Chapter VI: Book II: Persons (1)

Chapter One.

Forty-three miles as the crow flies, south of Stirmingham, there stands upon the lonely Downs a solitary, lichen-grown post, originally intended to direct wayfarers upon those trackless wastes.

In winter, when the herbage, always short, was shortest, and when the ground was softened by rain, there might be detected the ruts left by waggon wheels crossing each other in various directions; but road, or path properly so-called, there was none, and a stranger might as well have been placed on the desert of the Sahara. For time, and the rain blown with tremendous force across these open Downs by the wind, had all but obliterated the painted letters upon the cross-arms, and none but those acquainted with the country could have understood the fragmentary inscriptions.

Some mischievous ploughboys or shepherd lads, tired of arranging flints in fanciful rows, or cutting their names upon the turf, had improved the shining hour by climbing up this post, pulling out the arms, and inserting them in the opposite mortices, thereby making the poor post an unwitting liar. This same section of the population had also energetically pelted all the milestones for far around with flints, till the graven letters upon them were beaten out. Such wooden wit was their only resource in a place where _Punch_ never penetrated; for this lonesome spot was appropriately named World’s End, or, it was locally pronounced, Wurdel’s End.

The undulating downs surrounded it upon every side, dotted here and there at long distances with farmsteads and a few cottages, and now and then a small village or hamlet of ten or a dozen houses grouped together in a “combe,” or narrow valley, where there happened to be a spring of water and a “bourne” or stream. Yet World’s End was not altogether to be despised. In this out-of-the-way place there was perhaps the finest natural racecourse in England, to which the uneven uphill course at Epsom, made famous by the Derby, was but an exercise ground.

A level stretch of sweet, elastic turf, half a mile wide, ran in a line something like half a horse-shoe, under the steep Downs, for a distance of two miles, unimpeded by hedge, ditch, or enclosed field, and obstructed only in a few spots by thick bushes of furze and a few scattered hawthorn trees.

A spectator standing upon the Downs had the whole of this Plain, as it was called, at once under his eye; could see a horse start and watch it gallop to the goal. From an ancient earthwork camp or “castle,” this Down was known as Berbury Hill, and the level plain was often called Berbury racecourse.

For from time immemorial rustic sports, and local races between the horses of the neighbouring farmers, had taken place twice a year under the Berbury Hill. The sports were held in the early spring; the races proper, according to custom, came off in October. They were of the most primitive character, as may be judged from the following poster, which the kindness of a printer and bookbinder at Barnham—the nearest town—enables us to present to the reader. He had preserved a copy of it, having returned the original to the committee, who sat at the Shepherd’s Bush Inn upon the Downs:—

“Take Notiss. The Public is hereby Invite to the Grand open and Hurdle Rases and Steple-Chaces at Wurdel’s End which is to come off on Wensday after old Michelmuss Day. All particlars of the Stewards which is Martin Brown, William Smith, Philip Lewis, Ted Pontin. Illegul Beting is stoped.”

This copy had in the corner, “Please print two Score and send by Carrier,” and the unfortunate printer, ashamed to issue such a circular, sent it back with an amended form for approval; but the carrier forgot the letter, and it was not delivered till a week after the event—not that much was lost by the failure to give this species of publicity to the races. The day was well-known to all those who were likely to attend. The half-dozen gipsies, with the cocoanut sticks and gingerbread stall, duly arrived, and took up their quarters in a fir copse where the ground was dry, and the tree-trunks sheltered them somewhat from the breeze which always blows over the Downs.

Most of the spectators were hill men. There still lingers the old feud between the hill and vale—not so fierce, toned down to an occasional growl—but Nature herself seems to have provided a never-ceasing ground of quarrel. These two races, the hill and the vale men, must always put up opposing prayers to heaven. The vale prays for fine and dry weather; the hill prays for wet. How then can they possibly agree? Not more than three knots of men and half a dozen wenches came up from the vale, and these gave pretty good evidence that they had called _en route_ at the Shepherd’s Bush, for they were singing in chorus the lament of the young woman who went to the trysting place to meet her faithless swain:—

But what was there to make her sad? The gate was there, but not the lad; Which made poor Mary to sigh and to say Young William shan’t be mine!

The committee were in a moveable shepherd’s hut on wheels, where also was the weighing-room and the weights, some of which were stone “quarters.”

Just where the judges post was erected the course was roped for a hundred yards to ensure the horses arriving at the right place, but otherwise it was open. By the side of these ropes the traps and four-wheelers and ramshackle gigs of the farmers were drawn up, with their wives and daughters, who had come to see the fun.

Among these there was one pony-carriage drawn by two handsome ponies, with a peacock’s feather behind their ears and silver bells on the harness, which, simple enough in itself, had a stylish look beside these battered and worn-out vehicles. It belonged to Jason Waldron, who was generally credited with “Esquire” after his name, and the lady who sat alone in it was his daughter Violet. Mr Waldron was not there.

