Chapter IX

“Who loves must fear, and sure who loves like me
Must greatly fear.”

MASON’S _Elfrida_.

The six weeks interval passed rapidly. The wedding-day arrived. Mrs. Osborne remained at home. She was well, but never strong; and the long absence from excitement and fatigue which her country life had procured her, had made her in fancy, if not in reality, unequal to anything of the kind. Mr. Osborne and Violet went to the house of a friend near London, but, since Mrs. Osborne could not accompany them, only for two days. Albert came to them on the evening of their arrival, told them all the arrangements, and gave his precise instructions. He was rather proud of his arrangements. Margaret, he was sorry to say, was growing nervous, and he had tried so to plan the whole affair that there should be no waitings about, nor any extra thing to tire or excite her.

Violet was to be at the door of St. George’s Church at twenty minutes before twelve, and he would be there to receive her.

Mr. Osborne and Violet did as they were told. At a quarter before twelve Albert came to their carriage, and saying Margaret would arrive in a moment, begged Violet to come to the church door, and after the arrival to follow her and Rachel as they walked straight to the altar.

She obeyed like one in a dream, and there stood awaiting the moment which after six years should bring her and Leicester face to face once more.

She had not long to wait. The Leicesters’ carriage arrived, and Leicester got out. He first assisted Rachel from the carriage and up the steps of the portico, and she came on straight to Violet and shook hands with her with great warmth and cordiality. They then stood together while Leicester and Margaret passed. Margaret had, as Albert said, been growing nervous. This day it was more than nervousness. She could not leave the house of the brother whom she so passionately loved with calmness, and there had been a terrible scene before they left it. Leicester now passed rapidly with her to the altar; yet as he passed he turned his head and gave a glance and a sweet smile of recognition to Violet. She followed again, with Rachel, in a trance, hardly realizing what was going forward; outwardly calm, and still, and lovely, and bright; inwardly, the mind a blank, from the intensity of feeling with which she watched and waited for the events of the day.

When the service was over, and Albert conducted Margaret to the vestry, Leicester turned before he followed her, and shook hands kindly with both Violet and her father. He did not speak, but again with a slight smile of invitation invited them to follow as he passed on.

They did follow, and almost instantly Albert came to Violet.

“We are getting through it as fast as we can, for she’s in a terribly nervous state, poor thing; but come and sign your name, Violet, I should like to have you. Come.”

He touched her arm, and she obeyed. Leicester was writing. He looked up as she approached, and with the same kind half smiling look put his pen into her hand. The look was so peculiar, so devoid of anything except kindness and friendliness, that even while it troubled it stilled her.

She wrote, and meanwhile Albert, justly proud of his arrangements, had got the carriage ready, and he and Margaret went off. Rachel and Leicester followed. They paused to beg Violet and Mr. Osborne to come to luncheon in Clarges Street.

This was no surprise, for Albert had told them it was to be, and thither they proceeded.

The Leicesters had many friends, and though so late in August and the marriage so private a one, between twenty and thirty people were in the drawing-room when they arrived.

Rachel soon came down. She invited Violet to sit on the couch with her, and told her all particulars, as to one who had a special interest and special right to know. She said Margaret was too much agitated to appear. That Leicester was with her now, but that when luncheon was ready he would come down, and she would return to her. They were to start at two, and she almost wished it had been settled for an earlier hour. They were going to a place that had been lent them, about thirty or forty miles from London.

It was not long before Leicester appeared. He pointed out to Mr. Osborne the lady he wished him to take, and then offered his arm to Violet. She rose and they went down together.

“I am sorry Rachel cannot come,” he began at once, as if determined there should be no silences; “but poor Margaret is rather a spoiled child, and when she is over-excited we are obliged to give way to her. She promised me yesterday that she would go through it bravely, but the promise is forgotten, and she cannot help it.”

Violet felt timid, and unlike herself. She hardly knew what she answered, and no more was said till she found herself seated with Leicester at the top of a long table. Mr. Osborne and the lady, an aunt of the Leicesters, were opposite. An old gentleman, whom Violet in former days had very slightly known, but who had always loudly expressed to others his admiration of her and her beauty, came and sat at the side of the table next to her.

