“... The new day comes, the light
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults
Lived over.”
_The Princess_.
The simple reception of Leicester’s letter had brought hope and
animation to Violet. She was destined to receive encouragement to her
hopes at a time, and from a source, that was little expected.
In the month of January there was a good deal of illness in the
neighbourhood of Holywell. The winter was mild, but influenza and
rheumatism were very prevalent, and Violet had constant occupation in
paying consolatory visits to the various sick persons whom she took
under her charge. Among those attacked by the latter complaint was the
landlady of the little country inn. Rheumatism settled in her knees,
and for several weeks she was disabled from her usual active life,
and confined to her little parlour. After a time Violet heard of her
illness, and, always kind, paid her a friendly visit. She found her low
and dull, and returned again and again, supplying her with books both
profitable and amusing, and, with what she prized far more, a ready
listener and sympathizing companion.
They had been simple acquaintances before, they now became friends,
and Violet herself received entertainment from the shrewd remarks and
quaint conversation of the old dame.
She found her one day extremely low; on inquiring into the cause, she
was informed that a very nice young gentleman had arrived.
“Such a one as I _like_, Miss Osborne, and I can’t see to him the least
bit; and though Sally’s a good girl, and does her duty well enough, she
does not see into the gentleman’s minds as I do; and many a comfort I
should be glad to give, and never mind the cost, he won’t have, because
it has pleased God to send me this rheumatism.”
“But I think,” Violet said consolingly, “young gentlemen are in the
habit of thinking of their own comforts. Don’t you think he will tell
Sally what he wants?”
“Some will, Miss Osborne, and I don’t care a button for them. Sally may
wait on them for ever and ever, and I won’t grumble; but some gentlemen
are modest, and when they come to a decent house such as this, they
take what they find and make no noise, and _them_ I like to treat to a
few comforts out of the way, and never care for the cost.”
“You must see a great many, and very different sorts of people, Mrs.
Wilkinson. Always, I suppose, somebody coming and going?”
Thus Violet led her on to talk of her life’s experiences--a favourite
topic.
“Always, Miss Osborne, and has been this twenty-five years. I have seen
a good deal in my day, and seeing gives practice, you know; and now I
do but need to look at a gentleman as he walks in, or even to hear him
call ‘Landlady,’ and I know in a second what he’s made of.”
“And have you made many friends among your many acquaintances?”
“Well, Miss Osborne, I’m not one of those who run up a friendship out
of nothing. I must have _grounds_ to like before I take to liking. Some
smooth people are caught by a pink face, or a palavering tongue, but
I am not. I like the pink face well enough, but I like a good heart
better. Some young gentlemen come here, and I never ask them to come
again; I would as lief they stayed away; and some I like, as the world
goes; we are friends and we are not friends; they may come or go as
they please; but some few I lodge in my heart, and it aches at times to
think I never shall see _them_ again.”
Amused and interested at her classification of her guests, Violet
inquired a little further, asking particulars regarding the qualities
that pleased her best.
“It’s hard to say, Miss Osborne. I can no more tell you why sometimes,
when a gentleman steps in, my heart flies to him, than I can tell how
this rheumatism gets into my bones; but this I know, it never flies to
him without good reason. If you, even you, Miss Osborne, was to tell me
that you had seen him misconduct himself with your own eyes, I should
give you the lie, for I should know it _couldn’t be_,” and she slapped
her hand on the table.
“That is being very confident,” Violet said, and she sighed, for she
felt she had not a like confidence in most of her fellow-creatures.
“Not a bit too much, because I see and I know. Now, there was a
gentleman down here last year, not so very young, nor old neither;
and I did but see him for an hour or so, for he did not sleep in the
house, but I never can forget him. I know he couldn’t do a bad thing;
_couldn’t do it_ if he tried; and though I saw him but the once, my
heart aches when I think of him; and I believe I would walk twenty
miles with the rheumatism and all, if I could have but the luck to see
his face again.”
“And who was he?” Violet said with some curiosity.
