“Who loves must fear, and sure who loves like me
Must greatly fear.”
MASON’S _Elfrida_.
The six weeks interval passed rapidly. The wedding-day arrived. Mrs.
Osborne remained at home. She was well, but never strong; and the long
absence from excitement and fatigue which her country life had procured
her, had made her in fancy, if not in reality, unequal to anything of
the kind. Mr. Osborne and Violet went to the house of a friend near
London, but, since Mrs. Osborne could not accompany them, only for two
days. Albert came to them on the evening of their arrival, told them
all the arrangements, and gave his precise instructions. He was rather
proud of his arrangements. Margaret, he was sorry to say, was growing
nervous, and he had tried so to plan the whole affair that there should
be no waitings about, nor any extra thing to tire or excite her.
Violet was to be at the door of St. George’s Church at twenty minutes
before twelve, and he would be there to receive her.
Mr. Osborne and Violet did as they were told. At a quarter before
twelve Albert came to their carriage, and saying Margaret would arrive
in a moment, begged Violet to come to the church door, and after the
arrival to follow her and Rachel as they walked straight to the altar.
She obeyed like one in a dream, and there stood awaiting the moment
which after six years should bring her and Leicester face to face once
more.
She had not long to wait. The Leicesters’ carriage arrived, and
Leicester got out. He first assisted Rachel from the carriage and
up the steps of the portico, and she came on straight to Violet and
shook hands with her with great warmth and cordiality. They then stood
together while Leicester and Margaret passed. Margaret had, as Albert
said, been growing nervous. This day it was more than nervousness. She
could not leave the house of the brother whom she so passionately
loved with calmness, and there had been a terrible scene before they
left it. Leicester now passed rapidly with her to the altar; yet as
he passed he turned his head and gave a glance and a sweet smile of
recognition to Violet. She followed again, with Rachel, in a trance,
hardly realizing what was going forward; outwardly calm, and still, and
lovely, and bright; inwardly, the mind a blank, from the intensity of
feeling with which she watched and waited for the events of the day.
When the service was over, and Albert conducted Margaret to the vestry,
Leicester turned before he followed her, and shook hands kindly with
both Violet and her father. He did not speak, but again with a slight
smile of invitation invited them to follow as he passed on.
They did follow, and almost instantly Albert came to Violet.
“We are getting through it as fast as we can, for she’s in a terribly
nervous state, poor thing; but come and sign your name, Violet, I
should like to have you. Come.”
He touched her arm, and she obeyed. Leicester was writing. He looked up
as she approached, and with the same kind half smiling look put his pen
into her hand. The look was so peculiar, so devoid of anything except
kindness and friendliness, that even while it troubled it stilled her.
She wrote, and meanwhile Albert, justly proud of his arrangements,
had got the carriage ready, and he and Margaret went off. Rachel and
Leicester followed. They paused to beg Violet and Mr. Osborne to come
to luncheon in Clarges Street.
This was no surprise, for Albert had told them it was to be, and
thither they proceeded.
The Leicesters had many friends, and though so late in August and the
marriage so private a one, between twenty and thirty people were in the
drawing-room when they arrived.
Rachel soon came down. She invited Violet to sit on the couch with her,
and told her all particulars, as to one who had a special interest
and special right to know. She said Margaret was too much agitated to
appear. That Leicester was with her now, but that when luncheon was
ready he would come down, and she would return to her. They were to
start at two, and she almost wished it had been settled for an earlier
hour. They were going to a place that had been lent them, about thirty
or forty miles from London.
It was not long before Leicester appeared. He pointed out to Mr.
Osborne the lady he wished him to take, and then offered his arm to
Violet. She rose and they went down together.
“I am sorry Rachel cannot come,” he began at once, as if determined
there should be no silences; “but poor Margaret is rather a spoiled
child, and when she is over-excited we are obliged to give way to her.
She promised me yesterday that she would go through it bravely, but
the promise is forgotten, and she cannot help it.”
Violet felt timid, and unlike herself. She hardly knew what she
answered, and no more was said till she found herself seated with
Leicester at the top of a long table. Mr. Osborne and the lady, an
aunt of the Leicesters, were opposite. An old gentleman, whom Violet
in former days had very slightly known, but who had always loudly
expressed to others his admiration of her and her beauty, came and sat
at the side of the table next to her.
