Chapter X

“I had stood
In my own mind remote from social life,
Like a lone shepherd on a promontory,
Who, lacking occupation, looks far forth
Into the boundless sea.”

_The Prelude_

From that time, for many weeks, Leicester lived in a perpetual ferment and torment of heart. Often, after leaving the house in Park Lane, he walked up and down, as he had done on the first night of his acquaintance with Violet, heated and feverish, even in the cold November fog. He no longer dreaded a repulse (he had indeed a natural diffidence on that subject; moments when he doubted whether the question _marriage_ had ever entered Violet’s imagination), but this was no longer _the_ fear that agitated him. He thought Violet liked, perhaps, in the broad acceptation of the term, loved him; but he feared she did not love him _enough_; not with the supreme and exclusive devotion which could alone carry them happily through the trials and disappointments of their united lives. For Leicester, though he loved Violet with an ardour youth cannot know, had not youth’s romantic imagination to gild the future. Older in mind than in years, he saw, with a far-seeing glance, that there must inevitably on both sides be much to bear. Ten years before he would have looked sanguinely forward to the change in himself which a union with one as bright and sunny as Violet must bring; but he had no sanguine anticipations now. Such as he had been for two-and-thirty years, such he would be to the end. Nay, he dreaded lest in that very union--lest in the widely different disposition of his wife--lest in the dependency their different worldly positions must cause--the chain that bound him might not press all the more heavily on his soul. He saw his future trials and shrank before them; and still more painfully he foresaw those of Violet. He knew that the world’s opinion was not indifferent to her. He could see that praise was sweet, and admiration precious; he could guess that she would desire to be proud of the man she loved and had chosen; and to this desire blank disappointment must ensue. He had gifts, and he knew it; but he could not bring them beneath the world’s gaze; not even with Violet’s love before him--not even in the desire to be all she desired could he, even in imagination, picture himself another man than he was. _She_ would go forward winning all hearts, and she would look back and see _him_ plodding along the path of life, neglected, uncourted, unbeloved.

There were moments when _for her sake_ he could willingly have blotted out for ever that day whose annals recorded their first meeting; there were hours of doubt and questioning whether even yet it were not happier for both that the incipient passion should be smothered, and never see light.

But day by day words fell from Violet which made it impossible that he should attempt to misunderstand her or recede.

“What is that letter, darling, and why do you keep looking at me?” said Mr. Osborne one evening, while Leicester and Violet were talking. “What plot are you and Mr. Leicester forming upon my good-nature?”

He joined his daughter as he spoke.

“It is a request, papa,” said Violet; “and I am afraid I must come to you about it, it is beyond me.”

“What extravagances are you leading her into now, Mr. Leicester?” Mr. Osborne inquired smiling. “Let us hear what it is.”

“It is not a request,” said Leicester rising, “but a suggestion from the clergyman of the parish where Miss White is now living. I knew Miss Osborne would be angry if I did not lay the suggestion before her, but I quite agree with you that we are extravagant, and apt to forget that Miss White is not the only distressed person in this world.”

“Now, Mr. Leicester,” Violet said, shaking her head at him, “you know you think this a reasonable request, and you must not turn against me. Listen, papa. I know you will think it reasonable too.”

She took up the letter and read a few sentences describing Amy White’s comfort and her gratitude. She then went on;

“I have one suggestion to make, and that is, that should there be at any time sufficient funds something should be done towards providing a small kitchen range, or otherwise increasing the comfort of the kitchen. It is at present very poorly furnished, and Mrs. White being an invalid, and accustomed to better fare, finds it hard to be satisfied with the poor provision that must be hers. Her daughter does all she can, but the grate is small and smoky, and there is no oven, nor any means of making a variety in their daily food.”

“There, papa, you can fancy what a trial that must be to an invalid. I dare say underdone beef-steaks and smoky mutton chops, and that kind of thing.”

Leicester smiled at this picture of Mrs. White’s bill-of-fare, but said nothing. Mr. Osborne, who, though no gourmand, was too much accustomed to fare well not to value his good fare, entered into the subject with interest.

After a little talk with Leicester, and an inquiry into the price of a kitchen range, he retired to write, and presently returned with a cheque, which he put into Violet’s hand, saying smilingly,

“Now, nothing more, Violet, for a long, long time; I forbid the mention of Miss White’s name for a whole week.”

“That is a kind father,” Violet said as he left them. “There, Mr. Leicester, you must write to the clergyman, and as I am sure there is more than is wanted now, you must tell him to lay by a little for the next great want. You see, I am learning prudence.”

Leicester gravely took the cheque, and, as he did so, remarked,

“It is certainly a blessing to be rich.”

