“I am sad
At thought of raptures now for ever flown.”
_The Prelude._
Violet carried on for ten days her new avocations with complete success
and considerable absorption of mind. Visits to Ida were frequently
paid; and the more she saw of the simple and warm-hearted child, the
more she won upon her affections. Her natural good gifts were as plain
as the lamentable deficiencies of her education; and, not to please
Lionel Vane, but because she could not, as she had said, associate
with her without an endeavour to improve her, Violet devoted herself to
her new task. What Lionel had suggested, however, was borne in mind;
it was principle that Ida wanted, and it was principle, religious and
moral, which, little by little, Violet strove to give. It was a new
task, and, in trying to carry it out, she felt her deficiencies; but
her spirit rose with the sense of responsibility. She felt animated
by the burden laid upon her, and cheered by the hope of the good set
before her.
At the end of these ten days the blow fell. Mrs. Osborne received one
morning at breakfast a letter from Albert. She looked at a few lines,
then hurriedly glanced at her husband and Violet. But Mr. Osborne was
reading the newspaper, and Violet was smiling over a circular from an
upholsterer in the neighbouring town requesting her patronage.
She read a few lines more, then laid the letter by her side, and
endeavoured to look unconcerned.
“What does Albert say to-day?” inquired Violet.
“I have not finished his letter,” Mrs. Osborne replied. She was not
much of a diplomatist, and, accustomed to share all her thoughts with
her daughter, was perplexed how to act in this emergency.
“Is there any secret, mamma?” Violet said, gaily; “you look
guilty--don’t she, papa?”
“He does ask my opinion,” Mrs. Osborne said, the pressure of necessity
helping her to act; “you shall read the letter, dear, by-and-bye.”
“I do believe Albert is going to be married. But who can be worthy of
his fastidious taste?”
Mrs. Osborne smiled faintly, but made no answer; and Violet, though
curious, confident that every matter was sooner or later imparted to
her, asked no more. She returned to her circular, with its list of
desirable ladies’ furniture; and with no contemptuous or repining
smile, looked round their tiny rooms, and asked where the good man
expected her to stow away his treasures.
Her father answered her as gaily, and Mrs. Osborne’s abstraction was
noticed only with a laugh.
After breakfast Violet retired, as was her custom, for an hour or two
of real study. She was extremely anxious to improve in wisdom and
knowledge, and under her present excitement found it easy to attend
to dry though valuable authors, and to give herself to her work with
undivided attention. She was reading zealously in her room, when her
door opened, and Mrs. Osborne entered.
Violet looked up. The grave face startled her.
“What is the matter, mamma! Is there anything the matter?” she asked
eagerly.
“I hope not, dearest; but there is something in Albert’s letter which
may.... I do not well know.... I think, dear, you shall take and read
it, and I will come back again.”
Violet guessed now to what Albert’s secret related. Her heart beat,
then ceased beating, as she silently gazed at her mother.
“Was Leicester ill? Was Leicester false?” These were the questions that
passed rapidly through her brain, but were not spoken.
“There, dear,” and Mrs. Osborne drew the letter from her apron pocket.
“Take it and read it comfortably, and I will come back by-and-bye.”
She put it into her daughter’s passive hand, kissed her, and left the
room with a sigh.
This was Albert’s letter:--
“MY DEAR AUNT,
“I heard yesterday a piece of news which I am perplexed how to break
to Violet. Though she chose to make an end with Leicester, young
women are perverse people, and she may regret the step he is about
to take. A judgeship in India has been offered to him, and he has
accepted it. There is no doubt, I have none at least, that it is
Violet who has driven him to this; but at the same time it is a
very good thing, and except for the loss of his company, _I_ do not
regret it. He was certainly getting more known, and his prospects are
improving, but his diffidence, poor fellow, is sadly against him, and
he will do better when he has regular duties, than when they are more
or less dependent on himself. This is what I really think, and this
is what must comfort Violet, if she is disposed to blame herself and
take it to heart.
“Leicester told me yesterday of his acceptance, and in the evening I
called in Clarges Street and saw all the sisters. Margaret Leicester
told me that after the first shock they all had made up their minds
to the change, and were resolved to go with him. I am glad of this,
though I own it makes my prospects rather flat. I have not many
friends that I care about, and one by one they leave me alone in
London. Clarges Street is to be let for six years, after which time
Leicester can give up the appointment if he pleases.
“This is all I know. They are to be off in a month; and after they
are gone, I must make a holiday and run down and see you. My love to
my uncle and Violet. I shall be glad to hear from you soon.
“Your affectionate nephew,
“ALBERT ELLIS.”