Leicester attended carefully to her wants, and whether it were the
nearness of intercourse, or whether it were that Violet’s timidity--a
mood and manner once seen, but not the mood and manner which lived in
his remembrance of her--made him more bold, he said, in a voice far
less constrained, far less stilling to agitating thoughts,
“I hope your opinion of this marriage is like mine. I should be glad to
think that you look on it as I do.”
“If you mean my approbation,” Violet said heartily, “it is much more
than that. It is so much the best thing that could have happened to
poor Albert, that I only wonder how such good fortune was brought
about.”
“You must not depreciate Ellis,” Leicester said in reply. “I think you
were always disposed to do so. He may not have brilliant qualities, but
if we consider only the steadiness and industry in his profession, and
the constancy to one object which he has shown for six years, I think
he is entitled to our respect and admiration.”
The words “which you were always disposed to do,” pleased Violet. As
the drowning catch at twigs, so she caught at this slight recurrence to
old opinions as a favourable symptom of his present state of mind. She
felt she had lived in his thoughts; that the old conversations they had
held had been silently repeated in his mind, as they had been in hers.
Another word had also fallen like music on her ear, the word
“constancy.” Surely he would not have chosen Albert’s six years’
constancy as a topic for praise unless he himself were an example of
the like virtue, unless he were entitled to the same commendation.
Whether or not these inferences were justly drawn they elated her, and
it seemed as if something of old relations was about to be resumed, the
old relations of friendship, not of love, the first happy beginning,
not the clouded close, when a servant came to speak to Leicester. It
was a message from Rachel, and he rose to answer it. The old gentleman
who sat on her other side, and who was longing to engage her attention
to himself, immediately on seeing her free, began to speak; and when
Leicester resumed his seat, the lady on his other side addressed him.
Violet was annoyed, but she suddenly felt so joyous and happy, that she
could not be much annoyed at anything, and, seeing that for the moment
her selfish thoughts must be subdued, she, with her usual good-humour
and sweetness of manner, gave her attention where it was required.
The old gentleman began to talk of Devonshire and its beauties, and
Violet spoke with the warmth that was natural to her when she agreed
strongly. After some little conversation on its external beauties, a
few questions, as to how much of it she had seen, what parts were most
to be admired, and what parts _she_ most admired--on which latter part
of the subject a slight altercation took place--he suddenly said,
“And how has young Vane turned out?”
If a shot had suddenly been discharged between Leicester and Violet,
they could scarcely have been more startled than at this question; for
it so happened that Lionel had passed at that moment from the thoughts
of both as completely as if he had never existed. Leicester simply
started, glanced one side glance at Violet, and then bidding adieu to
a momentary hope that had been stealing over him, resumed his late
constrained composure, and gave his attention, his apparent attention
at least, to the lady at his left side.
Violet, taken by surprise, cast down her eyes, blushed deeply, and
while she answered with outward quietness, “I believe he has turned out
very well,” nervously picked to pieces a chicken bone on which she was
engaged.
The old gentleman, unsuspicious and short-sighted, saw nothing; but to
one observant, interested, and keen as Leicester was, her countenance
was what would have been called “a tell-tale face.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” continued her friend, “for Lord
Ashford is an old acquaintance of mine. We were at college together,
and though I have seen but little of him since those days, he is one
of those persons one cannot forget. I suppose I must own that in some
things he is not much entitled to approbation, but somehow or other I
always find myself banishing harsh thoughts, and yielding to the charm
he exercises.”
“I believe your feeling is the common one,” Violet replied. “I cannot
say I felt the charm myself.”
“Perhaps not. I daresay you are right. But I am glad you approve of
young Vane. I had heard a less favourable account. I had heard he was
a selfish youth, and a negligent, or I might say an undutiful son,
and my heart, knowing poor Ashford’s affectionate nature, bled for his
father.”