Violet was attended by a young man, plainly dressed, very pale, whose slight frame gave him an effeminate appearance in contrast with the burly forms, and weather-beaten faces of those acquaintances who from time to time nodded and spoke as they passed. The pony-carriage was drawn up under an ancient hawthorn tree, whose gnarled and twisted trunk, slow in growth, may have witnessed the formation of the entrenchment on the hill by the Britons themselves. The first frosts of autumn had blackened the leaves, and the mingling of the grey of the trunk and its lichen with the dark colour of the leaves and the red peggles or berries, under a warm, glowing, mellow sunshine, caused the tree to assume a peculiar bronze-like tint.

It may be that the sun in all his broad domains did not shine that day upon a more lovely being than Violet Waldron. Aymer Malet, the young man at her side—whose Norman name ill-assorted with his coarse garments, too plainly speaking of poverty—would have sworn that her equal did not walk the earth, and he would have had good warrant for his belief.

Poor Aymer was out of place in that rude throng, and tormented himself with fears lest he should appear despicable in her eyes, as so inferior to those stalwart men in size and strength. He should have known better; but he was young and had lived so long with those who despised him that a habit of self-depreciation had insensibly grown upon him. It is needless to go back into his pedigree. He was well descended, but an orphan and friendless, except for the single uncle who had given a roof and a bed to lie on to his sister’s child.

Martin Brown was a well-meaning man, honest and sturdy, but totally incapable of comprehending that all men are not absorbed in sheep and turnips. He was moderately well off, but, like all true farmers, frugal to the extreme. Never a penny did Aymer get from him. Martin would have said: “Thee doesn’t work; thee doesn’t even mind a few ewes. If thee’ll go bird-keeping I’ll pay thee.”

Aymer wished for work, but not work of that class. He remembered one golden year spent in London with a friend of his dead father (who had lost his all by horse-racing), where he was permitted to read at will in a magnificent library, and was supplied with money to visit those art-galleries and collections in which his heart delighted. The friend died; the widow had no interest in him, and Aymer returned to the turnips, and sheep. But even in that brief period the impulse had been given; the seed had been sown and had fallen in fertile ground, which gave increase a hundredfold.

The boy—he was but twenty then—was a born genius. He could not help it; it would force him on. What he wanted was books. He could get no money to purchase them; circulating libraries had not yet established agencies upon the open Downs. By a strange contradiction he became a poacher, and the cleverest hand at setting a wire for miles. Tenants were not allowed to shoot in that district, but they might course hares as much as they pleased.

Aymer wired the ground game, sold them to the carriers who went by, and through the carriers got books slowly and one by one from the county town. In this way he bought many of Bohn’s fine series—the finest and most useful, perhaps, ever issued—he read Plato and Aristotle, Livy, Xenophon—the poets, the philosophers, the dramatists of ancient Rome and Greece; and although it was not in their original tongue, the vivid imagination of the man carried him back to their day, and enabled him to realise those stirring scenes, to feel their passions, and comprehend their arguments. He bought also most of the English poets, a few historians, and a large number of scientific works, for he was devoured with an eager curiosity to understand the stars that shone so brilliantly upon those hills—the phenomena of Nature with which he was brought in daily contact. When he had mastered a book, his friends the carriers, who called at the Shepherd’s Bush, took it back to the county town and resold it for half-price, and these small sums went towards fresh purchases.

It may have been that these very untoward circumstances which would, to all appearance, have checked the growth of his mind, actually tended to assist it. He saw—he felt Nature. The wind, that whistled through the grass and sighed in the tops of the dark fir trees, spoke to him in a mystic language. The great sun, in unclouded splendour slowly passing over the wide, endless hills, told him a part of the secret. His books were not read, in the common sense of the term: they were _thought_ through. Not a sentence but was thought over, examined, and its full meaning grasped and firmly imprinted on the memory.

Poor Aymer! How desperately he longed to escape! How the soft summer breeze seemed to woo him onwards he knew not whither! How the sun seemed to beckon, till he fancied he could hear the echo of the surge as it roared on the far-distant beach!

He did escape once—only for a little while, to be forced ignominiously back again, amid the jeers of his acquaintances. This happened before he knew Violet. By dint of catching hares and rabbits, and by selling off an accumulation of books, and by disposing of his gold watch—his only property—he managed to get some twenty pounds, and with that sum went straight to Florence.

It was in spring, just before the warm summer comes, and he revelled in the beauty of Italian skies and landscapes as he travelled. But his destination was the Palazzo, which contains the statue of ideal woman, known as the Venus de Medici. He stood before the living marble, rapt in thought, and then suddenly burst into tears.

This was perhaps childish. He had his faults; he was extremely proud and oversensitive. The sudden transition from the harsh and rude life at World’s End, among the weather-beaten and rough-speaking rustics, to this new world of inexpressible beauty, overcame him. Hastily he brushed those tears away, and recovered himself; but not so quickly as to escape the observation of two sad grey eyes. Inadvertently, as he stood before the statue, he had interfered with the line of sight of a lady who was engaged in sketching. She had paused, and noticing his rapt attention, made no sign that he had interrupted her work. Thus she witnessed his weakness; and being a person of a thoughtful, perhaps too thoughtful, turn, she wondered at and pondered over it.

