IMPRESSIONS.
Five o'clock came, and with it Leicester Dodson.
It had been very warm out all day; it was warm still, but Mr. Dodson
did not look at all distressed, and his velvet lounging jacket hung
loosely and comfortably upon his strong, muscular frame.
"Have you courage enough to face the weather?" he said, putting his
head through the window frame, "or do you give in?"
"No," said Violet, laughing; "on the contrary, I feel quite brave. I
will not keep you long. Will you take a seat while I get my hat?"
He entered, sauntered to a chair, and dropped into it, prepared to wait
the three-quarters of an hour which ladies usually require for donning
hat and cape.
But Violet was quick and impulsive in all her actions, and before ten
minutes had passed he heard her voice on the stairs again, speaking to
a servant.
Before she entered the room, however, the door opened, and Captain
Murpoint came in.
"Oh, here you are, Mr. Dodson," he said. "Can you tell me at what time
the post goes out?"
"Six o'clock," said Leicester.
"So soon?" returned the captain. "I am afraid I shall be compelled to
deprive myself of the pleasure of accompanying you. I have some rather
important letters to write, and shall barely have time to get through
them."
"I am sorry for that," said Leicester Dodson, quietly telling a polite
falsehood, for he was in reality rather glad than otherwise, and looked
forward with no little satisfaction to a _tête-à-tête_ with Violet.
"So am I," said the captain, and, as he spoke, he looked round about
the room, as if searching for something.
"Lost anything?" asked the other, in his slow, indolent way.
"Y--es," said Captain Murpoint, "a letter. I have dropped it from my
pocket, and I fancied I should see it in this room."
At that moment the door opened and Violet entered.
The captain ceased his hunt immediately, and, murmuring softly, "It's
of no consequence," turned to Violet and told her that he should be
compelled to remain at home.
"I am sorry," said Violet, echoing Leicester's words, and with as
little truth.
And she passed out onto the lawn.
"I don't know whether James has harnessed the ponies properly," she
said, doubtfully, as the groom appeared, leading up the pretty pair
tandem fashion.
"No, he hasn't," said Leicester, after examining them.
And he quietly explained to the man how the operation should be
performed.
Then he handed Violet into the little toy phaeton, and took the reins.
At first the ponies, unused to their novel positions and quite fresh
after two days' rest, showed signs of rebellion, and started first to
one side, then the other, and at last the leader ventured to attempt
the feat of walking on his hind legs.
But Mr. Leicester's iron hand drew him to earth again, and, with a
touch of the long whip, hinted to him that a very different driver than
Miss Violet sat behind him.
After a few minutes they settled down more quietly, and, as the
feathery phaeton was rattled down the well-kept road to the village,
Violet's face flushed and her eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"How delightful!" she exclaimed; "and how easy it looks!"
"Come and try," said Mr. Leicester, and he pulled the ponies up until
he had changed seats with her.
Then Violet found that tandem-driving was one of those feats which
look easier to perform than they really are. Her hold on the reins was
not tight enough; the artful little creatures knew her gentle touch,
and the leader commenced his old trick, and, in spite of all Violet's
skill, insisted upon turning round, as if he meant to enter the
carriage and take a ride himself.
Mr. Leicester smiled, and Violet pouted.
"Hold the reins tighter," he said, "and give Master Dot--or Spot? which
is it?--a clean, little cut on the left side."
She did so, and Master Dot immediately spun round to the right.
Then Mr. Leicester showed her how to keep him straight by whipping him
on the right, and Violet managed to drive him straight for some little
distance until they came to a sharp corner.
"Now, take care," said Mr. Leicester; but his warning came too late.
Dot cut the corner rather close, Spot, of course, cut it closer, and
the phaeton would have been over, and its contents spilled like eggs,
had not Mr. Dodson's hand closed on the small ones of Violet, and
tugged the leader round.
For the second time Violet learned how hard and firm that hand was, and
involuntarily she uttered a little, sharp cry of pain.
"I am so sorry!" said Leicester, and his voice, naturally so cold and
grave, grew wonderfully gentle and anxious. "I did not mean to hurt
you."
"No, no; it's nothing," Violet said, coloring with shame at her
weakness. "I am really very grateful. You did not hurt me. May I keep
the reins a little longer? I don't deserve to after such a silly
mistake."
"Yes," he said, "there is a bit of straight road now."
He seemed so genuinely kind that Violet could not refrain from thanking
him again.
"You are very good-natured, Mr. Dodson," she said. "I might have
thought you proud if I had judged by first impressions."
"Why?" he asked.
"Why?" she repeated. "Are you sure that I shall not offend you?"
"Quite," he said, with a short laugh. "Pray, go on."