“Yes,” Violet said warmly, “it is; but only in this view--only to give.”

Leicester was silent, and she went on:

“I am sure I am not going to say anything against riches in themselves; I dare say I like comfort and luxury too much, and all the things that riches give, but, though I like them, that is not the cause of my calling riches a blessing, that is not why I thank God in my prayers for having them. I would not be poor--I bless my fate that I was not made poor--but only on this account, because I should then lose the happiness of giving.”

Her face was beaming and bright with the earnestness of what she said.

“I quite believe you,” Leicester said with warmth, but there was a shadow all the while on his countenance.

“I wonder if you feel as I do, Mr. Leicester,” Violet began again after a moment, as if she was seizing an opportunity to pour out the thoughts of her heart. “It seems to me that preachers in general preach so poorly on this subject. They speak to us, to all rich people, as if we were sordid souls, as if we cared for riches for our own sakes, and thought of nothing but spending on our own grandeur. I sometimes long to get up and tell them that they do not understand human nature.”

“You must remember,” Leicester said, “that preachers deal with masses of men. I mean no compliment when I say that congregations are not all composed of Miss Osbornes.”

“Do not say of Miss Osbornes. You know that you feel as I do.”

“I have not been tried with great riches,” he said seriously; “I see they have a tendency to make men selfish. Why should I suppose myself to be better or wiser than others?”

Violet was silent for a few minutes, and when she spoke it was with some change of subject.

“I almost hate myself for speaking so much of riches,” she said; “for what are they, and what distinction do they give? If I say what I truly think, it is that there must be something poor and low in the mind which sets up riches as a mark of distinction, which looks on riches as an object for homage. I should scorn myself if I thought--I scorn all who think--that riches are an unapproachable thing.”

And again her face glowed with the earnestness of her thoughts.

“Perhaps I agree with you,” Leicester replied, “more than you would imagine. Society gives a certain estimation to riches, and to the common laws of society we must submit; but I myself am no worshipper of wealth.” He paused, then added, while a glow stole over his cheeks: “The gifts of the mind and heart, and in their degree of the body too, are those which command my homage, and they only I look upon as unapproachable things.”

To such a speech no reply could be given, and it was only after an embarrassed silence that Violet endeavoured to laugh, and lightly said--

“I am glad, then, that we are of one mind. You know what my thoughts on riches are, and I know yours. And you must not forget,” she more gravely added, “that we are agreed.”

She would have given worlds to speak more plainly, but she dared not. But there was no need of plainer words. Leicester read every thought of her heart, saw that she was ready to give herself and her wealth into his hands, and yet doubted still if the true love was there, which was the only wealth he desired to receive; that true love which, in giving perfect sympathy, might loose him from the chain that bound him, and the burden which weighed him down.

It was about a week after this time that Leicester called in Park Lane; it was at an hour in which he had sometimes found Mrs. Osborne alone; and so, according to his hope, he found her on this occasion. Shy men are very apt to make more awkward a thing which needs the yielding to impulse not to be done awkwardly; but it was not on account of any shyness that Leicester came to Mrs. Osborne’s. The constant and pressing invitations to their house, were sanctions from Violet’s father and mother to his attachment; but he thought that Violet’s position in the matter of worldly goods needed a double sanction, and what he did he would do openly.

“I am come to ask you,” he began at once, “to permit me to see Miss Osborne alone. You may guess on what errand I come; and you may guess also, in part at least, what I feel in thus daring to come. I know you must think me unworthy, but you cannot think so more than I do myself.”

His voice was too low and hurried for Mrs. Osborne to hear. Only the word “unworthy” reached her ears; but she saw by his face what he said.

“No one whom Violet loves, or who loves Violet,” she replied, in her soft, gentle way, “can be unworthy of her. I wish you success.”

“Do you, Mrs. Osborne, wish me success?” he asked, eagerly.

She heard him this time, and answered with earnest kindness--

“You know well how precious a gift we think our child; we should not lightly give her away, but we have seen enough of you, Mr. Leicester, to be sure that we may safely trust her and her happiness in your hands; if you can win her love, you have our love and blessing also.”

“Her happiness!” he said, grasping the hand Mrs. Osborne held out to him, while a shadow fell on his countenance. “You make me afraid. Her happiness! it is an awful trust. What am I that I can make her happy?”

Mrs. Osborne smiled gently, and, rising, said she would call her daughter. Her manner was most encouraging, but she left Leicester in a tumult of troubled thoughts. Violet’s happiness to be placed in _his_ hands! in his, who found his own being a burden too hard to bear! It seemed to him as if never yet had he faced this thought as it needed to be faced.

