She was seated on the sofa, talking to Mrs. Broughton, and caressing the head of her favourite Shot. Marmaduke stood by her side, gazing enraptured upon her beauty.
Never was there a more adorably imperial creature than Violet. If in her riding habit, the prompt decision and energy of her manner conveyed the impression of her being somewhat masculine; directly she doffed it for the dress of her sex, she became at once a lovely, loveable woman.
I have a particular distaste to masculine women, and am therefore anxious that you should not imagine Violet one. She had, indeed, the virile energy and strength of will, which nature seems to have appointed to our sex; but all, who had any penetration, at once acknowledged that she was exquisitely feminine. Her manner had such grace, dignity, softness, and lovingness, tempering its energy and independence. She had grandeur without hardness, and gentleness without weakness. Her murderous eyes, whose flashing beauty few could withstand—there was something domineering in their splendour and fulness of life—had, at the same time, a certain tenderness, the effect of which I know not how better to describe, than in the bold felicitous comparison used by Goethe's mother, when she wrote to Bettina thus: "a violoncello was played, and I thought of thee; it sounded so exactly like thy brown eyes."
I dwell with some gusto on the beauty of this creature; she was so beautiful! Majesty generally implies a certain stiffness: dignified women are detestable; but there was such majesty in Violet—such commanding grace—accompanied by such soft, winning manners, that, in the midst of the sort of awe she inspired, you felt a yearning towards her. Firenzuola would have said of her, and said truly, that "getta quasi un odor di regina," and yet, withal, no one was more simple and womanly.
As Cecil entered the room, he just caught this conclusion of Violet's speech:—
"Besides, had it come to the worst—had the bull made his rush, I was in very good hands. Mr. Chamberlayne and Shot were with me."
This was uttered before she saw Cecil. She coloured slightly as he came in, but continued her conversation in an unaltered tone. He felt no gratitude to her for sparing him, as, by this account of the affair, it was evidently her intention of doing; his self-love was so deeply wounded, that he only perceived the covert sarcasm of again coupling him with Shot. It made him congratulate himself on being no longer in danger of offering her his hand.
"What a wife!" he mentally exclaimed, as he walked up to Rose and Julius, and broke in upon their tête-à-tête, for which neither thanked him.
At dinner he sat between Mrs. Broughton and her niece, who, regarding him as a wit, giggled at whatever he said. He was in high spirits. His gaiety was forced, indeed, but it inspired some brilliant things, which I do not chronicle here for two reasons. First, they had no influence whatever on subsequent events. Secondly, very few repartées bear transplantation; they have an àpropos which gives them their zest, and are singularly tame without it.
"By the way, Mr. St. John, Wincot has a mysterious story about you which ought to be cleared up."