Leicester attended carefully to her wants, and whether it were the nearness of intercourse, or whether it were that Violet’s timidity--a mood and manner once seen, but not the mood and manner which lived in his remembrance of her--made him more bold, he said, in a voice far less constrained, far less stilling to agitating thoughts,

“I hope your opinion of this marriage is like mine. I should be glad to think that you look on it as I do.”

“If you mean my approbation,” Violet said heartily, “it is much more than that. It is so much the best thing that could have happened to poor Albert, that I only wonder how such good fortune was brought about.”

“You must not depreciate Ellis,” Leicester said in reply. “I think you were always disposed to do so. He may not have brilliant qualities, but if we consider only the steadiness and industry in his profession, and the constancy to one object which he has shown for six years, I think he is entitled to our respect and admiration.”

The words “which you were always disposed to do,” pleased Violet. As the drowning catch at twigs, so she caught at this slight recurrence to old opinions as a favourable symptom of his present state of mind. She felt she had lived in his thoughts; that the old conversations they had held had been silently repeated in his mind, as they had been in hers.

Another word had also fallen like music on her ear, the word “constancy.” Surely he would not have chosen Albert’s six years’ constancy as a topic for praise unless he himself were an example of the like virtue, unless he were entitled to the same commendation. Whether or not these inferences were justly drawn they elated her, and it seemed as if something of old relations was about to be resumed, the old relations of friendship, not of love, the first happy beginning, not the clouded close, when a servant came to speak to Leicester. It was a message from Rachel, and he rose to answer it. The old gentleman who sat on her other side, and who was longing to engage her attention to himself, immediately on seeing her free, began to speak; and when Leicester resumed his seat, the lady on his other side addressed him. Violet was annoyed, but she suddenly felt so joyous and happy, that she could not be much annoyed at anything, and, seeing that for the moment her selfish thoughts must be subdued, she, with her usual good-humour and sweetness of manner, gave her attention where it was required.

The old gentleman began to talk of Devonshire and its beauties, and Violet spoke with the warmth that was natural to her when she agreed strongly. After some little conversation on its external beauties, a few questions, as to how much of it she had seen, what parts were most to be admired, and what parts _she_ most admired--on which latter part of the subject a slight altercation took place--he suddenly said,

“And how has young Vane turned out?”

If a shot had suddenly been discharged between Leicester and Violet, they could scarcely have been more startled than at this question; for it so happened that Lionel had passed at that moment from the thoughts of both as completely as if he had never existed. Leicester simply started, glanced one side glance at Violet, and then bidding adieu to a momentary hope that had been stealing over him, resumed his late constrained composure, and gave his attention, his apparent attention at least, to the lady at his left side.

Violet, taken by surprise, cast down her eyes, blushed deeply, and while she answered with outward quietness, “I believe he has turned out very well,” nervously picked to pieces a chicken bone on which she was engaged.

The old gentleman, unsuspicious and short-sighted, saw nothing; but to one observant, interested, and keen as Leicester was, her countenance was what would have been called “a tell-tale face.”

“I am glad to hear you say that,” continued her friend, “for Lord Ashford is an old acquaintance of mine. We were at college together, and though I have seen but little of him since those days, he is one of those persons one cannot forget. I suppose I must own that in some things he is not much entitled to approbation, but somehow or other I always find myself banishing harsh thoughts, and yielding to the charm he exercises.”

“I believe your feeling is the common one,” Violet replied. “I cannot say I felt the charm myself.”

“Perhaps not. I daresay you are right. But I am glad you approve of young Vane. I had heard a less favourable account. I had heard he was a selfish youth, and a negligent, or I might say an undutiful son, and my heart, knowing poor Ashford’s affectionate nature, bled for his father.”

