Chapter V: “My soul is full of words--my voice finds none.”

Mr. Osborne was as good as his word. He learned to like Leicester. He was an individual of a quietly busy turn of mind, especially busy in other people’s business; a good, easy man, with an intellect somewhat dulled by the prosperity of his life; imposed on by the shows and surface of things, swayed by those who chose to sway him; but an upright, honourable man, kindly and liberally inclined, and well-judging, too, when he took time to look below the surface.

Though naturally attracted by very different qualities from Leicester’s, he determined to cultivate his acquaintance, because he saw it pleased his daughter; and having given himself the trouble to go below the surface, he was pleased for himself also. Leicester was invited more than once to dine with them alone, and Mr. Osborne found Leicester at his ease a different man to Leicester in lively society. He had a large mind, making up by acute observation for that lack of variety his circumstances had forbidden him. What he knew, he knew with a lawyer’s precision; what he saw, he saw vividly; what he heard, he remembered, and reproduced with originality. From the store-house of his mind Mr. Osborne drew forth many a piece of curious information, many an original observation, many an acute opinion; and there was this charm in Leicester, that he was without consciousness of his power. All that dropped from him, however worth hearing, dropped as simply as the first quick observations of a child. The steady principle, the lofty integrity which appeared in his tone of thought, were also appreciated at their full value by Mr. Osborne; and in a very short time Leicester became a favourite.

“I like Mr. Leicester as much as you do, Violet,” he observed to his daughter. “He is not showy in society, but he is better than that. I think him a very agreeable and very superior young man.”

“Not so very young,” said Violet, who in her evening’s entertainments being much beset with what she disdainfully denominated _boys_, had a marked preference for age.

“Well, darling, a very agreeable old man; though to me perhaps his age does not appear as venerable as to you.”

Some of Violet’s acquaintance were in the habit of laughing at her for her manias. She had manias for things, manias for employments, manias for books, and manias for people. While the fit lasted, the object of the mania reigned sole lord of her mind; when it was over--and sometimes it lasted but a few days--the object was degraded from its throne for a time, or for ever. She could not care for anything that attracted her attention in a properly placid and careless way. Her fancies were whole and entire, never half and half. But there was one thing which those who criticised never observed; and that was, that there was a certain constancy even in the inconstancy of her fancies. “Try all things, hold fast that which is good.” This apostolic rule, with unconscious impulse, not conscious seriousness, was the habit of her mind. The worthless objects lived their day and died; but allowing for the caprices of human nature and an excitable girls’ nature, the worthier objects outlived the violence of the mania, and became the calm possessors of her time or affections. No thing, or book, or person that had intrinsic worth was ever forsaken; and no duty, though the zest and novelty had passed away, once imposed, was ever forgotten.

It was with something of this apology that she satisfied her mind regarding her fancies; nay, justified even their excesses.

“There is no telling what a thing is worth,” she would say, “till you have thoroughly examined it; nor a person, till you have searched them through and through.”

She was, as perhaps is very evident, at this time seized with a mania for Leicester. Now, a mania for a gentleman is not by any means a proper frame of mind for a young lady, but Violet was so unconscious of being actuated by any motive but the purest benevolence towards Albert’s bashful friend, that it is hoped the impropriety will be forgiven her. It is not to be supposed, however, that her mania led her to any indiscretion or unmaidenliness of manner. She was more apt to show her likes and dislikes than is common, and, from the flattery and courting she had received, more fearless in the expression of her opinions, than is usual or perhaps desirable at her age; but, at the same time, her manners were so entirely her own, and had a grace so sweet and winning in their fearlessness, that even a rigid censor would have found little to condemn.

Her interest in Leicester’s character was deepened by a slight circumstance which occurred after their acquaintance had made some progress.

An invitation had been given by Mrs. Osborne to Albert and Leicester, to go with her and Violet to the play. An early dinner in Park Lane was to precede the play. Violet was extremely fond of all theatrical entertainments, and as unwilling as a child to lose any part of a purposed pleasure. She therefore, in very peremptory terms, enforced upon Albert the duty of punctuality, and assured him that she should sit down to dinner at six o’clock, whether he were ready or not.

