Chapter XII

“... 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.