagine she would associate with
Ida, and leave her deceived? He sighed; thought with admiration of the
openness of Violet’s character, and felt that this was not to be hoped
for.
After many alternate risings and fallings of spirits, many different
and opposite plans for his line of conduct, he determined on a half
measure. He would confess all that had happened to Ida; but ask her
forbearance for a time, leaving the engagement pending until he had had
further time to consider the case, and to examine his own feelings.
It was in this frame of mind that at last he sought her. She had
wandered from the garden to the pleasure grounds, and was leaning
against some railings, when she suddenly heard his step. She blushed
slightly, but went forward to meet him.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Ida,” he said, “but I had a good
deal to think of, and I was late this morning.”
“Never mind,” and she smiled. “I am glad you were late, for you seemed
so tired last night.”
“What made you think I was tired?”
“You looked so, and seemed so, too. You were not like yourself.”
“It was not tire exactly,” he said, and as he said the words, the very
words Violet had used, a presentiment, keen and vivid, shot through
Ida’s brain. She turned pale.
“What is the matter?” he asked with discomfort; not exactly guessing
what, but feeling that he disliked extremely the task before him.
She was no longer pale at the question, but she said, with calmness and
courage:
“Never mind me, Lionel. You said you wanted to speak to me. I have been
waiting a long while, will you say it now?”
“Well, Ida,” he began, in his turn, with a colour varying from white to
red, “it is about this engagement of ours. You know we both are free.”
“Yes,” with her eyes on the ground, “quite free, if we please.”
“Well, Ida, I must own that I had never thought of using my freedom.
I never dwelt on the subject; but there are things in man, it seems,
that cannot be governed, and without knowing it I have....” he
hesitated, at a loss for a proper expression. But Ida did not help him.
She waited to hear more, and he was obliged to proceed. “The fact is,”
he continued, “that I have for some time been fighting with a fancy for
Miss Osborne. I hoped it would go off--sometimes I felt sure it would;
but it has not; and yesterday....” he paused.
“I think it was a pity, Lionel, that you fought,” Ida said. “When once
you felt the fancy, I think it would have been better to say so.”
“You cannot be a good judge about that,” he said quickly. “Of course I
wished to do what was expected of me, and a mere fancy was not enough
to break the engagement, but....”
“I think it was,” she repeated.
“It was not. You may trust me, Ida, that I know best. But yesterday,
somehow or other, the fancy mastered and maddened me, and I told her of
it,” and as he recalled the scene a look of intense misery came over
his countenance.
“Was Violet angry, then?” Ida asked, pitifully, reading the countenance
that spoke what the words did not add.
“Yes. If I had been a heathen man, I believe I could have shot myself
in her presence.”
“I am very sorry for you, Lionel. I can guess it must be a dreadful
thing to love Violet and to offend her.”
He turned away, and walked a few steps from her. He did feel it a
dreadful thing. Ida’s gentle words and sympathy touched, and yet
humbled him.
She waited for a few seconds, but when he paused in his hurried
walk, and she saw that he stood hanging over the railings silent and
dejected, she went to him again.
“Well, then, Lionel, this must be ended. We are free, then; the
engagement is broken.”
“Yes, Ida; but ... but ... are _you_ willing?”
“Oh! yes,” she said, with sad quietness.
“If you wish it, it shall be so, but....”
“But what, Lionel? How can it be otherwise? I cannot understand.”
“It had struck me that it might be left; I would go away and try and
shake off this horrid, painful, idle dream of mine, and then come back;
and then if I can’t get the better of it, we might see what should be
done. What do you think, Ida?” and he looked into her grave, listening,
quiet face with some anxiety and some surprise.
“I think it would be very wrong to leave it,” she replied, with
decision, yet with her usual gentleness of manner and speech; “I am
sure it cannot be possible to like two people; nothing in this world,
nothing, Lionel, should have _ever_ tempted me to be your wife unless
you loved me wholly. I know you are true, and therefore if you had said
you did, I should have trusted you, and been your wife without fear.”
Lionel felt humiliated. He felt miserable altogether, and the sense of
misery irritated him. The decision of Ida’s speech too--she who was
usually submissive to his least suggestion--irritated him further, and
at last he spoke with irritation.
“Very well, then. It must be as you please. As you will not give me
time, you must take it into your own hands and break it off. I leave it
entirely to you.”
“Oh! Lionel, not to me.”
“Yes, of course I do. _I_ am willing to try further. _You_ say you are
not.” He looked once more and with anxiety in her face.
“No.”
“Very well, then; it is you that reject me, and break it off. The case
is plain. I shall go this afternoon. If you please, I will write to my
father from London, or I will send you a letter to give him. Say what
you like best.”
“I think you had better write to him; but I think I must tell him too,
for he will be very sorry.”
“I know he will, very; you had better consider, Ida, a little more.”
“There is nothing that I can consider, Lionel, or I would; I would
willingly, for Uncle Ashford’s sake: but if you say it is my fault,
then it is; for I would not be your wife unless you loved me best, for
all the world.”
“And what shall you say, then?” he asked with curiosity.
“I shall tell him exactly the truth.”
“What! about Miss Osborne?” And Lionel’s cheeks were crimson with shame.
“Yes; and, indeed, Lionel, he cannot blame you. I am sure I do not.
How could you help loving her best, if you once felt you were free to
choose? Who could help loving Violet!”
The more Ida spoke the more Lionel felt her superiority to himself,
and the consciousness was very humbling--very painful. He could not
meet it as he ought, and, therefore, he met it in an angry spirit. Her
calmness, too, and decision, annoyed him. He had expected tears, he
had expected that she would be ready to wait for the bare hope of his
return, as long as he himself should please. He was not sufficiently
master of himself to reflect on this, and own that Ida was right; and
baffled and disappointed in every way, in himself and in her, he
yielded to the annoyance he felt.
“It is no use talking and arguing, Ida. You know very well that my
father and Sir William will blame me; but as you choose to bring the
matter to an end, there is no help for it. Therefore, do as you please.
You must announce the fact, and I will write to both in a few days. And
I don’t see now that there is anything more to be said. Good-bye, Ida!”
His voice shook and his lips quivered as he came to good-bye.
“Good-bye, Lionel! I wish I could wish you happiness, but if Violet is
angry I don’t see how that is to be.”
“Never mind happiness, that is a very small matter. Good-bye!”
He held out his hand, and she gave hers. While he held it he remembered
Violet’s message, and said--
“Miss Osborne told me to say, Ida, that she could come to you whenever
you pleased. You were to send for her.”
“Thank you. I will write.”
“And if you see her, tell her she must forgive me. Tell her that I
cannot breathe unless I have her forgiveness.”
He almost crushed Ida’s hand as he spoke, so vehement was his tone.
“I will. Good-bye, dear Lionel.” And Ida softly withdrew her hand and
departed.
For through that passionate tone and touch, a chord, an answering echo,
was touched and awakened in her heart, which made her feel powerless
to endure further. It was the vague longing for something she was not
to have, it was the vague sense of something she had lost, which till
that instant had been unfelt. She slipped away and took refuge in
solitude.