Leicester heard the playful command, and determined that Violet should not be disappointed. By the exertion of a strong will he gained his point, and Albert was for once in time. It was five minutes to six when they reached the door of Mr. Osborne’s house, and were there informed, to Albert’s indignation and dismay, that Mrs. Osborne was not yet come home from her afternoon’s drive.

Lavishing upon Violet a considerable quantity of well-merited abuse, Albert led the way to the drawing-room, and planted himself at the window to watch for their return. Leicester stood with him for a few minutes, then, tired of his complaints, sat down, and began to turn over the books on the table.

In a short time Albert saw the barouche approaching, and thinking in his great wisdom that it would be indecorous to “blow up” Violet in Leicester’s presence, he slipped out of the room and went to meet her at the door. Leicester was at the moment absorbed in something he read, and did not remark his departure.

After receiving her lecture with a good grace, Violet flew up to make her excuses to Leicester, leaving Albert to bemoan himself to her mother. Her movements were so light and rapid that she stood beside him before his attention was diverted from his book.

“I am glad to find you so well employed,” she said, laughing as he started. “I was afraid you would be abusing me. But what can you be reading so attentively?” she added, with curiosity.

“Only some verses,” he replied, colouring; and he tossed the book aside with something of vexation.

Now, Violet being afflicted with innate inquisitiveness, felt a sudden and intense desire to know what verses could have so absorbed his attention. Too well-bred, however, to ask further questions, she merely glanced her quick eyes at the book, and let the subject drop.

“I ran up to apologise,” she said. “I know I quite deserve all Albert says, but I must just tell you how it was. We went to a flower-show, and mamma was very much pleased. Now you know the play is no great pleasure to poor mamma, but she is really fond of flowers, and she seemed so happy looking at them that I had not the heart to drag her away. I know it is wrong to break an engagement, but I hope you will forgive me.”

“No, we will not,” said Albert, preventing Leicester’s answer; “not at least till you have done your best to repair your fault. Go and dress, do. I have sent my aunt upstairs, and you had much better follow her, and let us get to dinner without more delay.”

“I will go directly,” Violet said, obediently; “and we will be quite ready in a quarter of an hour. I wish you would go and take a walk, then I should not feel that you were waiting. You must have got some card to leave hereabouts.”

“I think I have,” Leicester said. “Come, Ellis.”

“When Violet is gone, I will,” he said, obstinately, and she was forced to hurry away.

But her thoughts were with the book of verses, and performing her toilette in an inexpressibly short space of time, she flew again to the drawing-room, and, as she expected, found it empty.

She had observed that a leaf in the book was slightly rumpled, and by seizing it before any other hand touched it, she fancied she could discover what verses Leicester had read. Nor was she mistaken. In the haste of shutting it, a corner was turned down, and the volume opened at once on the following lines:--

“THE DUMB.

“There are who when the tide of music wakes,
When the voice of song o’er raptured hearers breaks,
In heart an answering harmony repeat,
Than Orpheus lyre more musically sweet.
But they are dumb.

There are when man with man in mirth rejoices,
When there are ready smiles and eager voices,
Who, could the spirit speak, more glad, more gay,
With golden words would hear all hearts away.
But they are dumb.

And there are souls in whom Love’s fires burn
With flame so bright, so pure, that could they learn
Love’s magic words, all pain were hushed to sleep,
So would they joy with joy, with sorrow weep.
But they are dumb.

Not mute of lip--in heart more strangely bound,
From love’s full fount slow words of comfort sound;
A veil is o’er the soul, the tongue is tied,
The ardent fire cold icy barriers hide.
And they are dumb.

Oh! in that land where all the blind shall see,
The deaf, the halt, from their strong chains be free,
Will the glad spirit from its fetters breaking,
And the freed tongue from frost-bound silence waking.
No more be dumb.”

The verses absorbed the attention of Violet as much as they seemed to have excited that of Leicester, not because of any qualities in the verses themselves, but because of the insight they gave her into his thoughts.

