Chapter II

“A mind by nature indisposed to ought
So placid, so inactive as content.”

_The Excursion._

“I heard you say you were going to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy to-morrow afternoon, Violet,” said Albert to his cousin one evening, two years after the date of the last chapter. “May I go with you?”

“Certainly. We shall like it, shall we not, mamma? Be here at four o’clock, and we will take you. But this is a new fancy, Albert? I never knew you to care about pictures before.”

“One need not care because one wants to go. Everybody is going. Besides, I suppose one may sometimes fancy a new thing. People don’t always run in the same track. They would be nice ignoramusses if they did.”

“You have no reason, then, for wishing to go?” Violet persisted, looking as if she was convinced he had.

“None in particular. Leicester went the other day, and talked about the pictures, and so I thought I should like to go.”

Violet laughed and nodded; but Albert, not observing her, went on--

“He says there is a little picture there that nobody seems to notice, which is worth all the others put together.”

“And who made Mr. Leicester a supreme judge of pictures?” Violet asked, ironically.

“His own good taste, I suppose. I cannot tell why it is, Violet, but you seem to have no pleasure so great as cutting up Leicester. I see no fun in it at all.”

“Mr. Leicester does provoke me, I own. Always forming strange opinions, and setting up his opinion against the world.”

“Leicester setting himself up against the world!” exclaimed Albert, in surprise and indignation. “What extraordinary fancies you do have! Leicester, who is too shy, poor fellow, to express his opinions at all, and only neglected because he is too humble and diffident to allow his merit to be seen.”

“Mr. Leicester shy and diffident! My dear Albert, I am quite tired of hearing all the strange things he says.”

“He talks to _me_ because I like to hear him; but he talks to very few besides, because most people are too full of themselves to draw him out. He never says strange things, and if I tire you, it is my fault, not his. _He_ never tired anybody, poor fellow; and since you are so unjust, Violet, I will never mention him--though he is my best friend--any more.”

He spoke with so much warmth, that Violet’s interest was excited.

“Why do you say neglected, Albert?” she asked. “Mr. Leicester is a lawyer, is he not? I suppose he will get on in his turn as others do.”

“He is neglected because he is too shy to put himself forward. I don’t suppose there is such a modest, retiring man in Europe; but it’s only for a time. He’s too clever to be overlooked, and some day, poor fellow, he will be appreciated as he ought to be.”

During Albert’s last two speeches a very singular change took place in Violet’s mind. She had hitherto--without knowing Mr. Leicester--indulged in an antipathy to him, simply because her cousin appeared to look up to him. She had set him down in her vivid imagination as a young, intolerable prig; and as such, a proper object for her dislike and sarcasm. But there was that in her nature which ever stood up for the oppressed, and stooped down to the neglected. Observers, who were very desirous to discover the flaws in human virtue, would have said this disposition sprang from the love of patronizing and of power; and undoubtedly this was Violet’s temptation. But the fault had wound about the virtue after it had grown up; the root was in her own generous and kindly nature. Albert’s few words regarding the fortunes of his friend, dispelled him from her fancy in his first priggish form, and a new vision of a young retiring genius springing up in its place, all her sympathies became enlisted in his favour. In less than a minute the transformation from dislike to interest was effected, and she began to plan kindnesses to encourage modest merit.

“Do you think Mr. Leicester would go with us to the Exhibition to-morrow, Albert?” she inquired, after a short silence. “We could take him as well as you, and it would be a means of making acquaintance. I feel sorry for him after what you have said.”

“I am sure he would,” said Albert, delighted. “I think I can answer for that. He knows you all too well from my description to be shy about it; or if he is, I can soon persuade him. All he wants, poor fellow, is for people to come forward to meet him. Do you know, Violet, I have so often wished you would notice him.”

“Then why did you never say so?” she asked with quickness.

“Because I did not choose. He is a great deal too good to force upon anybody. If you did not like to know him, I did not wish you to know him. But I am very much obliged to you now.”

“Mamma,” cried Violet, approaching her mother and kissing her, “you will not mind our taking Albert’s friend with us to-morrow, shall you? I have told him you will.”

The question was asked with Violet’s accustomed dutiful attention to her mother; but it was a mere form. Mrs. Osborne had no will but her daughter’s.