Day by day Aymer, while his funds lasted and he could stay in Florence, came and stood before the statue, lingering for hours in its close vicinity; so that the artist, as she sketched, had the fullest opportunity of noting the strong contrast between his delicate, intellectual features and slight, tall frame, and the coarse dress he wore. Growing interested, she instructed her attendants to make inquiries, and they easily elicited the name of the stranger, and the place from which he had come.

By a curious coincidence, it so happened that the lady-artist herself was the owner of a family mansion, and moderately large estate but a few miles from Aymer’s home. He was, in fact, perfectly familiar with her name, which was a household word at World’s End, where distinguished names were few; but moving in his low sphere he had never seen her face.

Lady Lechester—Agnes Lechester to her friends—was “lord of herself, that heritage of woe,” and being of an artistic turn of mind, had spent much of her time upon the Continent; another reason being certain unhappy matters connected with the history of the family mansion. She was much struck with the singularity of a mere lad of low and poor estate thus coming to Florence, obviously from pure love of the beautiful. Nothing approaching to affection sprang up in her mind; it must be distinctly understood that her interest was of a different character entirely. But from that moment Aymer unconsciously became the subject of a certain amount of surveillance. He deemed himself despised and unnoticed by all; but there was one who had not forgotten him.

Those happy days in lovely Florence passed like a dream. Even by living on a few fruits and a little bread alone, the scanty stock of money he had carried with him could not be made to last for ever. Barely a month of pure, unalloyed pleasure—pure in every sense of the term—and poor Aymer, who knew not how to get employment in a foreign city, was obliged to return, and Agnes Lechester saw him no more standing in rapt admiration before the famous statue.

Aymer reached Dover with five shillings in his pocket, and walked the whole of the distance, one hundred and fifty miles, to World’s End, often sleeping out at night under a rick. Slight as he was in frame, he possessed considerable power of enduring fatigue, and had a way of lounging idly along the road, abstracted in thought, and so walking mile after mile, till he woke up at his destination.

They laughed him to scorn at World’s End. The poor fellow wandered about in the daytime on the Downs, hiding in the fir copses, lying on the ancient earthwork entrenchment, and dreaming of his fair Florence, so many hundreds of miles away. He grew dejected and hopeless till he saw Violet. Then in time, the very destiny he deemed so harsh in confining him to that rude spot seemed even superior to the glorious possibilities he had hoped for. For Violet took the place of the marble goddess; yet there never was a beauty less like the Venus de Medici. Lovely as are the ideals men have created for themselves, it sometimes happens that Nature presents us with a rare gem, surpassing those cold conceptions of the mind as far as the sun is above the earth.

Chapter Two.

Violet returned from a long visit to friends near London just about the time that Aymer reached home, weary and footsore, from Dover. Although The Place, as Jason Waldron’s house was called, was but two miles from World’s End, Aymer had never seen her. She was but rarely at home, for Waldron had given her the best education money could buy, and this necessitated much absence from her native hills. But, education and visits over, Violet, with a happy heart, returned to the dear old home at last.

It was on one lovely afternoon in May that Aymer saw her for the first time. He was lying upon the ground hidden in the brake which grew round the hedge of a fir copse on the Downs. Through this copse there ran a narrow green lane or track. He was reading his favourite little book of poetry—one that he always carried in his pocket—the tiny edition of Shakespeare’s Poems and Sonnets, published by William James Brown, thirty years since, and now out of print.

Somehow the spirit of those sonnets and that peculiar poetry had penetrated into his mind. The little book was annotated on its narrow margin with notes in his own handwriting, and he knew the greater part of it by heart. He had just read the sonnet beginning—

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red. * * * * * And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As she belied with false compare,

when the sound of horse’s hoofs made him look up.

A lady, riding on a black horse, had entered the green lane, and was passing slowly at a walk. It was Violet. Waldron. All that English beauty which seemed to pervade the poetry of wonderful Will, to Aymer’s fancy appeared to be hers. She passed him, and was gone, but her presence was left behind.

Aymer could not have analysed her then—if asked, he could have barely recounted the colour of her hair. Yet she dwelt with him—hovered about him; he fed upon the remembrance of her until he had seen her again. By slow degrees he grew to understand the reason of her surpassing loveliness—to note the separate features, to examine the colours and the lines that composed this enchanting picture. A new life dawned upon him—a new worship, so to say.

It happened that Martin Brown had some business to transact with Jason Waldron. Waldron bore the reputation of being a “scholard;” he was known to be comparatively wealthy; he did not mix with the society of World’s End; and he was held in some sort of awe by the rude and uneducated residents in the locality.

Much as he despised that useless Aymer Malet, Martin in his secret heart felt that he was better fitted to meet and talk with Mr Waldron than himself. Aymer was, therefore, accredited to The Place. He went with no little trepidation, knowing that it was Violet’s home, and sharing to some extent the local hesitation to meet Waldron, who, being an invalid, he had never seen. Mr Waldron received him with a cordial courtesy, which quickly put him at his ease. When the grey-haired, handsome old man, sitting in his Bath-chair in the shadow of a sycamore tree, extended his hand and said: “I had some slight knowledge of your father, Mr Malet—he came of a good family,” poor Aymer forgot his coarse dress, and exhibited the bearing of a born gentleman. He could not help admiring the garden in which he found his host. This evidently genuine admiration pleased Waldron extremely, for the garden had been the solace of his retired manhood, and of his helpless age. He began to talk about it directly.