She imagined (not that it is always a just inference) that the verses which thus absorbed his attention expressed the feelings of his mind; and for the feeling thus exhibited, her kind heart glowed with compassion. She determined--and certainly, in the moment, of so determining, there was no thought of patronizing--to go forward more than she had yet dared to do, for the encouragement of his backwardness, and the consolation of his depression.

As soon as she heard footsteps on the stairs, she jumped up, and pushed the book away, quickly enough to escape Albert’s notice, but not so quickly as to conceal from Leicester what she had been doing. By the direction of his eyes she saw her curiosity had been observed, and both coloured as the mutual discovery was made.

He said nothing, but Violet’s nature was too open to allow her to remain silent under the circumstances.

She blushed more deeply, but laughed, and said:

“I was trying to find the verses you liked, Mr. Leicester. Perhaps you will think me unwarrantably curious, and I am afraid you will think truly. I am curious, I know.” (“_That_ you are!” Albert murmured with delighted emphasis). “If I see a little butcher’s boy go by with a book, I can hardly help running after him to see what it is. Is it a very bad propensity?”

“I suppose it is,” he said, with a smile; “at least, we are taught so.”

“Of course it is!” Albert chimed in. “The fall of man, and all bad things came from curiosity. Violet would have been a regular Eve!”

“No,” she replied, decidedly; “never curious in wrong things. Mine is only harmless curiosity--foolish and impertinent, perhaps, but not wrong. At any rate, will you forgive my indulgence of it so far as you are concerned, Mr. Leicester?”

She smiled very brightly and very sweetly as she asked the question.

He only smiled an answer, and Albert broke off the conversation by announcing that his aunt was approaching, and desiring Violet to order dinner.

Mrs. Osborne sat down in the window, and Violet, having obeyed her cousin, joined her. She stood leaning against the wall behind her, and looked very pretty in her airy demi-toilette, with the sunshine streaming upon her bright hair.

Albert, who, in the near prospect of dinner, had recovered his temper, began to compliment her on the rapidity of her toilette, and from thence proceeded to commend the style of her dress.

“Now that,” he said, “is what I call a proper and becoming dress for a woman. Why they will persist in decking themselves out in their hateful evening dresses I cannot conceive. Why do you do it, Violet? Do you think people admire you;--do you think men do? I can tell you, you are very much mistaken.”

“One must do as the world does,” she replied, laughing.

“Then there never will be a reform. Sensible women ought to take a line of their own. I say, Aunt Elizabeth,” he continued, raising his voice, “why don’t you make Violet dress herself properly, and set a good example to the world. If she always dressed as she is dressed to-night, she would be liked a thousand times better than she is!”

“Very pretty,” said Mrs. Osborne, with a pleased smile, catching only a very small part of what he said. “That bright blue is my favourite colour. What is your favourite colour, Mr. Leicester?”

“I don’t know,” he said; “violet, I think!”

“There, Violet, there’s a compliment for you,” cried Albert, while Leicester coloured at his inadvertent speech in a way in which it was painful to see any human being colour.

“No, no,” said Violet, quickly; “no compliment to me, for I have nothing to do with my name. It is a gentle and humble colour, and sadly unlike me. Why ever did you give it, to be a constant sermon to me, mamma?” and she stooped and kissed her mother’s brow.

Leicester took up a match from a table near him, and twisted it in his fingers while the conversation proceeded. When, a few minutes afterwards, a servant entered to say that dinner was ready, it dropped on the floor, and giving it a kick with his foot, he offered his arm to Mrs. Osborne.

“Stay a moment, Albert,” said Violet, “I want to see this,” and she picked from the floor a minute form of a little bird, and exhibited it with something of reverential admiration to her cousin.

“Ah, yes!” Albert said, contemplating it gravely. “But don’t go and remark upon it to him. That’s because he said he liked the colour violet. What a pity it is the man’s so shy!”

“A pity for him, yes,” replied Violet; “but his shyness interests me so much, I cannot wish it away. How I wish I could do anything to make him happier!”