“I think that was a very unfair report,” Violet began with her usual
eagerness; then suddenly remembering that her opinion of Lionel had
been in a degree at least qualified, paused to consider what it was
that she did think, and went on sedately, “I mean that unless we know
a person’s difficulties, we ought not to sit in judgment on their
conduct. Mr. Vane had difficulties, and though he may not always have
acted rightly, he had excuses which the world in general cannot know.”
“You are a kind and merciful advocate,” the old gentleman said smiling,
and put up his glass to see better her expressive face.
“I only try to be just,” she said.
And having, as she thought, thoroughly done her duty, she took
advantage of the pause to turn her head, and the old gentleman betook
himself to his other neighbour.
But she did not find the Leicester from whom she had turned a few
minutes before. He was another man; as regarded her, at least, another
man. Had the countenance not been sufficient, her words would have
assured him of what he suspected. The eager beginning, the sudden
recollection, the quiet yet decisive defence, all told of an interest
not perhaps as yet a surely-defined and settled interest, but an
interest which would lead to bright hopes and a happy lot in the future.
“And what am I?” he said in his heart, “that I should, even were it
possible, interpose my shadow before those brighter prospects.”
A thought unworthy of Leicester, yet too common to that proud yet
humble atmosphere in which he lived and moved.
When she turned her face towards him, still lighted with the sudden
happiness that had risen in her heart, eager to return to those old
relations that had been about, as she hoped, to be resumed, he,
misinterpreting the meaning of that speaking face, yet not the less
resolved to go through with his duty as host, roused himself to
converse with her. But the unbending and freedom of his first few
words was gone. He spoke with kind interest of Mrs. Osborne, with more
than interest, with warmth and affection, of his regret at not seeing
her, and his hope of seeing her at some future time; but there was a
something that suddenly froze Violet’s budding hopes--froze them as
suddenly as they had lately expanded. She could not argue, she could
only feel she had been mistaken.
The precious time passed on, and no step was gained. A shadow stole
over Violet’s face, and the conversation flagged. The moment Leicester
saw the carriage drive to the door, he looked round, and, seeing with
relief that all were ready to move, rose from the table. When he had
risen, he said to Violet with a smile,
“As I daresay you will like to see the departure, I will leave the door
open. If you follow me to the door and stand near it you will see us
pass.”
She thanked him, and he went before her, making way through the crowd
of chairs and people about the table. He stationed her in a proper
place, and then hurried away.
She leaned against a chair, sad at heart. She scarcely knew why she was
so sad, but it was the sickness of dying hope that was stealing over
her.
Albert came in a moment to wish her good-bye.
“We are going off as quickly as we came,” he said. “It will never do
to go on as she is doing. She has had six weeks to think about it, and
yet, I believe, she never thought what it would be to leave Leicester
before. Now she would give the whole thing up if she could.”
“That is not an agreeable prospect for you,” Violet said, smiling at
the placid way in which this statement was made.
“Oh! you don’t suppose I mind. Those violent things are never lasting.
We shall do very well in a day or two. There they come, and I must go.
Tell my uncle I did not want to make fuss by creeping through the crowd
to him. Good-bye.”
Violet glanced out, and saw at the foot of the stairs Margaret
clinging to Leicester, as if nothing could ever part her from him.
Albert approached, gently unloosened her clasp, and hurried her to the
carriage; and Leicester and Rachel disappeared.
Tears came into Violet’s eyes, partly at the sight she had witnessed,
still more as she said, “What did I not throw away?--what have I not
thrown away for ever?” She dashed them away, and moved to a window,
and there stood looking out--looking out on vacancy, for nothing but
a few empty carriages was to be seen--till Leicester’s voice made her
start.
“Margaret was very sorry not to see you,” he said, “but she could not,
poor thing! It has been a sad business; but she was the youngest,
almost my daughter, and we must excuse her. She begged me to give you
this with her love, and with some messages, which you will fancy better
than I can repeat them.”
He smiled, but his voice was tremulous, and Violet’s heart was more
tremulous still. When he added, “Shall I put it on?” and she held out
her hand, it shook so much that she was terrified at herself.
