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.