The Project Gutenberg eBook of Violet Osborne, Volume 3 (of 3)

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Title: Violet Osborne, Volume 3 (of 3)

Author: Lady Emily Ponsonby

Release date: February 20, 2026 [eBook #77992]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hurst & Blackett, 1865

Credits: MWS, PrimeNumber, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VIOLET OSBORNE, VOLUME 3 (OF 3) ***

VIOLET OSBORNE.

VOL. III.

VIOLET OSBORNE.

BY

THE LADY EMILY PONSONBY,

AUTHOR OF

“THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,”

“MARY LYNDSAY,”

&c., &c.

“... All worldly joys go less

To the one joy of doing kindnesses.”

GEORGE HERBERT.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,

SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,

13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1865.

The right of Translation is reserved.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE,

BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.

VIOLET OSBORNE.

CHAPTER I.

“La joie de faire du bien est tout autrement douce et touchante que la joie de recevoir. Revenez-y encore; c’est un plaisir qui ne s’use point; plus on le goûte, plus on se rend digne de le goûter.”

FENELON.

Lionel returned, and took up his abode at home on tolerably friendly terms with his father. He appeared to be duly struck with the change in Ida, and expressed himself warmly regarding her personal appearance; but seemed in no hurry to bring matters to a crisis.

He had indeed been so long absent, that there was something like a fresh acquaintance to be made; and, however much all parties might wish it, it was less easy now that Ida was grown up.

Ma bonne, with fewer teeth, and a stronger propensity to slumber, was still ostensibly the chaperon; but it was impossible that Lionel should come and go with the unceremonious freedom of former days.

His own fastidious taste, and his strong sense of propriety, forced him to treat Ida with respect, and though unable to break off entirely his teasing habits, he did for the most part behave to her in a manner becoming his position.

Lord Ashford and Sir William, who had expected an immediate arrangement, were annoyed, but both were too prudent to express their feelings, and after the first disappointment, calmly made up their minds to a delay. As Ida was still three months less than seventeen, most people would have considered a delay desirable, and so probably Lionel felt.

It was very soon apparent that other schemes besides matrimonial schemes occupied his attention. He had an active mind, and a great desire, not only that good should be done in the world, but that he should do it. From childhood upwards he had said—he had said it constantly in his heart, he had said it in the outpourings of that heart to his mother, and he had sometimes said it to Ida—that he would be one of the world’s good men; one of those to whom the world should look up as a great doer of good works. He had been impatient when he was a boy to grow up that he might begin his operations; and though he owned that his time had hitherto been wasted, that he had not as yet made even a step towards the position to which he aspired, yet circumstances, not himself, he thought, had been in fault, and the time was now come when he might begin.

Like a prudent man he determined to begin at home, and he looked about him for a field, or fields, suited to his wants. With tender recollection also of his mother and her wishes, he went back into memory to recall her thoughts, and gradually brought to mind a scheme in which she had once been absorbed. It was shortly before the time when the new school had been built in compliance with Mr. Pope’s wishes. As this last had been expensively done, the funds for the other scheme had not been forthcoming, and the plan was set aside. But it recurred to Lionel’s remembrance now, and gradually, even in its minutest details, was brought to mind. The scheme in question was for the education of a limited number of girls as servants, moral and intellectual teaching not neglected, but cooking, washing, and other useful acquirements added.

With quick decision he resolved on undertaking this plan for his first work; and having so resolved, went to Ida for help.

She, interested in all his wishes, and interested in every good work, gave her heart and understanding to its furtherance; but naturally enough she pleaded ignorance in such matters, and in her turn applied to Violet for information and assistance.

Violet was delighted. It was a practical plan, suited to her practical mind, and she entered into it with warmth. Her first observation was, that it would be costly. Was Mr. Vane prepared for that? He, to whom this observation was repeated by Ida, insisted on satisfying her, and came to Boscombe during one of her visits to do it.

He told her that he was prudent. That he should begin with four or five girls; that he had found a house which, with a few repairs, would answer the purpose, and which Lord Ashford was willing to let for a very small rent; and then he added that his mother had left to him exclusively a few thousands, part of which he was anxious to devote to a plan on which her heart had been set.

Pleased with all he said, Violet promised help, if help was needed; but meanwhile she took care so to imbue Ida’s mind with her own judicious views, that the help a young man was sure to need in such a scheme should come from her alone. Never mother tried to set off a daughter’s charms as Violet tried to invest Ida with those special graces Lionel prized.

The conferences needed in drawing out the rules for the proposed institution were so numerous, that nothing better could have been devised for throwing Ida and Lionel together. Looking on the plan in this light, Lord Ashford and Sir William Hamilton each insisted on giving a contribution, and the scheme progressed so favourably, that there was hope of all things being ready for a beginning by Christmas.

“I am quite delighted with the whole thing,” Violet one day observed to Ida. “The rules and all the arrangements are so good that I feel confident of its success; and there is no telling what good may be done when a few young girls are thus placed where only right influences can reach them. And after a time, Ida, you must take them in charge; and you must remember that girls, poor girls, like to be amused as well as rich ones; it will be nice for you two or three times a week to go and read to them while they work—a good story, something to amuse them, poor children; and then it might be useful, too, if you were to teach them to sing.”

She was proceeding eagerly with the expression of her wishes, when Ida’s deep blush caught her eyes. The house appropriated to the building was at some distance, on the skirts of Lord Ashford’s park. Being near his house, and comparatively far from Ida’s, Violet’s suggestions too pointedly alluded to the time when Ida might be the resident there. She was no longer what she had been when she so openly announced the event that was impending. Her love for Lionel had assumed a new form, that form when it retires from sight and shrinks from the notice of the world. At the words of her companion she blushed and stooped her head over the writing on which she was employed.