“I think that was a very unfair report,” Violet began with her usual eagerness; then suddenly remembering that her opinion of Lionel had been in a degree at least qualified, paused to consider what it was that she did think, and went on sedately, “I mean that unless we know a person’s difficulties, we ought not to sit in judgment on their conduct. Mr. Vane had difficulties, and though he may not always have acted rightly, he had excuses which the world in general cannot know.”

“You are a kind and merciful advocate,” the old gentleman said smiling, and put up his glass to see better her expressive face.

“I only try to be just,” she said.

And having, as she thought, thoroughly done her duty, she took advantage of the pause to turn her head, and the old gentleman betook himself to his other neighbour.

But she did not find the Leicester from whom she had turned a few minutes before. He was another man; as regarded her, at least, another man. Had the countenance not been sufficient, her words would have assured him of what he suspected. The eager beginning, the sudden recollection, the quiet yet decisive defence, all told of an interest not perhaps as yet a surely-defined and settled interest, but an interest which would lead to bright hopes and a happy lot in the future.

“And what am I?” he said in his heart, “that I should, even were it possible, interpose my shadow before those brighter prospects.”

A thought unworthy of Leicester, yet too common to that proud yet humble atmosphere in which he lived and moved.

When she turned her face towards him, still lighted with the sudden happiness that had risen in her heart, eager to return to those old relations that had been about, as she hoped, to be resumed, he, misinterpreting the meaning of that speaking face, yet not the less resolved to go through with his duty as host, roused himself to converse with her. But the unbending and freedom of his first few words was gone. He spoke with kind interest of Mrs. Osborne, with more than interest, with warmth and affection, of his regret at not seeing her, and his hope of seeing her at some future time; but there was a something that suddenly froze Violet’s budding hopes--froze them as suddenly as they had lately expanded. She could not argue, she could only feel she had been mistaken.

The precious time passed on, and no step was gained. A shadow stole over Violet’s face, and the conversation flagged. The moment Leicester saw the carriage drive to the door, he looked round, and, seeing with relief that all were ready to move, rose from the table. When he had risen, he said to Violet with a smile,

“As I daresay you will like to see the departure, I will leave the door open. If you follow me to the door and stand near it you will see us pass.”

She thanked him, and he went before her, making way through the crowd of chairs and people about the table. He stationed her in a proper place, and then hurried away.

She leaned against a chair, sad at heart. She scarcely knew why she was so sad, but it was the sickness of dying hope that was stealing over her.

Albert came in a moment to wish her good-bye.

“We are going off as quickly as we came,” he said. “It will never do to go on as she is doing. She has had six weeks to think about it, and yet, I believe, she never thought what it would be to leave Leicester before. Now she would give the whole thing up if she could.”

“That is not an agreeable prospect for you,” Violet said, smiling at the placid way in which this statement was made.

“Oh! you don’t suppose I mind. Those violent things are never lasting. We shall do very well in a day or two. There they come, and I must go. Tell my uncle I did not want to make fuss by creeping through the crowd to him. Good-bye.”

Violet glanced out, and saw at the foot of the stairs Margaret clinging to Leicester, as if nothing could ever part her from him. Albert approached, gently unloosened her clasp, and hurried her to the carriage; and Leicester and Rachel disappeared.

Tears came into Violet’s eyes, partly at the sight she had witnessed, still more as she said, “What did I not throw away?--what have I not thrown away for ever?” She dashed them away, and moved to a window, and there stood looking out--looking out on vacancy, for nothing but a few empty carriages was to be seen--till Leicester’s voice made her start.

“Margaret was very sorry not to see you,” he said, “but she could not, poor thing! It has been a sad business; but she was the youngest, almost my daughter, and we must excuse her. She begged me to give you this with her love, and with some messages, which you will fancy better than I can repeat them.”

He smiled, but his voice was tremulous, and Violet’s heart was more tremulous still. When he added, “Shall I put it on?” and she held out her hand, it shook so much that she was terrified at herself.