"Well, then, if you remember how abruptly you turned away from me that
morning when you so foolishly and recklessly, but so heroically, risked
your life for my paltry sunshade? You actually refused to shake hands,"
and she laughed, "and turned away with the cut direct."
He laughed, and looked up at her with a half-amused smile.
"I did, did I?" he said. "Come, I will be candid. I had judged you,
not by first impressions, but by hearsay. The unkind things said of
one always get repeated--one's friends always see to that. And I have
heard some of the mighty civil things your aunt, and perhaps you had
said of tallow chandlers in general, and ourselves and the Cedars in
particular."
Violet crimsoned, and whipped Dot almost angrily for very shame.
"And," he exclaimed, laughing again, "I thought when you told me your
name, 'Well, she shan't be compelled to know me because I picked up her
sunshade,' and so I took myself off with all humility."
"Some one's darling sin is the pride that apes humility," answered
Violet, with an arch smile.
"Exactly," said Mr. Leicester, "I did not choose that the
acquaintanceship should be one of my commencing. If you chose to look
down with contempt upon tallow melters----"
Violet stopped him, with a look almost of pain.
"You are unjust," she said, in a low voice. "And you forget that I
never thought less of you for what you were. You are not a tallow
melter--and--and--oh, I do not know what to say, save that I am not
guilty of the meanness you lay to my charge."
"Forgive me," he said, gently and earnestly. "I was only half serious.
I did not think so really. But," he added, laughing, "it is a fact that
we made our money from tallow, and there's no getting over it. Ah! here
is Captain Murpoint," he broke off, as the captain's tall and powerful
figure stepped out on to the path beside the drive.
So sudden was his appearance, seeming to grow out of her thoughts, as
it were, that Violet, who was by no means a nervous or sentimental
young lady, half started, and certainly paled.
In starting, she tugged the reins.
Dot and Spot took the jerk as an excuse for a little freshness, and
started off, with their heads down viciously.
Leicester, who had noticed her start, and the sudden pallor, caught
hold of her hand, and soon pulled the sprightly ponies into a trot
again.
But Violet's hands and his had met once more, and the contact had
produced a strange thrill, which was as wonderful as that feeling which
they had been speaking of, but it was certainly not one of antipathy.
Leicester stepped out, handed Violet to the steps; then, after patting
the ponies, held out his hand.
"Will you not come in?" said Violet.
"No, thank you. It is nearly dinner time. I hope you are not tired."
"No," said Violet, giving him her hand, which he kept while she
finished speaking. "No, and I am very much obliged. Good-by."
"Good-by," he said, and perhaps unconsciously he pressed her little
hand as he released it.
Then he turned, and Violet, watching him, saw him stand for a moment
to exchange a good-day with Captain Murpoint, then stride on.
It was nearly dinner time, as he had said, and he sauntered up to
his room, and put himself into the hands of his valet with his usual
indolence.
Then he came down to dinner, and ate it with rather more than his usual
gravity, talking little, save to his mother, to whom he was always the
perfection of knightly courtesy.
Once only he seemed cold, and that was when she said, "Leicester, we
have been talking of returning the Mildmays' dinner party. What day
would you like me to ask them?" for she always consulted her darling
son on every matter, important or trifling.
"I do not care," he said; "I am going to town to-morrow, and I may not
return for a week or two. You might ask them next week."
"Going to town," said Mrs. Dodson, ruefully. "Why my dear Leicester,
you said you would stay a month with us!"
"I must go to-morrow, mother," he said, and she knew that it was
useless to contend against the fiat when pronounced in that calm, cold
tone.
After dinner he strolled out on to the cliffs and lit a cigar.
"Yes," he muttered, looking at the sea, lying like a great opal in the
low sunset. "I will go to town; I am better there out of mischief. She
is very pretty--beautiful, I think, if any woman's face did deserve
the word; and there is something about her--is it her voice, or her
look, or that swift turn of the head?--which moves me as never voice or
look or gesture of woman moved me yet. She is a beautiful, bewitching
snare, and, as I have no desire to be snared, as I am too selfish, too
cynical, too philosophical to make any woman happy, I will fly. Yes, I
will go to town before the danger grows greater." And, as to resolve
and perform were nearly one with Mr. Leicester Dodson, to town he went,
and Violet saw his dogcart rattling down to Burfield from her bedroom
window.
He went to town, but, as we have seen, he could not be happy,
contented, or even satisfied, and before the fortnight had passed, he
was on his way back to Penruddie, with Bertie Fairfax accompanying him.
Fate stands at the crossroads of life and beckons with inexorable
finger, and man, though he strive against the stern command and
struggles to avoid that particular path up which the great fate beckons
him, must yield at last and walk on to his happiness or his doom.
Fate beckons you, Leicester Dodson, and, though you proudly set your
face against its decree, you cannot avoid the inevitable.