Violet, quick to see and quick also to feel and approve a sensitiveness new, yet natural, paused; then, kissing her, murmured, “Forgive me; I was indiscreet,” and changed the subject.

But, in the almost daily intercourse that now took place, she, like Lord Ashford, saw the beginning of the end; and though the remembrance of Ida’s tender years made her patient, she expected a few weeks or months at latest to bring all things to a happy conclusion.

Satisfied with obtaining her valuable assistance through Ida, and when absolutely necessary with a discussion of some important subject at Boscombe, Lionel had not hitherto troubled Violet with visits at home; but one morning he appeared.

“I will not have this, mamma,” Violet said as she saw him enter the cottage gate. “Here comes Mr. Vane with a paper in his hand. He takes more of my time than I can spare as it is, now one thing and now another; and if he is to come here, and of a morning too, I must have him spoken to.”

“Only once, dear,” said her mother; “perhaps it is for something particular.”

“There can be nothing very particular since Wednesday afternoon. Mr. Vane is fussy, there is no doubt. I like him very much, and I think him very good, but he does think his plans are the only plans in the world.”

Lionel had been kept waiting for a few moments while the housemaid, taken by surprise, was changing her working apron for a clean one. He now came in, and it was with an eagerness which made him forget the formal manners he still assumed whenever he had time to recollect himself. He shook hands with both mother and daughter, seated himself in the place Mrs. Osborne pointed out, and then began:

“Miss Osborne, do you remember a conversation we had about a schoolmistress three weeks ago?”

“Yes; and I thought you had got her.”

“So did I; but now she declines to come. We are too far from London for her taste. I heard that from my friend yesterday morning; and last night a new idea struck me; I could not rest till I came to you about it. Would not your protegée, Miss White, do for us? I know how anxious you are she should get some more suitable thing than she now has, and I think in many ways this will be less weary work than her present task.”

Violet sat silent. For a moment her eyes had sparkled with pleasure, but then she looked grave.

“What do you say?” and he eagerly examined her countenance. “Don’t you think it will do?”

“No,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “I am very, very sorry, but I am afraid it ought not to be. It is very kind of you to have thought of it, but it will not do. Miss White is not fit; is she, mamma? I am afraid there is no doubt about it.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, with disappointment in his tone. “I know you do not think her a very good teacher for the mind; but this is different, and those who are least intellectual are often the best for practical life.”

“But that is just what she is not. She is not fit, if fitness is considered, for her present situation; but she is far less fit to make girls good useful women. No. I could not, ought not, to say it would do; I know you would soon find out your mistake.”

“I am very sorry, then,” he said, rising from his seat; “and that is all I have to say. But thank you for your openness. It is not everybody that I should have trusted when a protegée was in question; but I knew I should only have truth from you.”

“I hope so indeed,” Violet said, smiling.

“Ah! it is not so common a thing as you think. Is it, Mrs. Osborne?”

Mrs. Osborne, not being certain what he had asked, only smiled; and turning again to Violet he said,

“Shall you see Ida to-day?”

“I am afraid not. I am busy to-day.”

“No more shall I. I must ride to B—— to talk to the clergyman there about a mistress. He is sensible, and may give a good opinion, which is more than I can say for your friend Mr. Pope.”

“Mr. Pope is sensible up to a certain point,” Violet observed, never willing to agree with Lionel in his depreciation of men and things.

“The point is only so high, then,” he replied playfully, making the mark of a child’s height with his hand; then, as if suddenly remembering how much he had unbent, he drew up and added, “If you chance to see Ida, will you be good enough to tell her where I am gone. Good morning.”

Violet returned to her employment. She was adapting some fine chords from Beethoven to the words of a psalm—that is, she had been so occupied when Lionel entered; but though she resumed her place she now sat idly before the music, a pen in her hand, but her thoughts wandering.

Mrs. Osborne watched her for some time, then went to her and put her hand on her shoulder.

“You are sorry about Amy, dear?”

Violet started.

“Yes, mamma. How you guess! It would have been the very thing for her and her mother together; and such a comfortable house as it will be; but I could not have said she was fit. If she had been my sister I could not have said it.”

“No, dear. I don’t think you could. Amy will never influence young girls. You were very right to speak as you did, dear.”

Violet sighed.

“Ah! mamma, what I was thinking, was how much responsibility we take upon ourselves ignorantly. If I had thought of Amy as I do now, how differently I should have advised about her! I remember,” she paused, then, trying to speak steadily and indifferently, but her voice becoming hoarse and low, went on, “Mr. Leicester once said he thought her so much better fitted to be a dressmaker than a schoolmistress; it was after we had seen how helpless she was, and how many difficulties there were in making her understand our views about her future life; but I would not hear of it for her. I was so bent on keeping her a lady; and now I see that he was right.”

“Perhaps so, dear, but it could not be expected that at eighteen you should have the experience you have now.”

“But, mamma, my mistakes may do real harm. Yesterday Amy was hearing a class of boys, and she was fretful and aggravating, and I saw them making faces at her. It made me wretched all day; and when Mr. Vane spoke this morning my heart at first bounded at the thought of freeing her and them; but in a moment I felt it would not do; and there she must stay, and perhaps she is making the boys wicked; and it is my fault.”

“That is morbid, darling; you must not have such thoughts. I always trust that if we sincerely wish to do good, God will not suffer even our mistakes to do real harm.”

“You are very comforting, mamma,” and Violet rose up and kissed her mother. “I will not fret about Amy any more. I hope something will rise up for her in time; and for myself I can at least resolve to make no more mistakes.”

And with this earnest resolve her countenance brightened, and she turned her thoughts again to the work before her.

CHAPTER II.