Violet laid down the letter and gazed from the window. Was it the same
sunny world she had looked out upon half an hour before? Many similes
might be used to describe the sudden darkness which clouded over the
brightness of her mind, the sudden winter which nipped the spring of
her content; but they are not needed. It was for the time being the end
of all things. Hopes, good desires, aims of usefulness, and power of
enjoyment--all vanished, all were shattered by the bolt which fell.
Self was revealed, the secret heart laid bare. She knew how Leicester’s
image had been set up in that inner shrine; how his approbation had
been the spur to every action; how hope, the hope of life with him, had
taken the sting from every trial and made her future sweet. She felt it
now, and after a time of passive, stagnant wretchedness, she dropped
her face in her hands, shuddered, and wept bitterly.
Then followed strange, mad thoughts. She would write to him, go to him,
arrest him in his course. She, Violet, so proud and haughty, felt she
could kneel to him, plead with him to give up this fatal resolution.
She had wounded, she would humble herself now, and heal the wound she
had made. It was the same Violet, undisciplined still, who fell under
this blow, as she had fallen before the one which first shattered her
life’s pleasures.
When Mrs. Osborne came to her door she bolted it and refused
admittance. With the thought of others came new feelings. That pride,
or more properly that self-respect which is inseparable from a real
passion, which was not wanting even in Juliet’s frank and passionate
love, rose up to torture her. Leicester was forgetting or forsaking
her. He was shaking her from his memory, as one who had been a torment
to his peace. She felt humbled, and shrank from the pity she needed.
Sad and disappointed, yet too wise to force an intrusion on the
first bitter hours of repentance and regret, Mrs. Osborne at length
retreated and left Violet to herself.
But when two or three hours passed, and her daughter gave no signs of
relenting, she returned to the closed door.
“Violet, darling, let me in,” she softly cried. “You are unkind,
dearest, to your mother.” And Violet was conquered, and opened the door.
She sat down again in the window, and her mother laid her hand on her
shoulder, and softly stroked her hair.
“My poor darling!” she tenderly said, and kissed her.
The pity was too much for Violet’s pride.
“But why, mamma,” she cried with flashing eyes, “why am I to care for
what Mr. Leicester does?”
“Because you loved him, dear, and it would not be like you so soon to
forget.”
“_He_ forgets,” she said bitterly, and passionate rebellious tears
sprang into her eyes.
“Never, dearest! I do not think he ever will.”
Violet was arrested, and looked up into her mother’s face. A gleam of
hope, sweet and bright, flitted around her.
“Oh! mamma, how do you mean?”
“I only say what I think, dear. I know nothing. I only _feel_ that Mr.
Leicester cast all his happiness upon you, and he is not a man who
could change if he would.”
“But India, mamma,” and despair gathered again over her features.
“Yes, dear, I know. I think he is wretched, and wishes for change to
comfort him and cheer him. It is very natural, darling. It shows all
things except forgetfulness. Many things may happen to him and to you,
before six years are over. I don’t want to set your mind on him, nor
his on you; it would be unwise--but I cannot think that he will forget.”
There is a peculiar power in gentle, unexcited words; an especial power
when accompanied with tenderness. Very vague and intangible was the
hope inspired by Mrs. Osborne’s speech, but it soothed Violet--soothed
her wounded heart and pride, stilled her agitation, and, merely kissing
her mother, she rose up, washed the traces of tears from her cheeks,
and said: “I suppose it is luncheon-time. I will come down, mamma. I
will not worry you and papa if I can help it.”
“My darling!” said the fond mother, and they went down together.
And Violet exerted herself to be herself, smiled when her father
entered the room, smiled again when he related an anecdote he had heard
about Mr. Pope, and thus lulled to rest the fears for her happiness
which had been for a few hours troubling the peace of her home.
But when she saw this object accomplished, she gave a respite to her
painful efforts; and when Mr. Osborne, in his desire to amuse, proposed
a walk for the afternoon, she declined. She had a cottage to visit,
and a child’s frock to finish before she went; and, thanking him, she
escaped to solitude.
Having made her excuse, she, with the truth which was a feature of her
character, bound herself to her task, finished the frock, and late in
the afternoon strolled out alone on her visit of charity. Then only she
felt in its fulness the change that had come over her. No beauty in the
May evening could dispel the cloud that hung on nature, no rapture of
the child in her new garment, no gratitude in the poor woman for this
and other help afforded, could create one joyous feeling in her heart.
A languor, a stupor, and deadness pervaded all things in earth and in
heaven; and Violet shuddered in spirit as she contemplated the life
before her.
Nor was this mood of mind confined to that day. As time passed on, as
the excitement of the first shock of the news died away, a deader
depression settled on her spirits. Conscientiously, everything she had
undertaken to do was done; but there was as great a difference in the
temper of mind in which her tasks were now performed, as there may
be in the feelings of a jockey in a race, compared with those of a
prisoner treading the treadmill.