He was standing leaning within the window in which Violet often sat, when the door opened and she entered. It was a winter’s afternoon; but all the Osbornes loved light and brightness, and the lamp and candles were blazing, and Violet was in full light as soon as she appeared. Leicester’s eyes fell eagerly upon her, and for the first time a flash of hope illumined his heart, in the thought that possibly she did love him even as he desired and required to be loved. For the first time it was not the bright Violet who shone like a star above him, but a something soft and tender, who might submit to lose her being in his own.

It was the sight of her as timidly, shyly, with varying colour and drooping eyelashes, she came slowly towards him, that put these happier thoughts into his head. The burden of his being and the awful weight of her happiness floated from before him, and almost before he knew that he had met her, the deed was done, the words were spoken, and Violet was his own betrothed wife.

It was not till then that the thought of himself recurred. For a few moments he was caught up into a paradise, leaving behind him the chains of his infirmities; and it was not till Violet placed her hand in his, irrevocably his own, that the sense of his unworthiness, the weight of the trust reposed in him, returned again.

He no sooner felt them than they were poured out before her. Sadly and touchingly he spoke of the weakness that made his life burdensome to him, reproaching himself for having dared to love her, and for now trying to unite her bright being to his; and softly, and like an angel, Violet listened to him, and comforted him; and in her sympathy the rising trouble died away, and life spread out new and fair and free before him.

The happiness of such moments is often spoken of as an illusion; but the word is falsely used. It is an illusion that they will last; but while they last, their happiness has no falsehood about it. It consists in the annihilation of _self_, and the freedom from that bondage is a joy so real, that perhaps nothing on earth is liker to heaven. In such moments the most selfish are transformed, and the good and unselfish, dropping from them their mortal faults and infirmities, become very angels of light. Nothing for the moment can be more real; but then they are only moments. The chain of mortality too soon clogs again.

“You must come to papa,” Violet said at last, rousing herself and him from their first happy trance. “I know what mamma thinks, because she kissed me so kindly when I came down; and I am sure of papa, too, but I shall like him to know at once how....” she paused, and blushed, then added, smiling, “how happy I am!”

Leicester sprang up, fresh and strong in the confidence of Violet’s love, and followed her.

“Wait a moment, and I will call you,” she said, and hastened down the stairs.

She had heard the house door close a few minutes before, with her father’s peculiar and somewhat noisy touch, and she now opened the door of his study, and called to him;

“May I come in, papa?”

She had just time to see that he was sitting with his head leaning on his hands in an attitude of fatigue, care, or thought unusual to him. She saw it with a momentary surprise, but had not time to acknowledge the surprise even to herself, before the attitude had changed, and he came forward to meet her, as he said--

“Yes, darling; what is it?”

“Oh, papa!” she said, putting her arms round his neck and kissing him; “I am so happy! I only hope you will be so too. Mr. Leicester....”

She said no more. Mr. Osborne kissed her, but there was something of a sigh, and there was a shadow on his face. Certainly this end to Leicester’s friendship with his daughter was not unexpected; yet his air was startled, puzzled, anything but pleased.

“Will you see him, papa? he is waiting to see you,” she continued, eagerly; “and, dear papa, you must be very kind to him; you must be as glad to have him, and gladder, than if he was a prince.”

Her father kissed her again, and in his many kisses concealed some feeling that was not to appear.

“Call him, darling,” he said; “you may be sure whoever makes you happy is more than a prince to me.”

But he sighed again, and pressed his hand on his brows in some embarrassed thought, when she flitted away.

Leicester entered alone, and in a straightforward, manly way--never shy or nervous when any actual business or duty lay before him--approached Mr. Osborne, and told wherefore he came; and Mr. Osborne, mindful of Violet’s words, met him with all the warmth and cordiality of which he was capable.

“I do not speak to you of my unworthiness and presumption,” Leicester said, after a moment, with quiet dignity; “not because I do not feel that I am unworthy of her, for God knows I do feel it from my heart; but because in my eyes, and I hope in yours, her choice is enough. _That_ makes me worthy.”

“You say true, Mr. Leicester,” Mr. Osborne replied; “and, believe me, I feel too strongly your own intrinsic worth and goodness, not to be happy in trusting my darling in your hands;” he shook Leicester’s hand with an agitated pressure as he spoke. “I could have wished....” he paused and hesitated, and put his hand on his brows again; then rousing himself, said quickly: “Forgive me, Mr. Leicester, if I do not say more on this subject at the present moment. I have been harassed to-day, and my head aches. You will, of course, wish to tell your sisters what has passed, but be so good as to beg them not to announce it until I have spoken to you again.”