“Unless he is in love with some woman there is no believing old signs.”

Much Ado About Nothing.

Before the plans for his new school were well settled Lionel’s time was much occupied. The autumn had been rainy, and in a violent storm in the middle of November the river rose above its banks, and the whole low-lying country was flooded. One or two villages belonging to Lord Ashford suffered terribly; and as after the floods abated a hard frost, long and severe, set in, there was great distress in the whole country. It was a poor district, fertile but improvident; and though, because fertile, a moderate share of comfort was generally enjoyed, any casual grievance became a grievance indeed; changing comfortable poverty into beggary.

Lord Ashford could not bear to see distress, and though his finances had suffered in common with those of his poor neighbours, he was anxious to relieve them to the utmost of his power. He did not like trouble, but he gave Lionel a commission to inquire into the circumstances of his tenantry, and to relieve them as he thought best.

Lionel entered zealously into the work, and he found ready help around him.

Mr. Pope was extremely annoyed at the state of things. That distress, distress beyond the power of any man entirely to relieve, should exist in his parish, in that delightful country whose air he breathed, was a circumstance as unforeseen as unpleasing. He felt personally insulted, and could only bear the shame by remarking, three or four times each day, to all who would hear, but especially to Violet, that it was an “exceptional year.” In the whole course of his acquaintance with the country he had never known so much rain to fall, and never had experienced so hard a frost. His injured feelings, however, did not destroy his kindly ones, and he gave liberally both time and money.

Violet felt her poverty, and smarted under the sting. It was long since she had ceased to mourn over the loss of riches for her own sake, but now, had she but been as she once had been, where would poverty have been found? It seemed hard that she who would have melted her own self, had she been made of gold, to give to the suffering, should not now, with all her desires, have more than a mite to give. She sighed, and resolved that since money could not be given she would indeed give herself. Very zealously therefore did she help Lionel in any and every part of his work that could be undertaken by another.

Among other projects, a shop for the sale of provisions at and under cost price was established in Holywell. This was a great boon, for the town was five miles distant, and the small retail shops in the district were short of money, charged high prices, and gave bad goods. The shop was held for some hours three times a week, and was almost entirely managed—accountants and money to provide better ones, both being scarce—by Violet and Ida, with Lionel’s and Mr. Pope’s occasional help.

The frost continued, with one or two breaks, during the whole of December and the early part of January; and with the frost the suffering and distress; and with the distress the hardworking of all who were anxious to relieve it.

The severe weather was at its height when Albert Ellis wrote to propose a few days’ visit. He wrote to Mrs. Osborne, and his letter ended thus:—

“I came back to London from a long visit in Norfolk, where, though cold enough, the sun was brilliant and the sky blue. I found London foggy as well as cold, and as dismal-looking as can be imagined. I thought it unbearable till I heard a piece of good news which made its dull features become charming. Tell Violet that I have a piece of good news to tell her, in which she is interested as well as I.”

Mrs. Osborne read the letter aloud, and without any definite thought, till she saw the crimson glow which dyed her daughter’s cheeks. A definite idea did then present itself, and though she quietly said, “Poor Albert and his news! What can he have to tell?” she, after that one observation, suffered the subject to drop.

But all the day long she questioned with herself what that blush had meant; what Violet could expect, and what Albert intended to convey.

No less perplexed was Violet; yet that Albert should have good news to tell her, that was unconnected with Leicester, never so much as swept over the mirror of her fancy.

“What so sweet,” as the author of “Nathalie” says prettily, “as a nameless joy?” And such a vague inspiring brightness was that which quickened Violet’s elastic step, and shone in her sparkling eye.

Albert arrived just before luncheon, an accident having forced him to lose half a day, and sleep on the road.

Mrs. Osborne and Violet were in the drawing-room, and after they had warmed and comforted the cold traveller, he turned from his seat in the fire, and said,

“Are you not curious, Violet? Don’t you want to hear my news?”

Violet’s heart whirled about. She wished Albert would not speak so openly; but after a moment she conquered, and stilled herself sufficiently to say,

“Oh! yes; very curious. What can it be?”

“Why, it is rather a singular thing, I must tell you; an unexpected thing to hear from a stranger in India.” He rubbed his hands, and Violet’s heart beat as if it would burst. “Now prepare. Well, Violet, it is no less than a legacy of £20,000 between you and me.”

“Is that all?” she said, turning pale with the bitterness of the disappointment.

“That all!” he cried, staring at her; and even Mrs. Osborne opened her eyes. “Why, Violet, our circumstances, yours and mine, are not such, I can tell you, that we need scorn £500 a year; and that is what it will be, for it’s well invested. I can tell you I—though I am not mercenary—was so elated that I could not sleep.”

“Who is it from?” Violet asked, while she was collecting her thoughts.

“From that old ... that friend of yours, Aunt Elizabeth ... poor old fellow, he’s dead; Mr. Woodrowffe, his name was, I think. Don’t you remember, Violet?”

“Oh! yes, I remember.”

“He fell in love with you. I saw that at the time; but why he so kindly thought of me is more than I can guess. His will is dated two days after your birthday. But guess or not, I am thankful; which is more than it seems you are.”

But Violet meanwhile had received the import of his words into her heart, and her feelings had undergone a change. She now spoke earnestly enough.

“I am not ungrateful, Albert, but I am overwhelmed and ashamed. I did not deserve this. I was so cross and discontented when the change of fortune came, that I do not deserve this should come to me,” and whether from previous agitation, or from the genuine feeling of the moment, a large tear fell from her eye. “Does papa know?” she continued, springing up. “I must go and tell him,” and she left the room.

Albert looked at his aunt, as much as to say,

“That is a curious young woman,” but she did not respond to the gaze.