The two years that had passed had brought its natural changes to both Violet and Albert. The manners of both had lost their first marked freshness, and been toned into the softer manners of common life. With Albert the change ended here. He was in mind still a boy; careless and wayward, yet with good dispositions, and some shrewd perceptions into men and things. He had lately been called to the bar, and he dawdled away a large portion of his time among lawyers and law books; attending trials and propounding questions; snatching up, with instinctive quickness, many pieces of valuable information, but eschewing all the profounder parts of the profession on which he had entered.

With Violet the changes had gone deeper. At seventeen she had been a lively, sweet-tempered, wilful girl--a spoilt child, _unspoilt_; at nineteen she was a woman, with a woman’s thought and feeling; lively, sweet-tempered, and wilful still, but thinking much, and questioning her thoughts. She had passed through the severe ordeal of two seasons as a reigning beauty; rich, lovely, and inviting in manner; sought, flattered, and loved. But the spoiled beauty was like the spoiled child, _unspoilt_! She did not think little of herself; she knew she was very charming; thought so, and rejoiced in the thought; but the knowledge exercised no influence on her mind and manners. She was as simple and honest as when a child; as careless of herself, as thoughtful for others, as earnestly desirous to do what she considered right, and to be all that she ought to be. If her standard was not high, it was true, and truth is the best of foundations.

Violet expected, with some interest, the arrival of Albert and his friend. She was at the age when fancy is busy, and of the temperament when it is vivid; and fancy gives to the simplest events of life an importance of its own. With a disappointment, therefore, most disproportioned to the real importance of the circumstance, she saw Albert arrive alone.

“Well, Albert, and where is Mr. Leicester?” she said eagerly.

Albert, not having given to the invitation as much thought as Violet had, answered, indifferently:

“Oh! he was very sorry, Violet, but he could not come.”

Violet coloured.

“Of all things I hate,” she said, with warmth, “it is for people to break their engagements!”

“It was no engagement, Violet; that is, it was none of his. He was very sorry, and very much obliged, and would have liked it, but he was particularly busy to-day, and could not help himself. You must ask him another time.”

The vision of the modest youth and bashful genius faded from Violet’s fancy, and the intolerable prig resumed his place.

“I see Mr. Leicester is just what I thought he was!” she observed, quickly; “gives himself airs to make his importance felt. I am very glad he did not come, for I know I should hate him.”

“Leicester give himself airs! Poor fellow! What extraordinary fancies you do have! I say, Violet, I think you are the oddest mixture I ever knew! There is nobody more good-natured than you can be, but, at the same time, I know nobody so ill-natured, or so easily vexed, if people don’t receive your kindnesses just as they are meant. You should learn to be more calm, and not flurry about trifles.”

Violet’s truthful conscience told her he was right. She could not bear the shadow of ingratitude, and was certainly prone to expect large returns for her kindnesses. She coloured angrily, but refrained from the sharp words she would willingly have returned to this plain-spoken admonition.

Without being a connoisseur, Violet was fond of painting, and had an instinctive appreciation of what was good. She and her mother--the eyes of the latter instructed by her daughter--went slowly through the rooms of the Exhibition, leisurely examining such good things as were to be seen. Albert lounged about by himself, discovering what was good and what was bad, without one rule of art to guide him.

“Come here!” he exclaimed, suddenly coming up to Violet in the second room. “I have found the thing Leicester likes, and I want you to look at it. It’s a very good thing, and you will like it too.”

Assuring him she should _not_ like it, Violet followed him. The picture was called in the catalogue, “Ruth’s First-born Son;” and the subject was treated with a grave simplicity and pathos, which, while it glaringly attracted no attention, riveted attention when once it was caught. The position of Naomi, bearing away the child as her own; the glad thankfulness in the eyes of the young mother; and something of awe and prophecy in those of Boaz as they followed it--were depicted with a master’s hand; yet such a master’s hand as seemed unconscious of the effect he produced; homely and harmonious, without effort or caprice.

Violet looked, and was touched. She had expected some eccentricity of genius, some strange thing which the young prig had chosen to patronise. She could not conceal her surprise.

“Yes,” she replied, in answer to Albert’s inquiry, “it is very pretty, but I don’t understand why Mr. Leicester likes it. It is not at all the sort of thing I should have expected a young man to choose.”

