Chapter III

“’Tis a common tale,
A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed
In bodily form.”

_The Excursion._

Mr. Leicester, at Violet’s request, was invited to dine with Mr. Osborne a few days afterwards. Having heedlessly put himself into Albert’s hands for the occasion, and Albert rarely attaining to the virtue of punctuality, the company had sat down to dinner before he arrived. Violet was much vexed at this _contretemps_; but punctuality was a point dear to Mr. Osborne; his time and tide, though forced, he said, occasionally to wait for a woman, waited for no _man_.

With cordial kindness, however, on Leicester’s entrance, he went to meet the stranger, and set him, as he hoped, at ease, by directing him to a vacant seat; but the vacant seat was far from Violet, and as, except in her mind, no particular interest was felt regarding the stranger, he remained silent during the principal part of dinner.

When he first appeared, observing his tall and dignified figure, and the countenance on which, though remarkably handsome, the seal of middle age was lightly set, she blushed as she thought of her destined purposes of kindly encouragement; but before dinner was over, they had been formed anew--the very same purposes, only with much more interest and much more zeal. And this because his diffidence even during that hour had become apparent to her eyes. When addressed by her father from a distance, which happened twice in the course of dinner, she had seen him colour, as a young girl in his circumstances might have done; and though his answers were given with great composure, he sank back with an appearance of relief when allowed to relapse into obscurity again.

All the guests except Leicester were at home in the house; and when they appeared in the drawing-room, disposed of themselves with easy unconcern. But he was a stranger, and alone, and with the perversity common to shy strangers, he placed himself on a seat whose inaccessible position cut him off from notice.

There is in Miss Edgeworth’s novel of “Patronage” a description of what is there called _mauvaise honte_. She says of one of her characters:

“He was subject to that nightmare of the soul who sits herself upon the human breast, oppresses the heart, palsies the will, and raises spectres of dismay, which the sufferer combats in vain; that cruel enchantress, who hurls her spell even upon childhood, and when she makes the youth her victim, pronounces--

“‘Henceforward you shall never appear in your natural character; innocent, you shall look guilty--wise, you shall look silly. That which you wish to say, you shall not say; that which you wish to do, you shall not do; you shall appear reserved, when you are enthusiastic--insensible, when your heart sinks in melting tenderness,’” &c., &c.

The passage speaks of an extreme case, and is highly coloured; yet in its general features it as truly as forcibly describes the common trials of a shy man. John Leicester was one of this unhappy race. With talents above the average, with personal advantages which alone would have brought most men into notice, an unaccountable diffidence had laid its frozen hand upon his soul. The world in general is too busy to observe those who withdraw themselves from notice; but even among those who did observe, Leicester was misunderstood. He had, by the exertion of common sense and by natural strength of character, so far conquered his shyness as to subdue some of its outward signs. He had learnt not to stand waving his tall body, as many shy men do, when a seat would set him at ease; he taught himself to go through the common forms of society, and to speak common forms of speech with a grave composure which concealed his inward trepidation; but the very conquest of outward weaknesses made him but the more liable to be misunderstood; and, while it displaced pity, brought criticism in its stead. He was called proud, when often he would have been thankful for a child’s notice; cold and indifferent, when his heart was beating with sympathy; dull and apathetic, when, had he dared to speak, his words would have won golden opinions from men. He knew his infirmity, and owned his weakness; but knowledge brought neither strength nor comfort; he felt his bonds, but could not burst them.

Thus it was that in general, as Albert had said, he was neglected and overlooked. He could not put himself forward, and no kindly feeling went forward to drag him out; and thus too it was that, neglect acting and reacting upon his character, he withdrew further and further from notice, into the solitude of his own soul.