“He saw she would make a good use of his money,” she said softly. “Poor darling! I am so thankful it has come to her.”

“So am I; and I hope it will make you all comfortable.”

“It will indeed. Now, whether we live or die, she is provided for. My poor old friend! I thank him much. And, dear Albert, I am so glad and so grateful for your good fortune too.”

“Good fortune you may well call it, Aunt Elizabeth. It is a sort of luck I had long given up dreaming of. I can’t say, like Violet, that I don’t deserve it, for I have been very steady and industrious of late; and as much as a poor mortal man can ever be said to deserve anything, I do deserve a little praise. But we don’t always get it, and I am sure I never thought of having it.”

Mr. and Mrs. Osborne were relieved by this event from many anxious parental fears and cares. And seeing their joy, Violet gave a readier admission to rejoicing and gratitude in her own heart. She had learnt by experience something of the dangers of riches, and had a dread of them; she had felt that poverty was a very necessary discipline to her peculiar disposition; necessary for the preservation within her of anything of a lowly mind; and she had tried very sincerely to receive the discipline and profit by it. This sudden accession of wealth (for wealth it was to those who had been rich, and had learnt how to be poor) startled and also humbled her. She no longer felt what once she had felt, and often said that “they must be naturally mean, who by the possession of money were made proud.” She knew better now what the word pride meant, and felt by experience that it was the freedom, the power to please ourselves, whatever that pleasure—selfish or unselfish—may be, which causes the temper of mind which makes riches dangerous. She knew this now, and doubting herself, was humbled, and trembled. But unselfish thoughts forced their way, and soon turned the fears it brought to rapture. The increased good that could be done with it! the added comforts to her parents! Before twenty-four hours were over she was dreaming sweet dreams, and her disappointment, that momentary but bitter disappointment, was chased away under their bright influence.

Albert remained only for two or three days. The last day of his stay was one of the days on which the shop was held in Holywell. He was anxious to walk with Violet to a place at some distance, and she promised, if she could possibly be spared altogether, or as soon as she could be spared, to take a holiday and go with him.

On arriving at the place, a kind of store-house lent by a farmer, and fitted up tolerably comfortably for the purpose, she found that Ida was there alone, and Albert sat down by the fire, patiently to wait till she could be free.

Violet told her wishes to Ida, and asked if Mr. Vane was likely to come, and would be likely to be at liberty to take her work.

“He said yesterday he would look in,” she replied; and then added smiling, “and I think he is sure to come, because he is curious to see your cousin.”

“There is nothing remarkable in poor Albert, is there?”

“Oh! no, Violet, only a new person, you know,” Ida apologized.

There was a great deal of business, and Violet and Ida were soon fully employed. In the midst of it Lionel entered. Violet was occupied with a purchaser, and did not move. Lionel took a slight survey of Albert, bowed to him stiffly but civilly, and went and stood by Ida.

Her account-book was lying open, and as he stood by he ran over it with his eyes.

“This is wrong, Ida,” he said. “You have entered this item twice, and you have put down several shillings too much.”

He spoke with authority.

“How stupid I am!” Ida said without examination or defence. “I will put it right in a moment.”

Violet was always quick to hear when Ida was reproved, and, if need be, to take up the cudgels in her defence. She left her purchaser, and came to Ida’s side.

“Wait a moment, Ida. I don’t think it is wrong, for I looked over the book a quarter of a hour ago.”

“Did you?” Lionel said quickly. “Then I may be wrong.”

“Yes,” Violet showed triumphantly; “Ida is right. That item, as you call it, is not the same, though, I must own, it looks as if it was. See, it is all right.”

“Yes, I see,” he said penitently. “I beg your pardon for having given you so much trouble; and I beg yours, Ida,” he added.

“I make so many mistakes that you have good reason to suspect me, I am afraid,” she said in her usual gentle manner.

“You depreciate yourself,” Violet observed. “You are not very quick yet; that only comes with practice; but you are very correct.” And she returned to her purchaser.

Lionel leaned on the counter which had been erected, and watched idly for a few moments the various groups in the room. Ida then touched his arm, and asked in a low voice if he could stay and take Violet’s place.

“If you can, Violet wishes very much to go and walk with her cousin.”

He looked round quickly and curiously again at Albert; but after a moment’s consideration said—

“Oh! yes.” And walked across the room to Violet.

“You wish to be released, Miss Osborne? Pray do not stay one moment longer than you please. I will take your place, and fill it as well as I can.”

“Can you really stay? Thank you, then. I shall certainly be glad to have this one holiday. I hope it is not inconvenient.”

“No, it is not. But if it were, you have done so much for me and all my plans, that I should only be thankful to feel a little inconvenience for you in return.”

Violet laughed and thanked him, then showed him her book.

“This poor woman is buying for several families, she says. It will be a long sum when it is done. I hoped to finish with her, but there seems no end to her wants.”

“You distrust my powers for the long sum,” he said playfully, as he took her place.

Violet spoke a few words to Ida, put on her bonnet, and she and Albert set off for their walk.

“That is a nice girl, Violet,” he observed as they walked along. “My uncle tells me that a marriage is projected between her and Mr. Vane.”

“So papa told me. I cannot think where he hears his news.”

“Mr. Vane will be lucky if it is so. I have seen very little of her, but I think I am a pretty good judge, and I think she is a thoroughly good girl.”

“She is indeed,” Violet said warmly. “She is the sort of girl that would suit you, Albert.”

“So I was thinking. If I was not pre-engaged I should be afraid to be much in her company.”

“Engaged! My dear Albert, are you engaged?”

“Not bodily; I meant in my thoughts, my fancy, or whatever you please to call it. Have you no guess to whom my thoughts are engaged?”