The present was a belt of plain gold, fastening with a clasp tight to the arm. Leicester’s hand slightly trembled also, and it was a moment before he caught the fastening. In that moment Violet’s terror at her emotion had reached a point which gave her strength to conquer it, and when he raised his head she said, gaily:

“It is the prettiest bridesmaid’s present I ever saw. I will write in a day or two to Margaret to thank her and express my feelings. What is the name of their post town?”

Thankful at being so easily released, though perhaps startled, or rather jarred upon, by the gay tone of her voice, Leicester moved to a table and wrote the direction, and, as he returned, the carriage drove to the door, and Mr. Osborne, who was anxious to be gone, came to Violet’s side to summon her. She hurried upstairs to find Rachel, and when she came down Leicester was standing in the hall, and held out his arm to take her to the carriage.

When he put her in, he said:

“I am afraid this is good-bye; Rachel and I are going out of town for a day or two. I was afraid of the excitement for Rachel’s health.”

Violet shook hands, said good-bye, and drew back. This was the last blow. This was, then, the end of the day so fondly pictured. This was the end of her six years of constancy.

Mr. Osborne glanced in his daughter’s face, saw how pale it was, and imagined the cause. He took out a letter, and, as they drove towards Kensington, left her in peace.

This was her only time of peace, such as it was; for the kind friend who received them had prepared shoppings, and such other pleasures as the end of August could afford, for Violet’s entertainment on this day and the next; and on the following they returned home.

During the long journey of that day she sat in profound thought, looking on her future life, and asking herself how it was to be borne. As the twilight came on a few tears fell down her cheeks, and she had scarcely the pride or the strength to shake them away. And all the while, as her father sat by her side, apparently reading a novel, or dozing, he was anxiously watching her, and questioning what could be done to restore his darling to herself.

They arrived late, dined quickly, and after dinner Violet went to help the maid in the unpacking. When she re-entered the drawing-room, her mother called her, and said, smilingly:

“Come here, dearest, your father is talking treason. What do you think he says?”

“What, mamma?” and Violet tried to seem interested.

“Why, he says this taste of London has done him harm, and that he begins to think of a small house near London for our old age. But that is treason, is it not, darling?”

A shoot of joy and hope, so sudden that it was like a pain, took Violet’s breath away for a moment.

“Oh! mamma, papa does not really wish it?” she said, endeavouring to speak quietly.

“I think he does, dear. You should have heard all he has been saying; but we cannot think of it without your consent.”

“My consent!”

Violet paused, and then in the agitation of her heart her thoughts took a sudden turn; it came to her mind, and she felt with shame that it was always the same--her parents caring for her, not she for them.

“Oh! mamma, I cannot bear that word,” she said in a broken voice. “You must not talk of my consent. Wherever you are happiest, I will be happy too.”

“I know, darling,” her mother said, stroking her hand. “I only said consent, because you know we could not be happy unless you were well pleased. What do you say, dear? Could you leave Holywell?”

“Holywell is not what it was, mamma,” she said with a sigh.

“Well, darling,” said her father, “we must do nothing in a hurry; but think it well over. You know with your help we may be able to have a nice little house near London, now, and see our old friends again.”

The oppressive weight was lifted from Violet’s heart. A gleam of light had dawned in the future. But she was not so blind as not to perceive that her parents were, as usual, studying her good, and perhaps sacrificing to it their own pleasure. The time was past when such sacrifices could be permitted. Violet was much changed. She was gradually learning distrust of herself and genuine humility, and in the light which humility pours into the mind, was becoming acquainted with her heart, with the true cause of her faults and follies, and with the imperfections attending her best desires. And with Violet to know, was not simply to know. She was changed; and she meant to change. She took a lesson from Ida’s unselfish life, that Ida whom she had instructed, and resolved to be herself unselfish and submissive as Ida was.

In this frame of mind she determined that no restless desires to escape from Holywell--in plain words, to escape into the air where Leicester breathed--should lead her to yield to the purposed departure unless she had grounds to think it would be for her parents’ happiness as well as her own. This resolve was made before she closed her eyes that night, and the resolve itself brought peace to her troubled and disappointed heart.