She heard very little, nothing that excited or pleased her. Albert
wrote as usual, and generally mentioned the Leicesters, but nothing
came that could act as medicine to her sick heart. One day he said
they had been very lucky, and had found a tenant for the house in
Clarges Street, an old couple, without children, who took it off
their hands for five years. Another day he said he had been to
dine with the Leicesters, and had found the house in a sad state of
confusion, packing having begun. At last he said they were to be off
in a fortnight at latest. But never a word from Leicester, no message
from any of the family to herself; neither was there ever a remark on
Albert’s part which implied that she was thought of with pity or with
blame; no observation by which she could feel that her share in this
event was remembered. The soreness of spirit, the sense of desolation
increased; the dreariness of life became more oppressive. Confined
to that country village, when she would have sacrificed years for
one hour in London, there were moments when the power of endurance
seemed failing. But all this took place in the silence of her heart.
She lived as usual, and said nothing--thought at least she lived as
usual, was not aware that light had left her eye, and smiles ebbed from
her lips, that her mother wept for her in the darkness of night, and
that her poor neighbours shook their heads, and in private conclave
speculated on the cause of the change that had come over her.
At last Albert wrote to say that the day of departure was fixed; that
he should go and see the Leicesters on board, and be at Holywell as
soon after they had sailed as was possible.
This was something to look to. Violet was roused from her weary,
stagnant state. She was restless, anxious, miserable; but she _felt_
again, and woke with thankfulness out of the cloud in which she had
been shrouded.
Albert arrived unexpectedly the very day after the departure. He walked
into the Cottage drawing-room at five o’clock, where Violet and her
mother were sitting. There was a cry of joy from both, and an apology
from him, that as he _could_ come straight, he thought it better to
come at once, and not to wait for a letter of announcement.
“Much better,” Violet said, and then they sat in silence, which was
broken only by formal questions regarding his journey, and what he
would have to eat.
Violet was impatient by nature, and she was restless to be comforted by
some certain word. She soon rose up and invited him to walk with her,
and on his acquiescence, left the room, and put her bonnet on.
When she was gone restraint vanished. Albert drew nearer to his aunt,
and with a nod to the door, said:
“How does she bear it? Does she take it to heart?”
“I fear she does,” Mrs. Osborne replied; “she says little, but is she
not changed? She is as dull and quiet almost as I am.”
“Women are curious creatures,” Albert remarked drily; “why did she use
him as she did? She nearly broke his heart, I can tell her.”
“I think, dear Albert, you and we also have been to blame in speaking
always and thinking of Violet as a _woman_. She is but a young girl,
scarcely twenty, and she acts with the impulses of early youth. She is
wise in many things, but nothing but years and principle and experience
teach us how to govern the passions of the heart. Poor Violet is not
the first young girl who, in a moment of excitement and misery, has
done what she has regretted for life. Perhaps,” Mrs. Osborne added,
with a sigh, “we ought not to regret that she suffers a little for her
rashness; I only pray it may end in her happiness.”
“What happiness do you mean?”
“Whatever is for her happiness,” Mrs. Osborne replied, “but, if it
please God, happiness at some time with Mr. Leicester.”
“My dear aunt!” Albert said, drawing nearer, “I had no idea you cared
so much about Leicester--valued him so highly, I mean. I wish he had
known it, poor fellow!”
“Perhaps I did not always know it myself; but we learn many things,
dear Albert, from the trials of life; and in the storm that has swept
away our earthly goods, I have learnt some things I needed to learn.
We were too ambitious for Violet. I was, I know; I wished her to be
grand and great. She reproached me in her first misery for having
taught her to overvalue the goods that perish. I shall never forget her
words. They have sunk deep, and now, I hope, I wish better things. Mr.
Leicester is a good man, and to him I should confide her with perfect
confidence. It may yet come to pass, please God!”
The impassive face had kindled as she spoke with the light of the mind
within; but it died away as she ceased, and after a moment Albert said--
“I am very glad to know your opinion on the subject, as it may help me,
if Violet questions me. But, Aunt Elizabeth, six years is a long time,
and India is very far away.”
“If it is so, then they are not attached as I think they are, nor are
they necessary to each other’s happiness. Let us leave the future
alone. I would neither encourage nor discourage Violet in thinking of
it if she pleases. She is free. She can be left to herself. I have no
anxiety about that, Albert. If she can but cheer up and be as happy
here as she was two months ago, I shall have no anxiety about her. But
Mr. Leicester, Albert; tell me....”
Before Albert could hear the question or answer it, Violet returned,
and invited him to accompany her. He had been struck by her altered
manner in the first moment of his reception, but he was more struck by
it now. The gravity of her face had a kind of settled cast, as if such
was now its predominant expression.