“None whatever. How should I? Oh! yes,” with a sudden thought, and a sudden flush overspreading her cheeks, “I do guess. Margaret Leicester. I remember I used to think of that.”

“Right. Of course I should not have dreamed of mentioning it if I had been as I was; but this poor old fellow’s kindness gives me the power of making a settlement, and if she comes back to England free, I shall take my chance.”

“You have still some time to wait,” Violet said constrainedly.

“Not long, I hope. I expect them home this spring or summer.”

Violet’s heart stood still with rapture and surprise. For a moment she could say nothing; but strong effort, and the determination to show no emotion, drew from her the observation, in an indifferent tone—

“So soon.”

“The six years will be out in June—six since Leicester left England at least. How time passes! I once thought those six years would never be gone. I believe there have been deaths and changes, and that Leicester was offered a better thing if he would stay out there. However, he has made up his mind to come home.”

Leicester returning, and Albert possibly becoming his brother-in-law! How radiant looked the future to Violet! How far more glorious than summer sunshine the cold frosty light of the closing January day!

“You are sure Margaret is unmarried?” Violet asked after a short pause.

“Yes; one or two are married, but she is not—was not, at least; man is sure of nothing: and now let us have done with it. I thought I would mention it before I went; but the less said on such things the better. What were we saying before? Oh! I know! Miss Hamilton and Mr. Vane. My dear Violet, will you, without thinking me interfering, allow me to give you a small piece of advice.”

“Most certainly,” she said gaily, “anything you will.”

“Well, then, it struck me, I hardly know why, it just passed through my head as I was sitting there, that Mr. Vane is or might be in love with you. And if you don’t intend to have it so, I advise you not to encourage him.”

“Mr. Vane in love with me! My dear Albert, what an idea!”

“I don’t say it is so. I only say it struck me, and I could not be easy without giving you a hint. Don’t be angry, it is well-meant advice.”

“I am not angry—much more amused than angry. I am very much obliged for advice when there is reason in it. But this—there is really no sense in the idea.”

“I cannot see any want of reason or sense. You are a young woman, and he is a young man; and I believe it is not usually considered very nonsensical when young men and young women take to each other.”

“Young men and young women have nothing to do with this question. It is impossible what you think can be true. I cannot tell you my reasons, but I have reasons for saying so.”

“If you have that is enough. I do not want to set myself up as an infallible judge. I merely spoke my thought, and let us change the subject. How cold it is! I always heard Devonshire had a mild climate, but this evening surpasses the cold of Siberia. Can you step out a little?”

“As fast as you please. Don’t let Mr. Pope hear your complaints.”

And they walked at a pace which brought them to the cottage with tingling feet and cheeks glowing, as in the days of infancy.

With so much that was of a more interesting nature to occupy her thoughts and dreamings, it was not strange that Albert’s piece of advice was forgotten. The quick walk effaced it from her memory, and it did not so much as once recur again.

CHAPTER III.

“Oh! never say that I was false of heart;

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify,

As easy might I from myself depart

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.

That is my home of love; if I have ranged

Like him that travels, I return again.”

SHAKESPEARE.

Leicester arrived in England in the June following. He came with only two sisters. Three had married during the sojourn in India. Marian had very early attracted the attention of a widower with several small children, and was now presiding over his household instead of her brother’s. Henrietta had been the next to marry. Hers was a love marriage, and her lover was a lawyer friend of Leicester’s. Jessie had remained disconsolate, until another widower, mourning over the loss of a “superior woman,” was attracted by her pretty face and helpless ways. When Leicester, to whom the proposal was made, mentioned it to Jessie, she burst into tears, and said he was so old and so frightful she would rather die than marry him. But before the discouraging message could be conveyed, she changed her mind and said she thought she would try him; and since her marriage she had twice written word to Margaret that she liked her husband very well.

These marriages were all good marriages in point of money arrangements. Leicester, therefore, was satisfied to give small portions to these sisters. Jessie’s portion, indeed, was entirely rejected by the ardent and generous widower, who had laid himself and all he had at the feet of his young wife. When, therefore, they returned to England, the circumstances of the family had changed, and Leicester was able to contemplate a marriage for himself, and a separate establishment for his remaining sisters, without any conscientious fears lest he might be securing his own good at the expense of theirs.

Before he had been a fortnight in England he mentioned one morning at breakfast that he was going out of town for a few days. He spoke indifferently, but a faint glow that stole over his face revealed to Rachel’s eyes the direction his steps would take.

Leicester had returned unchanged; unchanged within and without; in body, in mind, and in heart. A few more grey hairs were perhaps sprinkled on his dark head, but he was not yet thirty-eight, and though at thirty-two he had looked old for his age, at thirty-eight it was no longer so. The rest which India had procured for his wearying domestic cares, the diversion it had given to his sore heart and troubled thoughts, had arrested the premature symptoms of middle age, and he was greeted by many a friend with the agreeable greeting, “Why, you have grown younger!”

But in character also he was unchanged; such renovation and refreshing as his body had received had not penetrated there. The same diffidence, not of his mental powers, but of his powers to win and please, still laid its freezing hand upon his soul; the same shy and sensitive pride made him still shrink from the idea of putting himself forward, and shudder at the thoughts of a rebuff.

Nevertheless, Violet was in his heart and in his hopes, and he did contemplate one more attempt to win her to himself. He had made no efforts to preserve his constancy. He had looked on their separation as one for life; yet, as Mrs. Osborne had said, he was not a man to change, and as years rolled on, he began, unconsciously first, and afterwards with full purpose of his heart and soul, to turn his thoughts to her. She alone could yet build up for him a bright picture in the future.

He determined to seek her, not as a lover, but as a friend; to read for himself, in her speaking countenance, whether or no any thought of him lingered in the chambers of her fancy.

