World's End Part 20

Next day Violet wrote a curt letter to Mr Merton, requesting him to forbear proceedings, and upbraiding him for his cruelty. She desired that he would relinquish the charge of her affairs.

Merton, had he so chosen, might have made a difficulty about this--under the will of Waldron--but he did not. He was, to say truth, glad of a pretext to wash his hands of a matter in which he had figured so ill.

Violet sent for the same solicitor who had defended Jenkins, Mr Broughton, and desired him to see that proceedings were stayed. The Herrings were saved. Esther was sent home in the pony-carriage with the good tidings. Other debts, unsuspected before, ate up most of the effects of Joseph Herring. The widow's little property had to be sold to meet them. With the trifle that was left they removed to the farm where the two brothers worked together, and by dint of careful management escaped starvation. Neither were they unhappy, for misfortune and a common injury bound them closer together--all but the widow, who never overcame the duplicity of her eldest son.

Their conduct towards Violet appears extremely selfish, but it must be remembered that Waldron had borne the reputation of being a rich man.

They never dreamt that they had taken Violet's all. But so it was. The dear, dear ponies had to be sold, the servants dismissed; Violet could not keep the house on, and in that isolated position it was difficult to let it, even at a nominal rent.

Her friends in London made no sign. She had been a favoured guest while Waldron lived and was reputed wealthy. Now they had lost sight of her.

To Aymer all this was as gall and wormwood. It was a comment upon his own weakness, and impotency to aid the only one he loved. He wrote, he sketched; but now with the strange inconsistency of fortune these works were returned, as "not up to the standard required." Perhaps his misfortunes affected his skilfulness. He knew not which way to turn.

At home--if Wick Farm could be called home--the old state of things began to gradually return. The old covert sneers and hints at his uselessness crept again into the daily conversation. Martin, like Hercules--

Rude, unrefined in speech.

Judging all wisdom by its last results,

looked upon him as a failure, and treated him accordingly. To do the young men justice, those who had formerly taunted him now never lost an opportunity of expressing their regret. Poor Aymer felt this worse than their sneers and gibes. He had the fault of pride, and yet he depreciated himself habitually. He was punished severely for his brief period of elation. What hurt him most was his helplessness to aid Violet. And Violet, n.o.ble girl! was calm, resigned, fearless in her trust--strong in her love of Aymer.

But the inevitable approached--"the circ.u.mstances over which we have no control." The day was coming when she must go, and go--whither?

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER NINE.

Down to one firm faith in this day of scepticism and cynicism. It may be a despicable weakness--that cannot be helped--but nothing will ever overthrow it. My faith is firm in the good which is possible in woman.

There is much vice, much evil, much folly; but, after all, these faults are chiefly caused by weakness, therefore they are more or less excusable. It is difficult for women to do good--so many and so complex are the restraints which surround them as in a net--yet they do it.

Were I in sorrow, in trouble, or in fear, to them I should go, as hundreds--ay, countless numbers--have previously gone, certain of a.s.sistance if a.s.sistance were possible, and of compa.s.sion and sympathy, even if my crimes were too evil to speak of.

There was heard one afternoon at The Place the roll of carriage-wheels-- a sound that had not been heard since the fatal bridal day. It was a damp, cold day, and Violet had been unable to go out. A fog hung over the fields, creeping slowly along the fallows, clinging in shapeless clouds upon the hill tops. There was no rain, but the bare hedges were dripping large drops of water condensed from the mist, and the dead leaves upon the ground were soddened with damp. On such days as these, when she could not walk out and dispel her gloom by exercise, Violet naturally felt the loss of poor Jason the more.

Aymer could not be always with her. Although their intercourse was little, if at all, fettered by the etiquette which would have barred it in more civilised neighbourhoods, yet he could not be always at The Place, and of late he had been working hard at sketches and literary matters, which occupied time and kept him from her side.

She was very lonely, longing for the evening, when he would be certain to come. The roll of these carriage-wheels was therefore an event.

Looking from the window upstairs--that very window whence, in all the splendour of her beauty and her wedding-dress, she had timidly glanced forth to watch the approach of the greys--she saw a stylish brougham rapidly nearing the house, and as it came nearer recognised the horses, and knew it was Lady Lechester's.

Agnes, not waiting for the footman to announce her visit, sprang out, and walked at once to the front door. Once more there came a tapping at that dread portal.

Conquering her fluttering heart, Violet, in a maze of bewilderment, opened it herself. Agnes held out her hand, and kissed her twice upon the cheek and forehead.

"Forgive me!" she said. "Forgive me for coming so soon after--. But I wanted to see you; I had much to say to you."

Violet began to thank her in a confused way for the pearl necklace.

Agnes stopped her; it was not that--it was about Violet herself that she had come to talk. Even in her surprise and confusion, Violet could not help thinking that Agnes was very beautiful. It was a species of beauty that was precisely the opposite of Violet's. Both gained by the contrast of the other's style.