“It is the trees,” he said; “it is the trees that make it look well. Trees are really far more beautiful than flowers. I planted most of them; you have heard the Eastern saying, Mr Malet—that those who plant trees live long. That yew-hedge?—no; I did not plant that. Such hedges are rare now—that hedge has been growing fully a hundred years—the stems, if you will look, are of immense size. To my mind, the old English yew is a greater favourite than the many foreign evergreens now introduced. The filbert walk?—yes; I planted that. Come and see me in a few months’ time, and you shall crack as many as you choose. The old house picturesque?—it is: I wish I had a sketch of it. You draw?—a little; now try. Take out your pocket-book—ah! I see you have a regular artist’s sketchbook.”

To tell the honest truth, Aymer was not a little pleased to have the opportunity of exhibiting his skill before some one who could appreciate it. He was a natural draughtsman. I do not think he ever, even in later and more fortunate days, attempted colours; but with pencil and crayon, or pen and ink, he was inimitable. Once at work with his pencil, Aymer grew absorbed and forgot everything—even the presence of the invalid, who watched him with interest. The gables and the roof, the curious mullioned windows, the chimney-stacks, the coat of arms and fantastic gargoyles, then the trees and arbours grew upon the paper.

“Ah! that’s my window,” said a low voice.

His pencil slipped and made a thick stroke—he looked round, it was Violet.

For the first time he looked into her eyes and met her face to face. He could not draw. His hand would not keep steady; he blamed it to the heat of the summer sun. Violet declared it was her fault.

Mr Waldron seized the incomplete sketch, and insisted upon Mr Malet (the title, humble as it was, was pleasant to Aymer’s ears) returning to finish it next day.

In his confusion Aymer somehow got away, and then remembered that the sketchbook he had left behind was full of drawings, and amongst them there were two that brought a flush to his brow as he thought of them. One was Violet on horseback; the other a profile of her face. He wished to return and claim his book, and yet he hesitated. A sweet uncertainty as to what she would think mastered him. He dared not venture back. The next day passed, and the next—still he did not go—a week, a fortnight.

He could not summon up courage. Then came a note for “A. Malet, Esq”—that “Esq” subjected him to bitter ridicule from rude old Martin—from Mr Waldron, inquiring if he had been ill, and begging him to visit at The Place, according to promise.

There was no escape. He went; and from that hour the intimacy increased and ripened till not a day passed without some part of it being spent with the Waldrons. Violet had seen her portrait in the sketchbook, but she said not a word. She made Aymer draw everything that took her fancy. Once he was bold enough to ask to sketch her hand. She blushed, and became all dignity; Aymer cowered. He was not bold enough. How could he be? With barely a shilling in his pocket, rough corduroy trousers, an old battered hat, a black coat almost green from long exposure to sun and rain;—after years of ridicule and jeering how could he face her?

His heart was full, but his lips dared not speak. His timidity and over-sensitiveness made him blind to signs and tokens that would have been instantly apparent to others of harder mould. He never saw the overtures that the growing love in Violet’s breast compelled her to offer. He tormented himself day and night with thinking how to compass and obtain her love, when it was his already.

The one great difficulty was his poverty. Think how he would, he could discover no method by which it could be remedied. He had no means of obtaining employment, and employment would imply absence from her. How could he make her love him? He turned to his faithful friend and adviser, dear old Will. The tiny volume of poems was carefully scanned, and he lit upon those verses commencing—

When as thine eye hath chose the dame And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike.

He asked himself if he had done as the lover was advised—

And when thou com’st thy tale to tell Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk.

Certainly he had not attempted to beguile her with insinuating flattery—

But plainly say thou lov’st her well, And set her person forth to sale.

This he had not done. How dare he say he loved her well? He had not the courage to praise her person.

And to her will frame all thy ways.

This he was willing and ready enough to do. He believed he had done so already; but read on—

Spare not to spend, and chiefly there Where thy desert may merit praise By ringing in thy lady’s ear.

Here he was at a standstill. He could not spend; he could not even dress as a gentleman. He could not make her rich and beautiful presents.

The strongest castle, tower, and town The golden bullet beats it down.

He had no golden bullets—to him the castle was therefore impregnable.

Serve always with assured trust, And in thy suit be humble, true—

Advice such as this last he could and did follow conscientiously.

Have you not heard it said full oft, A woman’s nay doth stand for nought?—

Encouraging to those who could press the question, but he had not even courage to get the first nay. It was the “golden bullet”—the lack of the power to spend—the miserable poverty which pressed upon him with a leaden weight. He did his best to follow infallible Will’s advice. He snared twenty hares and sold them; he had still a small gold pencil-case left—it had belonged to his mother. He sold that also.

On foot he walked forty miles to Reading, and spent the whole proceeds in the purchase of a pair of fine jet bracelets, which his instinct told him would look well upon Violet’s white wrist. When he had got them, came the difficulty—how could he give them to her? At last he employed a shepherd lad to leave a parcel for Miss Waldron.

He kept away several days, but love was more powerful than shame. He went.