He left London buoyant and hopeful in spirit. In the distance excitement primed and warmed his cowardly soul, and all seemed easy. It seemed an easy and natural thing to be a friend, to say that as a friend he had on his return desired to renew acquaintance with them all. He pictured his calm, sedate entrance into the drawing-room, the tranquil talk over India, and his sisters, and the voyage; pictured it, and all seemed peaceful and serene. Thus he left London, but, like Acres in the “Rivals,” as the time drew near, his courage oozed out at the palms of his hands.

He arrived late at the inn of the little town five miles from Holywell, and there slept. When movement was over, when he found himself five miles from Violet, he wondered how he had ever dared to come; and when at half-past ten he heard the horn of the late coach passing through on its London way, he started up in a sudden impulse to return as he came.

That impulse was checked; but, still as he sat in the dingy room with two inn candles for his light, cowardice so crept over and paralyzed him, that he began to look on himself as a madman for the resolution that had brought him down. He again pictured his entrance to the drawing-room; he saw himself agitated within, but cold and silent without; no thought in his head, no word on his tongue; without a charm to recommend himself to her notice, or lure her heart if still it had to be won; he pictured it till the picture became intolerable, and he felt that his plan of operations must be changed. If he was to meet Violet, it must be by chance. He rang the bell.

“Is there anything like an inn or a respectable public-house near the village of Holywell?”

“Oh! law, sir, yes. There’s a famous little place; one can’t call it an hotel, but a neat little place, about half a mile off. The young artists lodge there, and young gentlemen for fishing and hunting, and so on, and invalids now and then. It’s kept by a nice respectable body enough.”

“Tell the Boots to call me at seven,” was Leicester’s reply, and he walked over on the following morning, guided by minute directions from the landlord, to the little inn in question. There, receiving a smiling answer to his request for a private room and breakfast, he sat down to ruminate.

Though shy with all men, rich and poor, there was something in Leicester’s look, in his smile, and in his voice, which won those beneath him on the very first address; and when he courteously roused himself from an abstracted gaze on the landscape, to assist the landlady in extricating her gown from a nail which held her fast, she took him into her good graces, and made much of him accordingly.

“Bless you, sir, don’t trouble yourself. It’s a nasty rusty nail, which didn’t ought to be there. Thank you, sir; no matter for the rent; the gown’s an old gown now, though it’s been a good servant in its day. There, sir, I hope you find yourself comfortable.”

“Very comfortable, thank you.”

“And have everything you want, sir?”

“Everything, thank you.”

“Ah! sir, you’re not like some young gentlemen. No sooner do I get to the door, but they cry, ‘Come back, good woman,’ and, bless you, they ask for some sauce or other that my precious wits never so much as heard of.”

“I am not young enough for that,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps I may have done it in my time.”

“Never, sir. You never done it, that I know. You never like to give trouble to no person whatsoever, that I know; you’d sooner black your own boots than ask a body to do them, unless the proper person offered himself.”

Leicester coloured slightly, and shrinking from this minute and clear-sighted inspection, said,

“You have a fine view from this window.”

“You may say that, sir. Mr. Pope says it’s a paradise on earth; and if it bean’t profane to say so, and I suppose it bean’t, as the rector says it, it’s true, sir.”

Leicester rose from the breakfast-table and walked to the window. He longed for the ready tongue that would draw from his loquacious landlady the name he desired to hear; but questions would not come at his call. She, however, interpreting the movement as expressive of the inquiries which she was well-accustomed to hear, placed herself at his side, and pointed out, as Mr. Pope had done to Mr. Osborne and Violet, the chief features, or rather the human interests of the scene. At every change of person, she looked pitifully round and said,

“Won’t your breakfast be spoiled, sir?” yet went on remorselessly, till she had sketched the varied occupants, past and present, of Boscombe and Ashford Park. When this was done she said—

“Now do, sir, go to breakfast, or it will be spoiled,” and remembering other guests to whom she had to attend, left the room.

When she was gone Leicester marvelled at his folly. He might have heard not only the name for six years unpronounced in his presence, but he might have heard details of her life and state of mind; he might have gathered hints for his present guidance, and he would not. Nor even then, in his solitude, could he frame to himself the inquiries which would elicit all that he desired to know.

When breakfast was over he sat down in the window, drew a pamphlet from his pocket, and proceeded to ruminate on the steps which should be taken to secure a sight of Violet, if not an interview with her, during the day.

Some time passed before his landlady returned to remove the breakfast.

“Bless the folks,” she then observed, “they wouldn’t a done with their talk, and I vowed I’d wait on you myself, sir. And what do you think, sir? I never thought o’ telling you that there’s a kind of a feast to-day in my lord’s park. You see, sir, that Mr. Vane, the young gentleman I spoke about, he warn’t at home when he came to his age; and so he said he’d have a kind of a feast now, after the hard times and all; and he’s a good sir to think of it. But he is a good young gentleman; not one of your young sirs, taken up with his sauces and his nonsense! And if you please to see the feast, sir, why you can, for the tables will be spread on the spot of green just beyond the village, and the villagers will all be looking on, I’ll be bound.”

“I think I will try and see it. I am a Londoner, and such a sight will be new to me.”

“You a Londoner, sir! Well, I never should have thought it.”

“What shall I see?” Leicester asked.

“For one thing you’ll see two young ladies, sir, not to be matched for handsomeness, nor goodness neither, neither in these kingdoms nor any other, be they who they may.” Leicester turned slightly towards the window and looked out. He guessed what now would come, and he was afraid even of his landlady’s eyes. “The one is Miss Hamilton, Sir William’s daughter, his only child, as I mentioned, sir; she’s a nice, sweet, comely maid, and as good as she’s comely; and the other is the very dearest young lady that ever trod the earth, be she who she may, and does more good in her blessed life than fifty rectors, be they who they may.”