Whether shyness proceeds from pride or humility is a question often asked; and since it probably proceeds from both, will be often disputed. It is a very true humility that causes a poor soul to doubt of its powers to please; that causes it--comparing itself with other more gifted beings--sadly to feel that the charm of attraction is wanting. But it is pride that makes it acquiesce in this want of attraction; and, rather than seem to court a notice not freely given, to hide for ever the gifts it is conscious it does possess. The different ingredients are variously blended in different characters; in some, pride prevails; in some, humility; but probably both are necessary to produce shyness in any aggravated form. In Leicester, the humility was very genuine. The talents that were overlooked by others, he overlooked himself; and in the power to attract, he was but too painfully conscious of a deficiency. But though thus genuinely humble, it was also true that pride was slumbering in no small proportion within.

After waiting in the vain hope and expectation that he would approach her during the evening, Violet at length summoned Albert, and said:

“I cannot bear to see Mr. Leicester sit there by himself. I must go to him--or you, Albert, must bring him to me. Which shall it be?”

“I will bring him to you,” replied Albert, discreetly. “It was my being so late that put him out to-night. If we had been in time he would have made acquaintance, and all would have been easy before now.”

“It shall soon be easy,” said Violet, confidently. “But what a strange thing it is to see such a man so shy! It surpasses my understanding.”

“Come, along Leicester,” exclaimed Albert, approaching his friend, “my cousin wishes to make your acquaintance, so lay aside that newspaper, and follow me.”

He arose at once, very thankful, in truth, for the notice that brought him out of his self-chosen, yet awkward position.

“There,” continued Albert, pushing him with easy familiarity into a chair, “now be comfortable, do! I was telling Violet that you were very much ashamed and put out by being so late; but what can’t be helped is best forgotten. It is of no importance now.”

“It was not a very civil way, on our side, I mean, of beginning an acquaintance,” said Violet, laughing; “but we shall be all the better friends for beginning uncivilly.”

The ease and friendliness of her manner thawed Leicester’s frost-bound powers, and he became himself.

After a little conversation, Albert, overhearing a discussion between his uncle and another gentleman, regarding a disputed will, walked off to give his attention to, and his opinion on, the subject, leaving Leicester and Violet to themselves.

“I am so glad to have seen you, Mr. Leicester,” she began, with a manner that, in some, might have been over-forward, but in her was only characteristic; “for you must know that you have been my enemy for some months!”

“How so?” he asked, with a smiling surprise.

“Only from perversity, I believe. Albert chose to look up to you, and to quote your opinions, and, in consequence, I pictured to myself a very disagreeable image of what his friend must be; a very different one, in short, to the reality.”

“Ellis and I are great friends,” he observed, quietly.

“Where did you make acquaintance with Albert?” she asked, suddenly. “I have never heard.”

He was silent for a moment, then replied:

“Ellis is so much younger than I am that there can be nothing strange in my telling you that our acquaintance arose out of a piece of advice I one night gave him; which he--instead of resenting, as many would have done at his age--accepted as it was intended. We have been great friends ever since.”

“Great friends, I am sure, from Albert’s account; but it surprises me still; in fact, I cannot understand it. You must be so different.”

“Friendships spring much more from circumstances than rules,” he said, smiling. “You must have hard work if you try to account for all the fancies and intimacies of all your friends.”

“Never so hard work as now,” Violet did not say, but thought to herself; for she could see no possible ground of union between the grave, thoughtful man, and the good-natured, shallow boy.

“Do you go out much, Mr. Leicester?” she presently inquired.

“Never for my own pleasure--sometimes as chaperon.”

“As chaperon!” and Violet almost screamed in her surprise.

“Well, I daresay I look like an awkward chaperon,” he observed, with a smile; “but a man must do what falls to his lot, nevertheless.”

“Indeed, that was not what surprised me; I am only surprised at your being so different to the fancy I had formed of Albert’s friend. But who do you take under your chaperonage?”

“My sisters. Two accept of me when they can get no better--one is kind enough to say that she prefers me to others.”

“Albert never told me you had sisters.”

“I have five; but only three go out into the world.”

“And what do you do as chaperon?” Violet asked, laughingly.