“You had better leave that alone,” Albert said sagely, as he drew her along; “that is not a young lady’s business. Besides, he is too good for patronizing. Leave him alone and he’ll do in time.”

“I should never think of patronizing,” Violet said, with some sharpness, as they entered the dining-room; to which assertion Albert only nodded his head.

Among Violet’s schemes for the encouragement of Leicester, and as a means of showing him how much he was appreciated in her father’s house, she formed a resolution to make the acquaintance of his sisters. That she should have formed the resolution, was a proof that Violet was far gone in her desire to give him pleasure; for she was not fond of young ladies’ society. She had not even an intimate friend. Accustomed to the admiration of mankind, old and young, and satisfied with her wise monitor Albert for the confidant of her small troubles, she had ever experienced a sense of weariness in the conversation of young ladies. But the mania of the time being was very apt to make slight changes in Violet’s ways of thinking, and she now persuaded herself that she should derive as well as give pleasure through the acquaintance she wished to form.

She made her wish known to Leicester one evening when he dined in Park Lane. She worded her request prettily and carefully, concealing her desire to give pleasure, under the pleasure more prominently put forward, which she hoped to receive.

She was surprised, and, to speak truly, very much nettled at only receiving a quiet “thank you,” to her request. Violet could not learn to take such disappointments calmly, nor yet to conceal her sensations.

“I think you do not wish me to know your sisters,” she said, quickly.

“You are very suspicious,” he said, with a smile.

“Not suspicious, only quick to see what people mean. I see you do not wish me to know your sisters. Why? Do you think I shall do them harm?”

Leicester hesitated. Violet’s opinion was becoming too important, her approbation too dear to him. He had not been thoroughly conscious of it till that moment, when her request brought vividly before him some scenes at home; some follies and customs of three of his sisters, which would have given him pain for her to witness; which he felt he would rather have died than bring under her keen perceptions. His hesitation was the consequence of struggles which he felt to be disloyal to them.

At last he answered truthfully--

“You must not suppose I do not see the kindness which prompts your request. If I do not accept your offer at once, it is because I hardly think the acquaintance will give you the pleasure you expect. It is no disparagement to my sisters to say that they are very unlike you. Some human beings suit; some do not. I do not think they would suit you.”

“Do you speak for their sakes or for mine?” Violet asked.

“I believe I spoke for my own,” he replied, honestly; “I should wish you to like them, and I fear, when you know them, you may not do so. It is better to speak out what one feels.”

“But I think,” she said, playfully, “I am not such a dragon as you make out. I know I do sometimes laugh at girls; I cannot help it; but I am not really ill-natured. A little laughing does no harm. But, besides, I am sure I shall like your sisters. It is no kindness; it will be a pleasure to me to know them, unless it would be disagreeable to them.”

“Then I will not stand in the way of what I know will give them pleasure--and I must trust to your good-nature,” he added, gravely, and after a moment’s pause, “to bear as kindly with their infirmities as you have done with those of their brother.”

Never before had Leicester alluded to the infirmity under which he suffered; and that he did so now, was shown by his heightened colour to be an effort to him. Violet was so startled and affected by the speech that she blushed very deeply, and for a moment hardly knew how to answer him.

“Compliments ought not to be paid to me,” at last she said, laughing off her embarrassment; “they gratify me too much.”

“I meant no compliment, I assure you,” he replied, in the same grave tone.

“Then, at all events,” she continued, hurriedly, “you give me leave to do what I wish? You disappointed me at first, I own.”

“I do give my leave,” he said, smiling, “and thank you for your intention.” And Violet let the subject drop.

The very strange sensation she had felt when Leicester thanked her for her kindness to him, might have given her a warning that benevolence was not the sole and simple motive that actuated her; but Violet was too happy, her mind too full, and joyous, and active, to be at liberty to analyse its sensations. She pursued her way freely and thoughtlessly, laughingly owning to herself that she had got a new mania, and never considering that its nature was somewhat different in kind from those that had hitherto occupied her.