With Violet he strolled up the long shady filbert walk, with the clusters, now ripe, hanging overhead. His heart beat fast, but he said nothing. On her part she was silent. Suddenly she lifted up her arm and reached after a cluster of the nuts high up. Her sleeve fell down; the beautiful arm was bare to the elbow, and there was the bracelet!

Her eyes met his; a lovely colour suffused her cheek. An uncontrollable impulse seized him. He caught her hand and kissed it. Why linger? No one can tell how these things come about. Their lips met, and it is enough.

That was the happiest autumn Aymer ever knew. Even now he looks back at its sweetness with a species of regret. The sunshine was warmer, the blue of the sky richer, the yellow mist that hung over the landscape softer, the bee went by with a joyous hum, the crimson-and-gold of the dying leaves was more brilliant than ever it had been before or since. Love lent his palette to Nature, and the world was aglow with colour. How delicious it is to see everything through the medium, and in the company of a noble girl just ripening into womanhood! I remember one such summer—

But age with his stealing steps Has clawed me in his clutch.

She was very beautiful; it is hard to describe her. It was not perhaps so much the features, the hue of the hair, the colour of the eye, the complexion, or even the shape, as the life, the vitality, the wonderful freshness which seemed to throw a sudden light over her, as when the sunshine falls upon a bed of flowers:—

Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy, slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom, her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o’er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved.

The modern taste for catalogues compels me to name the colour of her eye and hair. Her eye was full, large, and lustrous; that deep black so rarely seen—an eye that gave quick expression to the emotions of the heart—that flashed with laughter, or melted with tenderness. Her hair was not quite golden; it was properly brown, but so near the true golden that a little sunlight lit it up with a glossy radiance impossible to express in words. The complexion was that lovely mingling of red and white, which the prince in the fairy tale prayed his lady-love might have, when he saw the crimson blood of a raven he had slain, staining the translucent marble slab upon which it had fallen. The nose was nearly straight; the lips full and scarlet. She was tall, but not too tall. It is difficult for a woman to have a good carriage unless she be of moderate height. Enough of the catalogue system.

They visited all the places in the neighbourhood where Aymer’s pencil could find a subject. Now it was a grand old beech tree; now only a grey stone, set up centuries and centuries since as a “stone of memorial” by races long reduced to ashes; now The Towers, the home of Lady Lechester. With them always went Dando, Waldron’s favourite dog, a huge mastiff, who gambolled about in unwieldly antics at Violet’s feet.

Aymer listened to her as she played. He sat by the invalid under the shadow of the sycamore tree near the open window, where he could see her sitting at the piano, pouring forth the music of Mendelssohn in that peculiar monotonous cadence which marks the master’s works and fills the mind with a pleasant melancholy. Now and then her head turned, a glance met his, and then the long eyelashes drooped again. Presently out she would come with a rush, making old Dando (short for Dandolo) bound and bark with delight as he raced her round the green, tearing her flowing dress with his teeth, and whisking away when she tried to catch him.

The grace of her motions, the suppleness of her lithe form, filled Aymer’s heart with a fierce desire to clasp her waist and devour her lips, while the invalid laughed aloud at the heavy bounds of his dog. The old man saw clearly what was going forward, yet he did not put forth his hand to stay it. They were a happy trio that summer and autumn at World’s End.

Chapter Three.

The summer passed away, as all things do, the winter, and the spring blossomed afresh, and still the course of true love ran smooth with Aymer and Violet.

The winter had been only one degree less pleasant than the summer. Violet had a beautiful voice; Aymer’s was not nearly so fine: still, it was fairly good, and scarcely an evening passed without duets and solos on the pianoforte, while old Waldron, animated for the time beyond his wont, accompanied them upon the violin. He had an instrument which, next to his daughter and his dog Dando, he valued above all things. It was by Guarnerius, and he handled it with more care than a mother does her infant, expatiating upon the quality of the wood, the sycamore and pine, the beauty of the varnish, the peculiar, inimitable curl of the scroll, which had genius in its very twist.

Aymer was a ready listener. In the first place, he had grown to look upon Waldron in the light that he would have regarded an affectionate and beneficent father. Then he was, above all things, anxious to please Violet, and he knew that she adored the Silver Fleece, as she called him, in laughing allusion to his odd Christian name, Jason, and to his grey hairs. And, lastly, he really did feel a curiosity and a desire to learn.

Sometimes Aymer gave Violet lessons in drawing, and she repaid him with lessons in French and music, being proficient in both.

After a while Waldron discovered that this boy, without means or friends, had made himself acquainted with the classics, and had even journeyed as a pilgrim to the shrines of ancient art at Florence.

At this he was highly pleased. He at once set to work to ground Aymer in the original languages in which Plato and Livy wrote. He taught him to appreciate the delicate allusions, and exquisite turn of diction, of Horace. He corrected the crude ideas which the self-instructed student had formed, and opened to him the wide field of modern criticism. The effect upon Aymer’s mind was most beneficial, and the old man, while teaching the youth, felt his heart, already predisposed, yearning towards him more and more.

To Violet this was especially a happy omen, for she, above all things, loved her only parent, and had not ceased to fear lest her affection for Aymer should be met by his disapproval. As time went on, the ties of intimacy still further strengthened.