“You may depend upon it,” Leicester said quickly, “not a word shall be said.”

“Thank you. Good night. We shall give you a precious thing, Mr. Leicester; you must cherish my darling as _we_ have cherished her,” and tears fell down his cheeks.

It was again that awful trust of Violet’s happiness, and again Leicester trembled.

“If love can do it,” he said with passionate fervour, “there is no fear.”

“I know it; we trust you;” and again shaking his hand, Mr. Osborne retired into the room, and Leicester left him.

After another interview with both Violet and her mother, Leicester walked home. The excitement of the last weeks was passed; he was at rest; doubt and fear had passed into joy and certainty; he had gained a treasure whose value and beauty even a lover’s eyes could scarcely rate too highly; he had been met with a warmth, a tenderness of care and love which should have hushed every throbbing pulse into calm and quiet; and yet there was a weight upon his heart as he walked along--a strange, undefinable oppression. This treasure that he was taking from so much love and cherishing, was he strong enough to bear its weight; had he not been daring to venture upon such a charge? What was the life into which he had invited her to enter, saying in the words of the old verses:

“Come live with me and be my love!”

He walked slowly, almost sadly, and almost sadly arrived at home with his great happiness.

He said nothing during the evening, but listened, as was his custom, with a kind of patient sympathy, better than much speech, to all the wants, wishes, opinions, and fancies, gathered up by his sisters during the day.

He left them early, saying he was going to find Albert; and when he had closed the door, looked back and called Marian. She went to him wondering, yet not suspecting.

“I want to tell you that I am going to be married, Marian,” he said gently; “are you glad or sorry?”

“I hardly know,” she said in a startled voice. “Oh, John!”

“Dear Marian,” he said, stooping and kissing her, “it shall never make any difference with you, be sure of that, you and all of you. Tell the others; and tell them, too,” he added, with a faint smile, “that to-morrow they may ask me what they please. I could not bear to talk of it to-night.”

He shook hands with her, enjoined secresy, and hurried away.

Marian returned to her sisters with a look of solemn thought. The eight eyes were fixed eagerly upon her, and “Well!” at last burst from all but Rachel.

“John is going to be married,” she said, in her matter-of-fact way; “he told me to tell you so.”

“Good gracious!” screamed Jessie and Henrietta.

Rachel and Margaret, though instinctively they had felt what was coming, seemed paralysed by the news.

“Oh! good gracious!” repeated Jessie; “but I knew it, I knew it! Didn’t I know it? Didn’t I tell you all from the very first minute that John was in love? Didn’t I tell him that he wouldn’t answer me? I saw it, I saw it! And now I shall always know that I see what is right.”

“Do be quiet, Jessie,” said Margaret, petulantly tapping her arm. “We don’t care who said it. The dreadful thing is come, and what is to become of us?”

“He says we shall never know the difference,” Marian said, more softly than was usual to her; “he kissed me and said it.”

Rachel and Margaret looked at her with tremulous lashes, as if they had heard John’s own earnest voice reassuring them.

“But that was nonsense,” said Henrietta. “Everybody with common sense knows that a man with a wife and family cannot be like a single man without any cares. I know he will be kind, but it must make a _very_ great difference.”

“It must, Henrietta,” Rachel said, earnestly; “but we must never let John know that we think so.”

Margaret shook her head despairingly. She had begged him to marry, it is true, but the reality broke down her fancied heroism.

“In some ways John is right,” observed Jessie; “it will make no difference, except a good one. Of course he will be as rich as rich; and then there will be Mrs. Leicester (how funny it sounds!) to take us out. And then, as Miss Osborne is so very much liked, I dare say we shall be liked too. Upon the whole, though it will be a dreadful nuisance, I think I shall like John to be married very much. I wonder what he said when he proposed? I wonder what she said? _How_ I should like to know! I wonder whether he knelt down and kissed her hand? or whether that is all gone out? I shall certainly ask him what he did. Oh, dear! how I do wish I had got somebody to kneel to me!”

“Don’t be such a goose, Jessie,” said Margaret, ferociously.

“John told me to tell you all that you might ask him what you pleased to-morrow. He seemed a little anxious to-night. I wonder,” Marian continued, after a moment’s thought, “where he means to live, and whether he will have a large establishment?”

Jessie was the only one who was able to enter on this question with her; and while the other three sat absorbed in thought, they settled John’s house and household to their heart’s content; Jessie on a scale of extraordinary magnificence; Marian, with a constant dread of extravagance and debt, making reductions in Jessie’s proposals.