There was no mistaking whom she meant, but Leicester was mute. He could not even ask her name. His landlady was making a clatter with the breakfast things, which she had now piled on a tray; he feared the conversation was at an end, yet could not think how to renew it.

At last as she, occupied for the moment with household cares, was detecting a crack in a favourite plate, he cleared his throat and said—

“Miss Hamilton, I think you said, is Sir William’s only child?”

She laid down the plate and came joyfully for another talk.

“Yes, sir, only daughter and heiress at present, for Sir William is unmarried. Some say he will marry Miss Osborne, the young lady I spoke about just now; but I doubt it.” And she looked knowing and wise, while Leicester startled, put his elbows on the window-sill and gazed fixedly forward. “She is his only child, and Mr. Vane is my lord’s only child, and some say there is to be a marriage between them; but I doubt it. Unless my eyes are blind he has another lady in his thoughts, and, bless you, my eyes are not blind. Why, when they walk along together, walking and talking, I can see who he’s taken up with fast enough. I’m none of your beetles. Why, he just worships the very ground she treads on.”

Not a sound from Leicester. But the words not the less penetrated and paralyzed the life, the very life of love, within him. He rose up from his position—the eyes of the landlady forgotten.

“It’s true, sir, unless I’m blind; and if she be ‘my lady,’ why, she well deserves it, for there’s no sweeter lady in Christendom, that I’ll wager my life upon. But bless you, sir, I’ve been telling out my secret thoughts, which I didn’t ought to do; but there’s something about you, sir, that makes me feel at home, sir, begging your pardon.”

“Your words are safe with me,” he said in a firm but hoarse voice.

“I fear you have a cold, sir, and you do look pale. Rest a bit here, sir. It’s a pleasant room; and I’ll bring you a bit of lunch, and then you can stroll down towards my lord’s park. It’ll be a fine day,” she added looking out, “but showery. There’s a blackish cloud far out there. It’ll be down upon us in the course of the day.”

She left Leicester alone to his meditations. Was this, then, what he had dreaded? As he drew near to her abode, was it the shadow of this disappointment that had come forth to meet him and to withhold him from a vain approach? He was not superstitious, but it seemed to him as if by his last night’s cowardice he had been benignly stayed from a rash venture, whose ill-success would have killed him.

Yet he was not going to yield the point. His eyes, his own eyes, alone should be trusted, and though all thoughts of a visit had vanished, he determined to make an effort to see, and possibly to be seen.

He waited for several hours before he set forth, and with a stubborn resolution, which long habits of self-conquest had taught him, mastered the pamphlet, a stiff legal work, on which his opinion had been asked.

Towards two o’clock he set forth, and guided by the words and gestures of his landlady, found the spot she had mentioned. It was a broad flat piece of green grass situated just within Ashford Park, and enclosed by trees young and old; a kind of natural platform, so fitted for rural sports and pastimes, that it had been given as a half-grant, a grant with reservations that is, to the villagers, by a former Lord Ashford. It was enclosed on three sides by woods, but towards the village the park wall made a sudden dip, and for upwards of twenty yards became a battlement on which the old men of the village could lean their elbows and watch the youthful sports that went on within.

On this spot several long tables were spread out, and two or three tents containing the food and the crockery which was needed for the feast. One of these tents was nearly opposite the dip in the wall just described.

The villagers were congregated without. None had yet been admitted within, and by the side of two or three old men, leaning his arm against the buttress that supported the wall where it suddenly fell, Leicester paused and looked on.

Several figures were busily occupied in covering the tables, but none so active as Violet. He discovered her in a moment, though she was at a distance, and saw with an ache of the heart that a young man was constantly at her side.

He became so fascinated in watching the scene; in wondering, as she drew nearer, whether she would discover him amongst the crowd, that he did not notice the gradual rising of the black cloud his landlady had pointed out as a threatening one. It was equally unperceived by the busy figures within, and the eager crowd without, and all alike were startled when it suddenly burst, and the rain fell as from buckets.

At this moment Violet was at the table nearest to the dip in the wall. The food was still in the tents, but she was putting down the last plates from a huge pile, when the storm burst. She stood for a moment, as if determined to finish her operations, but the force of the shower was beyond her power to brave, and following the general example, she flew to the nearest shelter. It was to the tent opposite where Leicester stood, full in his view, though some hundred feet removed from the road.

Thither Lionel, who had been at the other end of the same table, followed her.

Leicester put up his umbrella, and with natural courtesy held it over an old man in a smock frock, who was leaning on the wall beneath him. One or two children crept in to share the benefit. A few other old umbrellas appeared, and a good many women flew away to the nearest trees. For a few seconds Leicester was engaged in offering his advice to the crowd; when he looked back again, Violet had seated herself by a table, and Lionel was bending beside her.

The conversation was eager, and seemed to become more and more so. For three or four minutes Leicester watched it in the same fascinated manner, and then suddenly remembered that he was answered. For what should he wait more? Was it honourable to stand thus and spy upon her actions.

With the first rising of this thought, he, forgetful of rain and his neighbours, moved from the spot; but had not taken many steps before he remembered the old man he had been protecting from the storm. He came back.

“I beg your pardon, my good man; I took my umbrella away too soon.”

“Thank ye, sir, and welcome. I’m not afeard of a few doo drops.”

He laughed loud and hoarsely at his jest; and once again Leicester cast his eyes on Violet, anticipating that the shout of laughing would draw her attention to the spot. But the conversation was too interesting, or seemed so, to be interrupted; nay, he fancied that her cheek was flushed; but at the distance at which he was placed this was probably a fancy.