“I do the best I can,” he said, with a kind of quiet humour. “I lean my back against the wall when I am not wanted; I move when I am desired; sometimes I walk down to supper and up again; and once I extricated my sister from a dilemma respecting a disagreeable partner--but this, she said, was so awkwardly done, that I have since been spared any active business.”

“And does it bore you very much?”

“No, indeed, I am never bored.”

“It would amuse me beyond anything to have a girl to take care of,” said Violet, laughing. “I think, when I am old enough, I shall advertise myself as a chaperon. The only fear would be that I should wish too much, and plan too much.”

“Yes, that is the danger,” he remarked gravely. “An unoccupied observer--for I am an inactive chaperon--sees many plots passing under his eyes.”

“Does he?” she asked eagerly. “I wish I was an observer; but I am too busy myself to see much of what others do. What do you see?”

“Some things that please me, some that I had rather not see--but I only observe. It would not do for an observer to be a reporter.”

“I should like to meet you out in the world,” said Violet, frankly.

The eager speech, the implied expression of pleasure in his society, so natural to her to speak, so uncommon for his ears to hear, affected him in a way she could never have imagined possible. It gave him inwardly indeed a strange thrill of pleasure, but its outward effect was to make him nervously draw back into himself.

It also caused something to slip from his hands and fall at her feet. She stooped and picked it up. She had observed that while he conversed with her, his fingers were engaged in fidgeting with a piece of paper; the result of the fidgeting, as she raised it from the ground, drew from her an exclamation of wonder;

“Mr. Leicester, did you really make this?”

It was the minute form of a little monkey, pinched and twisted into the most perfect proportions.

“Yes, I believe I did,” he replied, colouring deeply. “I hope I have destroyed nothing--I really was not aware what I was doing.”

Too full of curiosity and pleasure to remember how much he might dislike to be brought into notice, Violet called to her father to admire.

“A perfect little monkey,” Mr. Osborne observed, examining the small creature through his glasses, as a naturalist examines a plant.

“And five minutes ago the little thing was an old letter,” said Violet. “I call it wonderful, Mr. Leicester.”

Her exclamations drew the rest of the company to the spot, and, as is customary, the expressions of admiration were beyond what the occasion required, especially from the female part of the assembly. Leicester looked as if he had been found guilty of some crime.

For the truth was, the production of the little creature was a weakness, and he knew it. It was the effect of a nervous temperament, which laid hold on any employment which drew him from himself. Again and again he had resolved to be guilty of the weakness no more; but in vain. In shy moments no piece of paper ever came in his way without bearing the traces of his hands. That his productions were full of genius, that other men would have used them to win attention and admiration, was nothing to him. In his eyes they were memorials of his weakness, and nothing more.

“Put the thing down--do, Violet,” whispered Albert, angrily, in her ear; “can’t you see how you bore him?”

Violet glanced her eyes towards Leicester, and saw it.

“Tea is ready,” she remarked with quickness. “Give me my treasure, and let us go.”

And taking it from some hand, she opened a drawer, and tossed it in.

“I make tea myself in an old-fashioned way,” she said to Leicester as she passed, anxious to put him at his ease; “I hope you will have some.”

He followed with Albert. But it was not at Violet’s tea-table that he or such as he could ever shine. It was famed for its agreeableness by the habitual guests of the house; and the party, from the spirit and vivacity that reigned around it, was sometimes prolonged to a late hour in the evening. Courted and admired by all, Violet had no shyness; and while her own liveliness and playfulness gave the spring to conversation, the kindliness with which she drew others out, and made much of what others said, set all at ease, and made most men happy.

But that which is inspiriting to some is depressing to others; that which gives wings to some, even laggard tongues, lays leaden chains on those of others. Leicester had rarely felt so intensely wretched, so densely dull as during this hour. He knew that Albert wished him to make the best of himself; he saw--it needed no keen perception to see--that Violet was anxious to make him at home and happy; but, though touched by her kindness, gratitude was powerless to untie the fetter that bound him down. He remained speechless; a burden to himself, and to others.

