Volume II Part 20 (2/2)
She was standing on the threshold, playing with Argus, looking the picture of healthful beauty, in her dark green cloth dress and plain linen collar. All Vixen's morning costumes were of the simplest and neatest; a compact style of dress which interfered with none of her rural amus.e.m.e.nts. She could romp with her dog, make her round of the stables, work in the garden, ramble in the Forest, without fear of dilapidated flounces or dishevelled laces and ribbons.
”Violet's morning-dresses are so dreadfully strong-minded,” complained Mrs. Winstanley. ”To look at her, one would almost think that she was the kind of girl to go round the country lecturing upon woman's rights.”
”No ride this morning,” said Captain Winstanley, coming into the hall, with a bundle of letters in his hand. ”I shall go to my den, and do a morning's letter-writing and accountancy--unless you want me for a shy at the pheasants, Mallow?”
”Let the pheasants be at rest for the first day of the year,” answered Lord Mallow. ”I am sure you would rather be fetching up your arrears of correspondence than shooting at dejected birds in a damp plantation; and I am luxurious enough to prefer staying indoors, if the ladies will have me. I can help Miss Tempest to wind her wools.”
”Thanks, but I never do any wool-work. Mamma is the artist in that line.”
”Then I place myself unreservedly at Mrs. Winstanley's feet.”
”You are too good,” sighed the fair matron, from her arm-chair by the hearth; ”but I shall not touch my crewels to-day. I have one of my nervous headaches. It is a penalty I too often have to pay for the pleasures of society. I'm afraid I shall have to lie down for an hour or two.”
And with a languid sigh Mrs. Winstanley wrapped her China c.r.a.pe shawl round her, and went slowly upstairs, leaving Violet and Lord Mallow in sole possession of the great oak-panelled hall; the lady looking at the rain from her favourite perch in the deep window-seat, the gentleman contemplating the same prospect from the open door. It was one of those mild winter mornings when a huge wood fire is a cheerful feature in the scene, but hardly essential to comfort.
Vixen thought of that long rainy day, years ago, the day on which Roderick Vawdrey came of age. How well she remembered sitting in that very window, watching the ceaseless rain, with a chilly sense of having been forgotten and neglected by her old companion. And then, in the gloaming, just when she had lost all hope of seeing him, he had come leaping in out of the wet night, like a lion from his lair, and had taken her in his arms and kissed her before she knew what he was doing.
Her cheeks crimsoned even to-day at the memory of that kiss. It had seemed a small thing then. Now it seemed awful--a burning spot of shame upon the whiteness of her youth.
”He must have thought I was very fond of him, or he would not have dared to treat me so,” she told herself. ”But then we had been playfellows so long. I had teased him, and he had plagued me; and we had been really like brother and sister. Poor Rorie! If we could have always been young we should have been better friends.”
”How thoughtful you seem this morning, Miss Tempest,” said a voice behind Vixen's shoulder.
”Do I?” she asked, turning quickly round. ”New Year's Day is a time to make one thoughtful. It is like beginning a new chapter in the volume of life, and one cannot help speculating as to what the chapter is to be about.”
”For you it ought to be a story full of happiness.”
”Ah, but you don't know my history. I had such a happy childhood. I drained my cup of bliss before I was a woman, and there is nothing left for me but the dregs, and they--they are dust and ashes.”
There was an intensity of bitterness in her tone that moved him beyond his power of self-control. That she--so fair, so lovely, so deeply dear to him already; she for whom life should be one summer-day of unclouded gladness--that she should give expression to a rooted sorrow was more than his patience could bear.
”Violet, you must not speak thus; you wound me to the heart. Oh, my love, my love, you were born to be the giver of gladness, the centre of joy and delight. Grief should never touch you; sorrow and pain should never come near you. You are a creature of happiness and light.”
”Don't!” cried Vixen vehemently. ”Oh, pray don't. It is all vain--useless. My life is marked out for me. No one can alter it. Pray do not lower yourself by one word more. You will be sorry--angry with yourself and me--afterwards.”
”Violet, I must speak.”
”To what end? My fate is as fixed as the stars. No one can change it.”
”No mortal perhaps, Violet. But Love can. Love is a G.o.d. Oh, my darling, I have learnt to love you dearly and fondly in this little while, and I mean to win you. It shall go hard with me if I do not succeed. Dear love, if truth and constancy can conquer fate, I ought to be able to win you. There is no one else, is there, Violet?” he asked falteringly, with his eyes upon her downcast face.
A burning spot glowed and faded on her cheek before she answered him.
”Can you not see how empty my life is?” she asked with a bitter laugh.
”No; there is no one else. I stand quite alone. Death took my father from me; your friend has robbed me of my mother. My old playfellow, Roderick Vawdrey, belongs to his cousin. I belong to n.o.body.”
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