They strolled out into the road, but, when alone with her, Albert’s
restraint returned. He was afraid of entering on the subject which he
knew must come, and he took refuge for the moment in admiration.
“Really, Violet, I must compliment you on your taste. The Cottage, for
such a small thing, is perfect; and as to the country,” and his eye
devoured the smiling valley, “you could scarcely match such a view as
this in the whole world.”
“Yes, it is beautiful,” she replied, listlessly. “It struck me many
years ago, and I remembered it when the time came to choose.”
“I know; it showed great taste and judgment on your part. Many people
see things, but few see them with useful observation.”
When he had delivered himself of this moral sentiment, he came to a
stand, and then Violet began--
“Are the Leicesters--is Mr. Leicester gone, Albert?”
“Yes,” he said, relieved by her openness. “I saw them on board. All
very comfortable, and with some very nice companions for the voyage,
as far as one could tell, at least, by looks and a few words.”
“Were they sorry to go?” She did not dare to say, “Was he sorry?”
“Sorry, of course; but nobody cried except that poor silly girl they
call Jessie, and why she cried I don’t know. Of course it is a break
up, but they think so much of _him_, that to do him a pleasure they
would go through worse things.”
“And it is a pleasure to him to go?” Violet asked in a low voice.
“I don’t say that. But though not a pleasure it is a relief, and it is
a pleasure to them to forward his wishes, whatever they may be.”
“I am very sorry for _you_, Albert,” Violet said gently. “What shall
you do to replace such a friend?”
“Nothing,” he said shortly. “What _could_ I do? No one knows or can
know what a friend he has been to me.”
“I think I do.”
“No, you don’t. No one can. It is between him and me. But I shall not
wish to replace him. Was it not an old Duke of Ormond who said he would
rather have his dead son than any living son in Christendom, and so
I say of Leicester, absent. He is better to me even in absence than
any new friend could be. I know what he would approve and disapprove,
and I shall try and follow his example and wishes till he comes back
again. Not,” he continued, in a more careless manner, “that I am
going to retire from the world or make myself ridiculous. I shall take
acquaintances as they come, and hope to find some to make the time pass
easily. I expect no more.”
Violet made no answer. She was meditating on his words--making them her
own. Was not her absent lover more to her than any new friend could
be? Could not _she_ make herself what he would approve, and follow his
wishes till his return. If only she could have some assurance of his
constancy, to soothe her aching heart.
“Why did he go, Albert?” she asked at last abruptly.
“You know, Violet. You have no need to ask me.”
“No, I don’t,” she said tremulously.
“He went because you made his life miserable. I mean disappointment
so preyed upon him, that he could not shake it off without change of
scene. I only say what I suppose; he never told me this was the cause.
The youngest sister, Margaret, did, but he never did.”
“And does he wish to shake it off?” she asked with a heart that beat
almost to bursting.
“Of course he does.”
Albert looked round, he scarcely knew why. Her cheek was pale, and
there was a tear in her eye. It was so new and so strange a thing
to see Violet in such a mood that he scarcely understood it. Very
discreetly he looked, as if he had seen nothing, and only continued
less quickly:
“When I say of course, I only mean that no man likes to suffer. They
will try and put away misery if they can. At least unless they are
fools they will. I think Leicester wishes to put away his misery; but I
don’t at all know that he wishes to forget. He is not the sort of man
to forget easily, and when in another country, and in the midst of new
occupations, I should suppose old memories may become pleasant to him.
He will forget the pain and remember the pleasures. But I only fancy,
Violet; I tell you I know nothing whatever about his feelings for you.
Some men like to speak; I let them, and then give them any advice or
help I can. But some don’t; and Leicester is one. His feelings are very
deep and very tender; and I know that, and I never trouble him with
questions which I know he don’t like.”
She was to hear no more. This was clear. No message had been left. Her
trust drooped and died, and then sprang up again, catching at the hopes
held out to her. Albert was honest. He would have told her she was
forgotten if it was so; he would not have said Leicester did not forget
easily, unless he believed this to be a feature of his character. She
would be brave, and hope, and trust; and as she formed the resolution,
new life seemed to come to her weary spirit. The six years of absence,
of waiting and of expectation, seemed to melt away by the force of her
new-born trust; and when next she spoke, although it was still of the
Leicesters, for she was determined to know all she could, she spoke in
a different tone. All that was personal had vanished; her resolution
of constancy was formed, and to be kept in her secret heart alone. But
interest might be expressed, and with interest and vivacity she led
Albert on to talk, till the events of the last few months, such events
as were connected with the Leicester family, were laid, in fragments
indeed, but picturesque fragments, before her. She must make of these
what she could, when she had time to think; but meanwhile there was
_life_ in the hearing of his name, and Albert scarcely understood his
companion, nor the mother her daughter, when Violet cheerfully joined
in the conversation of the evening.