Agnes Lechester was at least thirty--she might have been a year or two older--and there hovered over her countenance an indefinable air of melancholy, as if the memory of a past sorrow was for ever before her mind. There was not a wrinkle, not a groove upon her pale brow, but the impress of pain was none the less unmistakable upon her features. Her hair was very dark, as near as possible to the raven's hue, so often spoken of, so rarely seen. Her eyes were large and grey, deep-set under delicate eyebrows, well-marked, and slightly arching. Her forehead high and intellectual. The features, the nose and mouth, were small and well-made, the ears especially delicate. High blood and long descent spoke out clearly in her every aspect, down even to the quiet subdued manner--the exquisite tact, and consideration for others, which distinguished her in conversation and in daily life.

She was about the same height as Violet, but appeared taller, being more slightly made. She wore a simple black-silk, extremely plain, and one mourning-ring--no other jewellery.

Violet, whose position was not a little embarra.s.sing, found herself in a few moments entirely at her ease, and conversing as with an old friend.

Agnes did not in a direct manner recall the terrible past, but she had a way of asking what may be called sympathising questions, which quickly drew forth Violet's confidence.

For the first time she found a sister to whom she could express her feelings unrestrainedly; and even that brief hour of companions.h.i.+p did her much good. Not till all trace of distant formality had been removed, not till there had been a certain degree of familiarity established between them, did Agnes allude to the real object of her visit. She had come to ask Violet as a favour--so she put it--to spend a little time with her. The Towers were so very, very lonely--she said this in a tone that was evidently sincere--she had so few visitors, practically none, and she should be so glad if Violet would come.

Violet saw in an instant that it was really out of kindness to her that the invitation was given; she wished to accept it, and yet hesitated.

Agnes pressed her. Then she remembered Aymer--what would he say? If she went, he would be alone--he would not see her, and she would not see him. Thinking of him, a slight blush rose to her cheek. Perhaps Agnes guessed what was pa.s.sing in her mind, for she said--

"Mr Malet will, of course, come and see us--often. You must ask his permission, you know. I will come again to-morrow and fetch you in the brougham."

So it was practically settled, and Agnes, after a warm farewell, departed. Violet waited for Aymer, almost fearing he would upbraid her; but then the separation would only be for a little time. A little time!

When Agnes Lechester came to ask her to The Towers, she came with a full knowledge of Violet's position--of her monetary loss, and of the n.o.ble self-sacrifice she had made.

It chanced--"circ.u.mstances over which we have no control" again--that Mr Broughton, to whom Violet had transferred her affairs, had succeeded to the business of an uncle, an elder Mr Broughton, who was almost the hereditary solicitor of the Lechester family. The position was one of great emolument, and gave some social precedence; hence, perhaps, part of the jealousy exhibited towards him by Mr Merton--an older man, and not so fortunate. From him Agnes learnt the whole of the details. The frightful catastrophe--the mystery of the murder of poor Waldron--had greatly impressed her, and the sad circ.u.mstances of the interrupted bridal trebled the interest she had taken in Violet and Aymer. She had instructed Broughton to inform her of everything, and especially of how matters stood with Violet now her father was no more. As he had now the charge of Violet's affairs, it was easy for him to do this; and being a comparatively young man, and with a heart not yet quite dead to feeling, he was himself much interested in the woman who could so willingly give up the last fragment of her fortune.

Agnes Lechester was deeply impressed by Violet's generosity and abrogation of self--she felt the warmest sympathy and desire to a.s.sist her--she really was anxious to make her acquaintance, and the result was her visit to The Place. Ostensibly the invitation was for a little time only; but Agnes knew that the house, which alone was left to Violet, could not support her, and intended to prolong the invitation indefinitely. She really was lonely, and really did look forward to a companion in whom she could trust.

Aymer was overjoyed when he heard what had happened, and insisted upon Violet accepting the invitation. Violet's isolation, and the daily increasing awkwardness of her position, troubled him greatly. He knew not what to do for her. Here was a resource--a haven of safety for a while at least. Never mind about himself--doubtless he could see her sometimes; so long as she was safe and comfortable he should be happy, much happier even than in their present unrestricted intercourse--though this was said with a sigh.

He lingered long with her that evening, longer than he had ever done before; it was the last, perhaps, they should ever spend together in that house, which was still very dear to them, notwithstanding the tragedy it had witnessed. The time came at last when they must separate. It was the saddest walk that night that he had ever had across the Downs. They were enveloped in a thick mist--only instinct and long use kept him in the path--an impenetrable gloom hung over him.

Even the fir trees were silent; there was no breeze to stir them, to produce that low sighing sound that seems to mean so much to those who will pause and listen.