Violet was vexed, but she had never felt so great an interest in any agreeable member of society as she now did in this shy man. Her love of protecting, perhaps, came strongly into play, but it was united with interest of a totally different kind.

When the party broke up, Albert lingered behind to make some arrangements with his uncle. He desired Leicester to wait for him, and the latter did so, placing himself once again in the most impracticable seat he could find, and this, notwithstanding an earnest desire to behave rationally, and to remove the impression his silence might have caused.

But Violet was not to be daunted; and, moving from one chair to another, she addressed him.

“I forgot to tell you, Mr. Leicester, how much we liked your picture. I mean the picture in the Exhibition, which Albert says is your favourite.”

“I am glad you did,” he replied, rising at once, and approaching her with a look of pleasure; “then I suppose I was right in the opinion I gave.”

“Not because I admire it, for I am no judge, that is, no good judge of what is good. But you are right, because the thing _is_ pretty, and your opinion needs no confirmation.”

“It is at all events pleasant to be agreed with.”

“Sometimes; but it is also pleasant to be disagreed with. I like a good fight.”

“Agreement is more to my taste,” he said, smiling; “when the world goes against me, I am apt to mistrust my strongest opinions.”

“And yet in your profession I should have thought _convincing_ was the greatest of pleasures.”

“Ah! yes--convincing! I was not thinking of that. To convince is a rare pleasure, and worth a good fight, certainly.”

“And I never thought of defeat,” replied Violet, laughing; “it is a thing whose existence I deny.”

“Then you are a great fool, Violet,” said Albert, joining them, “for one side must be defeated. Come, Leicester, if you are ready, I am.”

“I hope we shall soon have the pleasure of seeing you again, Mr. Leicester,” said Mr. Osborne; while Leicester stood silent, feeling he ought to make some acknowledgment for the kindness which had prompted his invitation.

“Thank you--good night,” was, however, all he said, and they departed.

“I asked Mr. Leicester to come again, Violet, because I saw in your face that you wished me to do so,” said her father; “but I confess Albert’s friend appears to have but little to say for himself.”

“He will say more when we know him better, papa. I like him very much.”

“Then I will like him, too,” said the fond father; “outward manners are often deceiving. He may be clever enough within.”

Meanwhile Albert strolled homewards with his friend.

“Well, Leicester,” he exclaimed, after waiting a very short time for an opinion to be expressed, “how did you like Violet?”

“You are too hasty, Ellis,” was the reply; “I have not had time to think.”

“How I do hate people who give a correct reply,” said Albert; “to be sure, it takes a world of thought to see whether a woman is pretty or not.”

“Oh! as to beauty, I can answer at once; a child could see she was beautiful.”

“And not conscious of it--is she? Know it of course she does, but she does not seem to think about it.”

“Not in the least.”

“Then you do like her, I think.”

“I must give you another correct reply,” he said, smiling; “to tell you the truth, I admired your cousin too much to feel satisfied to say I _liked_ her, when you asked the question. That answer does for a common, good-tempered girl. Miss Osborne is much more than that. Even now, if you repeat the question, I cannot say yes.”

“Very well; be as roundabout as ever you please. I see you like her, and I am quite satisfied. I know what she thought of you--I mean I _saw_,” he added, discreetly.

“If she thought at all,” he said, with sadness, “she must have wondered why so dull a soul ever burdened society with his presence.”

“No, she did not; she is too clear-sighted for that. But, I must say, Leicester, you did not do your best. You looked as if you were going to be hanged. I can excuse it when people are careless and neglectful, but when everybody was bent on making you comfortable....”

“Very true,” he interrupted, quickly, “but it is not worth discussing. Here we are at No. ----; it is too late to ask you to come in. Good night.”

And opening the door of a house in Clarges Street, Leicester entered, and Albert went on his way.