Waldron was now often seen in deep thought, and left the young people more to themselves. He busied himself with pen and ink, with calculations and figures, to the subject-matter of which he did not ask their attention.

Even yet Aymer had not thought of marriage; even yet he had not overcome his constitutional sensitiveness so much as to contemplate such a possibility. It was enough to dwell in the sunshine of her presence. Thoroughly happy in her love, he never thought of to-morrow. Perhaps it is a matter to be regretted that we cannot always remain in this state—ever enjoying the ideal without approaching nearer to the realisation, for the realisation, let it be never so glorious, is of the earth, earthy.

It is quite true that women like courage, and that boldness often goes a long way; but it is questionable whether with high-bred natures a subdued, quiet, and delicate manner does not go still further. Aymer was incapable of self-laudation, of that detestable conceit which some think it proper to show when they have made what they are pleased to call “a conquest.” Pity the poor castles that have stooped to them!

His happiness had but one alloy—the perpetual remembrance of his own unworthiness, the immeasurable difference in his worldly position, which made it a presumption in him even to frequent her presence, much less to bask in her love. There were plenty who did not fail to remind him of this discrepancy in their mutual positions, for his intimacy at The Place could not, of course, pass unnoticed.

Martin Brown said nothing whatever. If there was any alteration in his manner as the truth dawned on him, it was in favour of Aymer. With such men everything is judged by results. While Aymer went about sketching alone, he despised him and his pencil; the moment the very same talent obtained him the notice of those in a superior station, then Aymer was do longer such a fool. Martin said nothing. He refrained from his former jeers, and abstained from telling Aymer to go and mind the sheep.

It was also to his advantage that Aymer should get rich acquaintances, and so possibly obtain a livelihood, and relieve him of an expense, which, however small, was always a bitter subject with him.

But there were others—farmers’ sons—in the district who did not spare Aymer. They despised him; they could not understand him; and they hated him for his luck in carrying off the squire’s daughter. They credited him with the most mercenary motives, and called him a beggarly upstart. If Aymer chanced to pass near them he was saluted with ironical bows and cheers, and hats were obsequiously doffed to “My Lord Muck,” or “My Lord Would-Be.”

He made no reply, but the insult went home. He knew that there was a great deal of ground for this treatment. He knew that his conduct must appear in such a light to others; and yet how welcome they always made him at The Place. He questioned himself if he was doing right; sometimes his pride said “Go; carve yourself a fortune, and then return for her;” but love, strong love always conquered and drove him forward. He deemed that, with the exception of Violet and Waldron, all the world looked upon him with contempt. He was wrong.

In the spring, Violet began to ride again over the Downs. This habit for a moment again lowered Aymer in his own estimation, for he had no horse to accompany her. What was his delight and astonishment when one day Violet took him to the stables and asked him how he liked the new grey horse. It was a handsome animal—Aymer admired it, as in duty bound, and as, indeed, he could not help, yet with a heart full of mortification, when Violet whispered that papa had bought it for him to ride with her. She flung her arms, in her own impulsive way, round his neck, kissed him, and rushed away to don her riding-habit before he could recover from his astonishment.

It was true. In an hour’s time they were galloping over the soft springy turf of the Downs, trying the paces of the grey, who proved faster than the black. The rides were repeated day by day; and it often happened that, while thus enjoying themselves, they passed one or more of those very persons who had so often insulted Aymer.

Instead of sitting firmer and with pride in his saddle, Aymer felt that he all the more deserved their censure, and looked the other way as he went by.

He did not know that there was one eye at least that watched him with pleasure, and with something like a quiet envy. It was the same grey eye that had observed, him in the Palazzo at Florence.

Agnes Lechester had returned to England to spend some time at the old Towers, and had not failed to make inquiries for the young pilgrim who, in coarse garb, she had seen at the shrine of art. She heard of the intimacy with Waldron, whom she had once or twice spoken to; and as the lovers rode slowly beneath her grand and comfortless home, she sat at her window, and paused in her art-work, and looked down upon them and sighed. She could not but envy them their joy and youth, their path strewn with roses and lighted by love. She had no need to envy Violet’s beauty, for, although no longer young, Agnes Lechester was a fine woman. It was the life, the full glowing life, she deemed so desirable. And she rejoiced that the poor pilgrim had found so fair a lady-love. So that there was one eye at least which, unknown to Aymer, watched him with a quiet pleasure and approval. Had he known it, it would have encouraged him greatly. By precipitating matters it might have prevented—but let us proceed.

Jason Waldron knew that his daughter loved, and was beloved. He was no ordinary man. His life had been spent far from those money-making centres where, in time, the best of natures loses its original bias, and sees nothing but gold. Age, he believed, had given him some power of penetration; and in Aymer he thought he had found one in a thousand—one with whom his darling daughter’s future would be safe. “He will not follow the universal idol,” thought the old man. “He will be content with art and literature, with nature and with Violet. I can see nothing in store for them but the happiest of lives.” He waited long, expecting Aymer to approach the subject in some distant manner. At last he comprehended his reluctance. “He is poor and proud—he is afraid, and no wonder,” he thought. “He shall not suffer for that.”