The morrow was brighter; there was a little suns.h.i.+ne, clouded and feeble, but still there was a little. It would be difficult to explain the process by which it came about. There are means of communication between persons without direct words. Thus it happened that almost by a species of volition, Agnes Lechester, Violet, and Aymer, before the hour to depart arrived, walked slowly and mournfully to the old, old church, across the meadows by the well-worn path, which the morning's frost had left hard and dry. Since that terrible day Violet had never been--she could not. But now, somehow, with this newly-found companion, strengthened by two loving hearts, one on either side, it seemed to her as if a holy peace might perhaps descend upon her if she could visit her father's tomb.

With her face hidden by a thick veil, the tears standing in her eyes, the poor girl walked between them. Few words pa.s.sed--silence was more natural and fitting than speech. They met two or three persons, all of whom knew Violet and Aymer; but these paid the homage to sorrow which the rudest tender, and went by silently, raising their hats. No one interrupted them; no one stared with vulgar curiosity. These three were alone--alone with the memory of the dead. And strangely enough, all three were orphans. It was Agnes Lechester who reminded them of that fact as they stood before the tomb; it was, she said in a low voice, another bond of union between them.

The inscription had not yet been put up; the slab was plain. Their visit was very short; it was more than Violet could bear. The tomb was just without the church. Agnes motioned to Aymer to leave them; he walked away a few paces. Together the two women entered the church; they were alone in the sacred edifice. With slow steps poor Violet, leaning on Agnes's arm and sobbing bitterly, walked up that very aisle, over that very figure of the ancient knight in bra.s.s, past the antique font--the very aisle where she had gone in all her wedding splendour amid the admiration of the gathered crowd. And now she came again--came with a stranger--in silence and sorrow, to kneel on the steps that led up to the chancel to pray as best her throbbing heart would permit. Was that prayer more for the living, or the dead?

Violet had been reared a Protestant in the Articles of the Church of England, yet I question whether in that supreme moment her soul was not fuller of prayer for him who had gone before, than for herself and those who still lingered on earth. Those among us who can remember bitter hours of agony, say truly for whom have _they_ prayed? Let us not penetrate further into the sanctuary of sorrow.

The carriage rolled away, and Aymer was alone. He watched it go down into the valley out of sight. He turned and ascended the Downs, not daring to look back upon the old, old house. At the summit he could command an extended view. Far away the white road ran up over a hill, and he could see a black dot crawling slowly up it. He knew it was the carriage; he watched it reach the top and disappear over the brow--then she was gone.

For the first time since love had arisen in his heart he was separated from her. It was true that it was not total separation. They were bound together by ties which nothing could sever, and yet--the happy past was gone, to return no more. He was at liberty to see her at The Towers; Agnes Lechester had done her best to impress upon him that he could come whenever he chose, and would be always welcome. But Aymer had the vaguest ideas of what life with the upper ranks was like; he had a vague shrinking from entering this house; he felt that he should be restrained and at a loss. There could never be that free intercourse between him and Violet that had existed. He felt in his heart that she would never more return to The Place. The house was to be closed that evening; would it ever be opened again?

He crushed back his despair as best he could, and went home to his cold, lonely room at the Wick Farm. Martin grudged him a fire even. Aymer crushed back his heart, and tried to work. It was very difficult. When the hand and the body are numbed with physical cold, when the heart is chilled with grief, it is hard indeed to call the fancy into play and to amuse others. Was it not Goldsmith who wrote the "Vicar of Wakefield"

to pay the expenses of his parent's funeral?

Perhaps no greater proof of his wonderful genius could be given than is presented by that oft-repeated and simple anecdote. Only a transcendant genius could have forced itself out under such miserable circ.u.mstances.

Aymer certainly had talent, perhaps even genius, but he had not yet found his opportunity--he was not quite certain wherein his ability really lay. All his efforts were tentative. They failed one and all-- failed just at the moment when what he most wanted was a little encouragement. He did not spare himself; he worked the whole day, saving only an hour put aside to walk upon the Downs for health's sake.

He had still fifteen pounds remaining of the munificent, and anonymous present he had received. This he husbanded with the utmost care; it was his capital, his all. With it he formed schemes of reaching London, and finding employment. He only waited till a work upon which he was now engaged was finished before he started. Now Violet was gone, there was no inducement to remain at World's End; far better to go out and face hard facts, and conquer them.

But as the days went by, and the work was half finished, a deadly despair seemed to seize him. Of what use was it? Every slow post that reached that almost forgotten spot returned to him work rejected and despised. His sketches, he was told, "wanted spirit;" his literary labours "wanted finish, and bore marks of haste."

If these were useless, of what good was it to complete this book he was writing? It would only end in another disappointment. He ceased to open his letters; he flung them on one side. For a day or two he did nothing--he wandered about on the open Downs, seeking consolation from Nature, and finding none. At last, accusing himself of a lack of energy and fort.i.tude, he set to work again. So it was not till two days after date that he read the following letter, which had been cast upon one side with the rest:--

"2, Market Cross, Barnham.

"Dear Sir,--I am requested by Mr Broughton to ask you to call upon him at your earliest convenience. He has some employment to offer you.

"With esteem, etc, etc."