“I don’t know who he was. He came here for an hour or so, and we
had a good bit of talk. We talked about you, Miss Osborne, and Miss
Hamilton, and Mr. Vane, and all the world about here. That is, he
listened kindly, for he was not much of a talker himself. A sweet,
modest gentleman, who had a bit of colour coming and going in his face;
and, as I told him, I did not believe he would dare to call ‘Boots,’ he
seemed so modest and so shy.”
Violet’s heart fluttered, she scarcely knew why. She knew it was
impossible, but Leicester came into her mind.
“And that is the sort of person you like?” she asked lightly, though
there was a bit of colour coming and going on _her_ cheek also.
“Why, Miss Osborne, as to _him_, a queen might have liked him, for he
had a fine presence. Not so very young, and a bit of grey here and
there in his black hair; but a fine noble countenance, and something in
his eyes so sad and so sweet, I find him lodging in my heart when I’m
least thinking about him.”
“It must have been him!” Violet thought, and she scarcely dared to ask
another question.
“And are you sure you will never see him again?” at last she said.
“He said he was a Londoner, but I told him I should be happy to see
him, and he said he would not forget. He was down here, let me see, the
day of the great feast, Mr. Vane’s feast, and he went out to see it,
for he said he was a Londoner and did not often see such sights; but he
only stayed a half-hour or so, and then came home again, and set off,
looking weary enough. But, however, he saw the country, and he thought
it a beautiful country.”
Violet’s face was in a crimson glow as she thought of that day.
Remembering all its events, she became certain Leicester had been at
Holywell. After a moment’s consideration, determined to be more sure if
she could, she said--
“I can’t help thinking that I know this person. Are you sure you do not
remember his name?”
“I was fancying you knew him,” said her keen-eyed companion; “and I
should be glad to remember if I could; but I don’t so much as think I
overheard the name. On a bit of a book he was reading there was a name
of one of them Northern towns, but I don’t call to mind what it was.
I only remember thinking how did it come from the north if he was a
Londoner; but it may have belonged to some friend.”
“Leicester,” Violet said quietly.
“I believe it was, Miss Osborne; but a name is but a name, and I don’t
trouble myself to remember them all. Bless you, it would need the
memory of a King Solomon to remember all the names that are belled
about in my ears. I think of the _man_, and that’s enough for me.”
“Mamma,” Violet said, seating herself by her mother, when shortly
afterwards she re-entered the Cottage, “did you ever hear of Mr.
Leicester’s being in this neighbourhood?” There was something almost
stern in her countenance as she anxiously fixed it on Mrs. Osborne’s
face.
“I, dearest?” Mrs. Osborne asked in astonishment. “No, never.”
“I am glad you did not,” Violet replied with a look and sigh of
relief. All the way homewards she had been picturing as she walked
that questions had been asked about her in private; that others had
undertaken to answer for her state of mind; and the idea had worked
like madness in her brain. “I could not have borne to think you had.
But he was here, mamma, last summer. Old Mrs. Wilkinson just told me
so. Why did he come, and why did he go?”
“I cannot tell.” Mrs. Osborne looked extremely perplexed. After a
little consideration she said, “Do you like me to find out from Albert,
dear?”
“Oh! no, mamma, not for the whole world!” She rose from her seat, and
as she kissed her mother’s forehead, added, “All mysteries come to
light at some time or other,” and left the room.
And asked no more. She could have patience now. Mysteries there might
be; a mistake there might have been; but Leicester had not forgotten
her, and that knowledge was enough.
The months flowed on. It had been settled by Mr. Osborne and Violet
that the projected removal should not take place till the close of
the following autumn. By that time Ida’s new life would be a settled
thing, and probably the wish of his young wife to see more of the world
would in some degree enlarge the sphere of Sir William’s acquaintance,
and allow his daughter other society than that of her stepmother and
Mrs. White. Should a son be born to Sir William, possibly great changes
might take place; but be it as it might, Violet had been satisfied
after this year to leave things at Boscombe to take their own course,
and to allow her father and herself to follow where their wishes led
them.
This arrangement had been made before the discovery of Leicester’s
visit. The discovery did not make her impatient. There was a day on
which her mind was fixed as that on which all should be made clear;
either she would know she was given up, or she would know that she was
loved. In the course of the summer a young Ellis was expected to make
its appearance, and there could be no doubt that some among them would
be invited to undertake the responsible office of sponsor. She had
looked to this; to this she still looked, and now, relieved in mind and
heart, hopeful and cheerful, could wait and be patient.