The benevolent old man, anxious only to complete the happiness of those he loved, resolved to be the first, and to hold out a welcoming hand. One day he called for Aymer to his study, and motioning him to a seat, averted his face, not to confuse him, and said that he had long seen the mutual affection between Violet and him. He understood why Aymer had refrained from taking him into his confidence—he could appreciate the difficulties of his position. Without any hesitation, he approved of Violet’s choice. His own years had now begun to weigh upon him, and he grew daily more anxious that Violet should be settled. He proposed, therefore, that if Aymer would not mind the arrangement, they should be united as speedily as possible, and that after a short trip they should return and live with him at The Place. He could not spare Violet entirely—he must hear the sound of her voice, and see the light of her eyes, while yet the power to do so remained with him. He was not really rich. In that poor district, indeed, he appeared so, but it was only by comparison. Were he to be placed in some great city, side by side with the men whose trade was gold, his little all would sink into the utmost insignificance. Beside rude rustics, who lived from hand to mouth, content if they paid the rent, and perhaps put by a hundred guineas in the county bant, he was well off; but not when weighed against the world.

He had but the house he dwelt in, a few acres of surrounding pasture, and three thousand pounds placed out on loan. This money brought in a good interest, but he had lately thought of calling it in for greater safety, as he felt himself to be getting old in every sense of the term.

It was obvious, therefore, that on the score of expense alone it would be difficult for him to give a dower to Violet sufficient to support a second home. If they could be happy with him, why he should be content.

He turned and held out his hand to Aymer. Aymer took it, but could say nothing. He was literally overwhelmed. To him, after so long a solitude, after so much contempt, this marvellous good fortune was overpowering. Jason pretended not to notice his confusion.

“We understand one another,” he said. “It is agreed, is it not?”

Despite all his attempts, Aymer could but incline his head.

“It is a lovely day—take Violet for a ride to Berbury camp.”

How Aymer managed to convey what had passed to Violet he never knew, but that was the longest ride they ever had together, and it was dark before The Place was reached.

Aymer did not go home after quitting Violet. He walked away upon the Downs until safe from observation, then threw himself upon the sward, and poured out his heart in thanksgiving. When he had grown a little calmer he leant against a beech-trunk and gazed at the stars. In that short hour upon the solitary Downs he lived a whole lifetime of happiness. There are some of us who can remember such hours—they occur but once to any human being.

To do the rough residents of the district justice, so soon as it was understood to be settled that they were to be married, then the tone of the place changed, and they no longer insulted and annoyed him. Some wished him joy and happiness: not without a tinge of envy at his good fortune, expressed in the rude language of the hills, “I wish I had thee luck, lad.”

It was generally agreed that when the marriage took place there should be an arch erected and decorated with flowers, for the bride and bridegroom to pass under; that the path through the churchyard should be strewn with roses, that volleys of firearms should be discharged, and the day kept as a holiday. This was settled at the Shepherd’s Bush over foaming jugs of ale.

“Arter all,” said an old fellow, “he bean’t such a bad sort o’ chap. A’ mind a’ tuk a main bit o’ trouble loike to pull a ewe o’ mine out of a ditch where hur laid on hur back.”

“Ay, ay!” said another; “and a’ drawed my little Kittie on the kitchen wall wi’ a bit o’ charcoal as natural as ever hur walked—zo let’s gie ’un a rouser, chaps, and no mistake!”

This was how it happened that at World’s End Races that fateful year, early in October, a delicate-looking young man, commonly dressed, stood beside the pretty pony-carriage under the hawthorn tree. The marriage was fixed for that day week.

Chapter Four.

The marriage would have taken place earlier but for two circumstances: first, the difficulty of obtaining the wedding outfit for Violet in that out-of-the-way place; and secondly, because Jason insisted upon some important alterations being made in the old house, in order to render it more comfortable for his children.

There is no event in life which causes so much discussion, such pleasant anticipation, as the marriage-day; and at The Place there was not a single thing left unmentioned; every detail of the ceremony was talked over, and it was a standing joke of Jason’s to tell Violet to study her prayer-book, a remark that never failed to make the blood mount to her forehead.

She grew somewhat pensive as the final moment approached—with all her youth and spirits, with all the happy omens that accompanied the course of her love, she could not view this, the most important step she would ever take, always with thoughtless levity. She became silent and thoughtful, gave up riding, and devoted herself almost exclusively to attending upon Jason, till Aymer—silly fellow!—grew jealous, and declared it was unkind of her to look forward to the wedding-day as if it was a sentence of imprisonment.

Mr Waldron had lived so retired that there was some little difficulty in fixing upon a representative to give Violet away, for as an invalid he could not himself go to the church; and this was the only thing he was heard to regret—that he should not see Violet married. However, he consoled himself with the thought that he should see her immediately afterwards, as the church was hardly half a mile distant, down in a narrow combe or valley. After some reflection, Mr Waldron decided upon asking his solicitor, Mr Merton, of Barnham, to act as his representative and give the bride away.