The present was a belt of plain gold, fastening with a clasp tight to
the arm. Leicester’s hand slightly trembled also, and it was a moment
before he caught the fastening. In that moment Violet’s terror at her
emotion had reached a point which gave her strength to conquer it, and
when he raised his head she said, gaily:
“It is the prettiest bridesmaid’s present I ever saw. I will write in
a day or two to Margaret to thank her and express my feelings. What is
the name of their post town?”
Thankful at being so easily released, though perhaps startled, or
rather jarred upon, by the gay tone of her voice, Leicester moved to a
table and wrote the direction, and, as he returned, the carriage drove
to the door, and Mr. Osborne, who was anxious to be gone, came to
Violet’s side to summon her. She hurried upstairs to find Rachel, and
when she came down Leicester was standing in the hall, and held out his
arm to take her to the carriage.
When he put her in, he said:
“I am afraid this is good-bye; Rachel and I are going out of town for a
day or two. I was afraid of the excitement for Rachel’s health.”
Violet shook hands, said good-bye, and drew back. This was the last
blow. This was, then, the end of the day so fondly pictured. This was
the end of her six years of constancy.
Mr. Osborne glanced in his daughter’s face, saw how pale it was, and
imagined the cause. He took out a letter, and, as they drove towards
Kensington, left her in peace.
This was her only time of peace, such as it was; for the kind friend
who received them had prepared shoppings, and such other pleasures as
the end of August could afford, for Violet’s entertainment on this day
and the next; and on the following they returned home.
During the long journey of that day she sat in profound thought,
looking on her future life, and asking herself how it was to be borne.
As the twilight came on a few tears fell down her cheeks, and she had
scarcely the pride or the strength to shake them away. And all the
while, as her father sat by her side, apparently reading a novel, or
dozing, he was anxiously watching her, and questioning what could be
done to restore his darling to herself.
They arrived late, dined quickly, and after dinner Violet went to help
the maid in the unpacking. When she re-entered the drawing-room, her
mother called her, and said, smilingly:
“Come here, dearest, your father is talking treason. What do you think
he says?”
“What, mamma?” and Violet tried to seem interested.
“Why, he says this taste of London has done him harm, and that he
begins to think of a small house near London for our old age. But that
is treason, is it not, darling?”
A shoot of joy and hope, so sudden that it was like a pain, took
Violet’s breath away for a moment.
“Oh! mamma, papa does not really wish it?” she said, endeavouring to
speak quietly.
“I think he does, dear. You should have heard all he has been saying;
but we cannot think of it without your consent.”
“My consent!”
Violet paused, and then in the agitation of her heart her thoughts took
a sudden turn; it came to her mind, and she felt with shame that it was
always the same--her parents caring for her, not she for them.
“Oh! mamma, I cannot bear that word,” she said in a broken voice. “You
must not talk of my consent. Wherever you are happiest, I will be happy
too.”
“I know, darling,” her mother said, stroking her hand. “I only said
consent, because you know we could not be happy unless you were well
pleased. What do you say, dear? Could you leave Holywell?”
“Holywell is not what it was, mamma,” she said with a sigh.
“Well, darling,” said her father, “we must do nothing in a hurry; but
think it well over. You know with your help we may be able to have a
nice little house near London, now, and see our old friends again.”
The oppressive weight was lifted from Violet’s heart. A gleam of
light had dawned in the future. But she was not so blind as not to
perceive that her parents were, as usual, studying her good, and
perhaps sacrificing to it their own pleasure. The time was past when
such sacrifices could be permitted. Violet was much changed. She was
gradually learning distrust of herself and genuine humility, and in the
light which humility pours into the mind, was becoming acquainted with
her heart, with the true cause of her faults and follies, and with the
imperfections attending her best desires. And with Violet to know, was
not simply to know. She was changed; and she meant to change. She took
a lesson from Ida’s unselfish life, that Ida whom she had instructed,
and resolved to be herself unselfish and submissive as Ida was.
In this frame of mind she determined that no restless desires to escape
from Holywell--in plain words, to escape into the air where Leicester
breathed--should lead her to yield to the purposed departure unless she
had grounds to think it would be for her parents’ happiness as well as
her own. This resolve was made before she closed her eyes that night,
and the resolve itself brought peace to her troubled and disappointed
heart.