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 sunshine, 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 passed—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 brass, 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