“A young man, my dear Violet, has quite as good taste as a young woman, I can assure you,” said Albert, with dignity.

“I mean that I wonder at the subject interesting him. It is all so simple, and all about a baby.”

“But there may be particular thoughts about the baby, and there are. I can see that myself. The baby was something or some body, I am pretty sure; and they seem all to be thinking about it.”

“Yes--so he was,” said Violet, thoughtfully, “the grandfather of David, and therefore.... yes--I see what you mean. Still I am surprised. It is not at all what I should have expected Mr. Leicester to like. And I am very sorry, too,” she added, laughing, “because I agree with him in liking it best, and that is very disagreeable to me.”

“Why?--I don’t see why,” said stupid Albert.

“Because I hate him, and I don’t want to agree with people I hate. But come with us now to the miniatures; we have not much more time, and we must look at them before we go.”

In the miniature room another surprise awaited her, regarding the individual who seemed suddenly destined to engage her thoughts.

“Who is that, Albert?” she exclaimed, pointing to a crayon head above the rows of miniatures; “I think it must be _somebody_, and I like it.”

It was the head of a man; not an intellectual abstraction, not a poetical study, but a man, seeming to live and breathe on the canvas. The features of the face were marked and strong, yet the expression of countenance was very soft, and there was something in the grave sweetness of the dark eyes which arrested the spectator with a force he could not withstand.

“Why, it’s Leicester!--it must be!” cried Albert, seizing the catalogue. “Yes--sure enough--‘John Leicester, Esq.’ Well, this is the most extraordinary thing I ever knew!”

“_That_ Mr. Leicester?” exclaimed Violet, almost stupefied with her surprise.

“Yes, and a capital likeness--the very man! But what I can’t understand is, how it comes to be here. I should have thought he was the last man in the world who would have made an exhibition of himself.”

“That is true,” said a voice behind them, proceeding from a pale, clever-looking young man; “but Mr. Leicester never refuses a boon to a person in distress. I asked him to sit to me, and he consented; and having succeeded beyond my hopes, he allowed me to make of my study such use as I could.”

Violet was startled at this sudden explanation; but Albert, who, with the exception of this picture’s appearance, was never surprised at anything, quietly replied,

“Thank you; that is just like him. I hope it has been of use to you.”

“It has already in some degree; and as, since its appearance here, it has been approved by very competent judges, I have good hope that it will be still more so. But do not let me interrupt you,” and bowing, the young man disappeared.

“We ought to be careful how we speak in a crowd,” said Albert, composedly.

“So I have been quite wrong!” said Violet. “I thought Mr. Leicester was a young man.”

“Young!--why, so he is. Do you call two-and-thirty old?”

“I call it a very good age; not the least bit of a _boy_,” and there was contempt in the emphasis. “But, Albert, what puzzles me is this: if Mr. Leicester is, as he seems to be, such a very _superior_ person, how does he come to be your friend?”

“Ah! Violet,” said Albert, nodding his head, “you are quite in the wrong box. It is not your clever people who appreciate superior characters--they are too full of themselves to care. I may not be very clever, but I know what is worth liking better than clever ones do.”

“I believe you mean to give me a hint,” said Violet, laughing. “I daresay I am a great deal too full of myself, and think myself much cleverer than I am; but if you suppose I do not appreciate superior people, you are wrong. Goodness and worth is what I look for, as a jeweller hunts for diamonds; and when I find a grain of goodness, I feel as elated as the jeweller does. So now I want to make acquaintance with Mr. Leicester, and you must bring him to us.”

“I will manage it,” replied Albert, with dignity. “But you must remember he is shy, and not be surprised if you find him dull at first.”

“He will not be shy with me. No one is. So, Albert, it is a settled thing, and don’t let me be disappointed. But, dear mamma!” she suddenly exclaimed, “how I have been talking, and how tired of standing you must be!”

“Not at all, dear. I like to look about me, and that,” pointing to the crayon head which had occupied so much of the conversation of her companions, “is a very pleasing countenance. Look in the catalogue and see whose picture it is.”

Albert, who never could become accustomed to his aunt’s infirmity, stared at this request; but Violet obeyed, and gave the information she desired.