The months flowed on. If Violet had been one whose mind was pleased
with the follies of human kind, these months might have given
considerable entertainment in the struggles for supremacy which arose
between Ashford Park and Boscombe.
The new Lady Ashford, a well-conducted but vulgar-minded girl, elated
with her good fortune, was desirous of securing all the attention
that was her due. The Dowager Lady Hamilton--(for Amy, in this as in
all other respects, behaved with perfect propriety, and to the utmost
of her power withdrew from the contest)--ambitious for her daughter,
endeavoured to surpass Lady Ashford, and since she could not do so in
rank, made a show of superior riches and grandeur. If Lady Ashford gave
in charity, Lady Hamilton gave doubly and trebly to the same. When it
was known that Lady Ashford had insisted having on a new paper for her
sitting-room--and, indeed, it was much required--Lady Hamilton was
forced by her mother to make a request for the same, although hers did
not require it. Lady Ashford’s paper was cheap, though gaudy. Amy’s
was, therefore, studded with gold. When Lady Ashford, persuaded by
Mr. Pope to go to church regularly, arrived in a barouche, Mrs. White
refused to be conveyed thither in any less splendid manner. In all
things great, and all things small, the same rivalry was carried on;
and if the time should ever come when the two houses opened their doors
for the admission of general society, it was probable that the noise of
the strife would be heard far and near.
But Violet, though she sometimes smiled, was far more inclined to sigh
at the pitiable sight; and her compassion for Ida increased as she
watched the despicable turmoil that such a rivalry excited in her home.
“Oh! Ida,” she said one day, “I wish you would give me your receipt for
bearing with the follies of the world. I do not find that Christian
charity is enough. That makes me bear with all kinds of infirmities,
and even with wickedness; but I do not find it enough for Mrs. White.”
Ida smiled a little at her vehemence, but said:
“I am so sorry for papa, and for Amy, too, that I would not for the
world seem to see all I do see. I know they are often annoyed, and I
do my best to pass things off quietly. My hope, too, is, that Mrs.
White will improve. She used to grumble, you know; now she boasts;
but when she is used to being comfortable, that will go off; and if I
have a great many brothers and sisters, as I hope I shall, she will
have other things to care for, and, I dare say, may become a good
grandmother.”
“In short, Ida, yours is the Christian charity which not only beareth,
but hopeth all things. Well, I will try and hope too; but it vexes me,
no one can tell how much, to see what you have to bear.”
For the sting of Mrs. White’s follies, which Violet’s charity was
insufficient to pardon, lay in herself. If Ida had been married to
Lionel, Mrs. White could not have vexed, how great soever her folly
might have been.
The months flowed on, till the day on which Violet’s heart was set
arrived. A Miss Ellis was born in June, and, as had been hoped and
expected, at the end of July she was christened Violet, and Violet was
her god-mother. She went up with Mr. Osborne to the christening, and
she and Leicester stood together at the font.
Leicester met her as he had done the year before, with kindness, with
consideration, with everything but warmth; the same constraint sat upon
him, and froze Violet. Beneath its influence timidity again stole over
her; that trust in his feeling for her which, in the distance, had
seemed so strong, died away, and those efforts she had intended to make
to destroy the barrier between them became an impossibility. At one
time it seemed probable that this day would close as unsatisfactorily
as the memorable day on the year before. But it was destined to be
otherwise.
On the return from church a luncheon was provided at Albert’s small
house, and a few special friends were invited to partake of it.
As they stood in the drawing-room, Albert said:
“I am going to have the child brought down for you to see, Violet, and
you, Leicester.” Leicester was at a little distance, but approached on
hearing his name. “I don’t the least expect admiration for so small a
thing, but it is proper that you should both make acquaintance with
your charge. I know you are busy to-day, Leicester, but wait, I beg
you, and don’t go till it comes,” and he left the room; possibly not
without some thought in his head of bringing Violet and Leicester
together.
“Busy to-day.” The words rang like a knell in Violet’s ears, and she
could scarcely refrain from repeating them with her lips. The time to
which she had so looked forward, in a few moments, then, would be gone.