Merton, who was an old bachelor, was really delighted at the idea, but with true professional mendacity made an immense virtue of the sacrifice of time it entailed. He really was so busy with a great law case just coming on that really—but then his old friend Waldron, and lovely Miss Violet—duty pulled him one way and inclination another, and beauty, as was proper, triumphed.

Violet had few acquaintances, and it was more difficult still to find her a bridesmaid—not that there were not plenty ready to fill that onerous post—but she disliked the idea of a stranger. Mr Merton, the solicitor, solved the difficulty by suggesting a niece of his, a merry girl whom Violet had met once or twice.

Aymer could not do less than ask old Martin Brown to stand as his best man, never dreaming that he would accept the task. But what was his surprise when Martin declared that he should enjoy the fun, and would rather miss Barnham fair than not be there. He came out tolerably handsome for him; he offered Aymer a five-pound note to purchase a suitable dress! This note Aymer very respectfully declined to take, and the farmer, half repenting of his generosity, did not press him too hard. Yet he could not help expressing his wonder as to how Aymer meant to appear at church. “Thee bisn’t a-goin’ to marry th’ squire’s darter in thee ould hat?”

Aymer smiled and said nothing. Fortune had aided him in this way too. After endless disappointments and “returned with thanks,” he had suddenly received a cheque for a sketch of his which had been accepted by an illustrated paper. Immediately afterwards came another cheque for a short story accepted by a magazine. This success, small as it was, elated him, if anything, more than the approaching marriage-day. He had tried, and tried, and tried, and failed again and again, till he despaired and ceased to make the attempt, till the necessity of obtaining some clothes drove him to the last desperate venture. He was elated beyond measure. A successful author, a successful artist, and just about to marry the most beautiful woman in the world!

He resolved to tell Violet nothing about it, but to show her the sketch and the story as they were upon their trip. Thus it was that he was independent of Martini grudging generosity. Fortune did not stop even here. As if determined to shower delight upon him—to make up at one blow for the cruel isolation, the miserable restraint he had undergone—she never seemed to tire of opening up fresh vistas of pleasure. Both Violet and Aymer would have been satisfied, and more than satisfied, with a simple visit to the seaside; but Jason was not so easily pleased. His daughter was his life—nothing was too good for her—and, besides, such an event happened but once in a lifetime, and it was fit and proper that it be accompanied with memorable circumstances. He announced his intention of sending his children to Florence.

To Florence, the beautiful city, which dwelt for ever in Aymer’s dreams—the city he had described time after time to Violet, till the girl thought it the finest upon earth. He was to revisit Florence, and to revisit it with Violet! His heart was full—it would have been impossible to add another blessing.

Violet raced about the house and the garden, teasing Dando to distraction—all her pensiveness dispelled, murmuring “Florence” at every turn. What further joy could there be in store?—it was impossible. It is almost safe to say that these two were the happiest in England. Well they might be. They had all upon their side—i.e., youth.

Violet was to be married upon her twenty-first birthday; Aymer was twenty-three only. Money—not riches—but sufficient for an easy life. Italy in view—the land of the artist and the poet! It was like a fairy dream!

The days flew by. The dresses came—oh, what eager discussions and conferences there were over the dresses! All the farmers’ daughters and wives in the neighbourhood to whom Violet was even distantly known, claimed the privilege to see the trousseau. In London it would have been overlooked—there all things are upon a grand scale.

At World’s End the ladies were never tired of descanting upon the glories of the silk and satin, the lace and tulle. How can a wretched, unsympathising man describe the sensation produced by Violet’s wedding outfit?

The dear girl was in ecstasies. Waldron had gone to the utmost limit of his purse—his friend Merton even frowned a little—but he argued it was only for once—just this once—he must be permitted a little extravagance on Violet’s marriage-day.

Aymer was again plagued with his old tormentors—they did not sneer or jeer at him, but he had to run the gauntlet of rude jokes and rustic wit. He forgave them, and asked as many as he could to the breakfast.

The breakfast was to be laid out in that very apartment the window of which opened upon the garden near the sycamore tree, where he had sat so many times listening to Violet playing upon the pianoforte. There was of course a cake, and there was to be what had never before been seen or tasted at World’s End from time immemorial—i.e., several dozens of champagne.

If the wedding outfit caused a sensation among the ladies, this champagne was all the talk among the men. They thought of nothing else—it was the subject of endless allusions and unabating anticipation. Here and there was one who could say he had tasted the wine—when after a good hunting spin Lord So-and-So had asked the sportsmen to refresh themselves at his mansion. But the majority had not the faintest notion of what it was like, and formed the most fantastic expectations. There were a few who doubted whether there would be any champagne, and treated it as a myth, till the servants at The Place, proud of their importance, admitted some favoured individuals who were regaled in secret with—the taste?—no, but the view only of certain tall bottles dressed in rosy tissue paper, upon the removal of which stood out the far-famed silver-foil, and doubt was no more. World’s End was full of its first champagne treat.

Old Martin Brown swelled up into a person of enormous importance, as being the nearest relative of the bridegroom; he was looked upon as an oracle, and his remarks listened to with intense interest at the nightly tobacco parliament at the Shepherd’s Bush.

The carriers took fabulous reports of what was to happen at World’s End all over the district, and scores of honest people made up their minds to trudge to Bury Wick Church.