Leicester stood by her side, but she could think of no question with
which to address him, except that one which was in her heart, which for
months had been on her tongue, but which her tongue refused to utter,
“Why did you come to Holywell?”
Seeing her thus standing silent, the old gentleman, her great admirer,
one of those old friends of the Leicester family, who came to every
ceremonial, approached her and claimed her for his own. He began, as he
had done the year before, to descant on the beauties of Devonshire,
making new and eager inquiries into what parts she had been, and the
few remaining minutes of Leicester’s society were snatched from her
grasp.
Despair was in Violet’s heart; but we are all blind mortals, and little
know in things great and small what will be for our good.
Despair was in Violet’s heart, but, after one instant, the natural
sweetness and kindliness of her disposition prevailed over her despair.
She would not disappoint his eager expectations, and, remembering the
argument of the year before, recurred to it. It had been regarding the
relative beauties of the neighbourhood of Holywell with other and more
famous parts of Devonshire.
“Time has not changed my opinion,” she said playfully, “I am still
ready to fight a battle for Holywell.”
The old gentleman was delighted--flattered at her recollection of a
former conversation, and delighted to renew the strife. He jested with
her about her prejudices, and endeavoured to displace Holywell from the
high station on which she had throned it, with many words and merry
ones--but in vain.
“It comes to this, then,” he said suddenly, “we must lay the case
before a judge, and vow to stand by his decision. Will Leicester do?
Leicester,” slightly raising his voice, “are you competent? Have you
ever seen Holywell?”
Violet started. This question, which her lips trembled to put, yet
dared not frame, was asked in her hearing. Surprised, startled,
expectant, she turned her eyes upon him to hear the answer.
He was standing in the shadow of the window curtain, while Violet stood
in the full light of the window, but the flush that overspread his
cheek was such as no shadow could conceal. That flush, however, was
involuntary. His voice and words were composed and sedate.
“Yes,” he said, “I saw it once, and own its beauty. Of the rest of
Devonshire I have seen but little, but, unless books and pictures are
more false than they are even usually allowed to be, I am afraid I must
give my verdict against Miss Osborne.”
The old gentleman, though he rated Leicester severely for his want of
gallantry, was enchanted, and went off, to Violet’s relief, to relate
to Mr. Osborne what had passed;--to her relief, and yet to her dismay.
He went, and again there was silence. But the agony of the moment’s
suspense, the dread of losing that favourable chance, the conviction
that that flush confessed some feeling concealed within, the intense
desire to penetrate the mystery--these and other sensations spurred
Violet on, stilled her, gave her courage, and, almost before she
knew her lips had formed the words, she had said quietly and even
indifferently,
“When did you see Holywell, Mr. Leicester?”
But, though she spoke quietly, she did not dare to raise her eyes to
watch the effect of the question. She pulled a flower from a nosegay
she held, and then endeavoured to force it into its place again.
Leicester cast his eyes upon her, and a swift sudden hope leapt into
his heart.
“One day last year,” he replied in a voice that tried to be natural,
but was not.
“I feared so,” Violet said.
She paused a moment, while the happiness of life hung trembling in the
balance; then gathering courage and speaking with calmness and quiet
dignity, continued--
“I say fear, because the truth is, we heard of your visit, and I must
confess that I do not think it was the act of a friend to come so near,
and yet to pass us by.”
“You are right,” he replied with emotion. “It was not the act of a
friend. But I cannot be a friend. I told you so once before; I repeat
it now. It is beyond my power.”
They stood side by side, immoveable and dumb. Violet dared not
speak--dared not look up; and Leicester with eager eyes examined her
attitude, endeavouring thence to gather whether he was to speak, or for
ever hold his peace.
A scream from Miss Ellis gave notice of her approach. The imminent
danger of losing such a moment gave to Leicester’s coward heart the
spur it needed. He stooped his head and said low but firmly--
“It is because I would be more than a friend. If that is still too
presumptuous a hope, give me a sign, and it shall be cast away for
ever.”
And when the infant, robed in lace, was brought to claim the attention
of its sponsors, the barrier built up seven years before was broken
down.
Albert glanced a look, saw how it was, and was satisfied.