He stood like a martyr to his old friend during the remaining minutes of the storm; his eyes, no longer turned to the spectacle that made him mad, were steadfastly averted in a contrary direction; and the moment the rain began to abate, he walked with rapid steps away.

“Now, sir, you’re not going off in this way without a glass of wine,” was the reception of the landlady when he returned to pay his bill and take his leave. “Now do sit down and rest yourself till the heat of the day is passed.”

“Thank you, the walk will refresh me,” he said wearily. Then immediately conscious of the dejected tone, and as if blushing at the weakness, added, “The rain has refreshed the air.”

“That’s true; and the dust won’t creep into your eyes as it did this morning. Well, sir, if you must go, ‘God be with you,’ as the old folks say. And if you come this way again you’ll have a warm welcome.”

“I am not likely to come, I am afraid. I am a Londoner. If I do I shall not forget your words.”

Wishing her ‘good-bye,’ he returned to the town, and took his place by the night coach, whose horn had tempted him the previous day.

He did not appear at home till his sisters were going to dress for dinner. He then walked into the drawing-room as usual.

“John! come back so soon,” Margaret cried, springing up as she flew to greet him.

Rachel looked, and saw why so soon.

“Yes, come back,” he replied. “And now what have you been doing with yourselves? Has anything happened?”

“A letter from Henrietta,” Rachel said. And eagerly anxious not to seem to have observed his countenance, instantly produced it.

“Rachel,” Margaret said, when he left the room, “where has John been?”

“I do not know; but I guess.”

“Not there! Surely not there already.”

“I guess it, but I do not know.”

“And you think without success?” and her cheek crimsoned with indignation, and she clenched her fist.

“You know as much as I do, Margaret. I do not think he looked successful.”

“It is impossible!” she cried. “I shall ask Mr. Ellis.”

“Margaret!” Rachel said in a tone of keen reproach.

Margaret blushed.

“It was only a moment’s thoughtlessness,” she said penitently. “I would not really talk over John’s feelings for the world.”

And but little more was said between them.

Leicester had not known how strong his hope had been till it was flown; how the picture of Violet had brightened his future, till it was effaced. But though he had his weakness and his cowardice, he had also his strength, and he combated the dejection that stole over him, with the full bent of a sound mind and a strong will.

To work he thankfully turned, and found, as before, relief in it. Some papers he had written while in India had preceded him, and made him a reputation, and even Albert allowed that the poor fellow was beginning to be appreciated. His opinion was asked and followed by some high in office, and before many weeks passed he was offered a permanent appointment at the moment vacant. It was accepted, and with thankfulness, for the work’s sake; but the independence it gave him, which once would have been a boon, was at the moment an object of indifference to him.

CHAPTER IV.

“Ah! folly! for it lies so far away,

’Twere all as one to fix our Hopes in Heaven

As on this vision of a golden year.”

TENNYSON.

And now to explain the last chapter.

The hard winter passed by; a mild spring and early summer promised a good harvest, and the bad times were beginning to be spoken of as a thing of the past, not of the present. The exertions of the richer inhabitants of Holywell and its neighbourhood had not been fruitless. There had been suffering undoubtedly, but sympathy had given to the sufferers the power of patience, and help had borne many an industrious family healthily and harmlessly through the time of trial.

When the necessity for his presence was at an end, and things were returning to their usual train, Lionel Vane took to his old habit of making excursions. At first he disappeared now and then for a week. Then he went for three weeks to London; and finally, in the latter end of April, he went abroad for a month. Whether restlessness had grown a habit, or whether something caused his restlessness, could not be known. He usually departed without notice, or with only a mention of his departure and a farewell to Ida.

Lord Ashford and Sir William were disappointed. Violet was less surprised. She saw his mind was active, but also saw that in spite of some restlessness he had perseverance in any object that he undertook. She admired many of his qualities, and, making allowances, did not think it very wonderful that a young man whose mind was active should like change, and should hope to enlarge the sphere for his abilities before he settled down.

Ida made no remarks, and expressed neither surprise nor regrets. Her position was difficult, but she endured it with singular modesty and grace; never by look or sign reminding him of her claims upon him, nor by over-consciousness giving to his simple attentions undue meaning. She considered herself betrothed to him until he released her, and her betrothment being of the heart as well as the promise, she found no difficulty in submitting to his variable conduct and many caprices.

Violet wondered at her patience, and though not much surprised that Lionel was dilatory in claiming what he knew to be his own, she was often provoked with him for the delay.

At the end of May, after his short tour abroad, Lionel returned, and it seemed with the intention of making a stay, for he began to talk to Ida of the feast he intended to give.

“Now that the hard times are over, you know, Ida, we should rejoice a little; and then there has never been any notice taken of the great event of my coming of age, and then....”

He paused in his rapid speech, moved a few steps, and stooped to pick up a daisy; for it was on the grass in the garden at Boscombe that the conversation took place. Ida was working under a tree.

She trembled and turned pale. Something peculiar in his manner made her think that the topic, unmentioned by his lips for five years, was about thus abruptly to be brought forward.

In a moment, however, having picked the daisy and examined it, he threw it away, and said gaily as he returned to her—

“I suppose there is no great need to think of reasons for a feast. The poor souls will accept it without good reasons, I daresay. I shall want your help, Ida. There must be a feast for the school and games, and then I should like a regular system of prizes to be established. They have never had prizes at Holywell, I think.”

“Only the few Violet gives to the singers.”

“I know. It was that made me think of them. You must consider what I shall give. Whether bibles and prayer-books, or garments, or some useful thing.”

“I suppose I had better consult with Violet.”

“Yes. And then the almshouse people, I want to give them some bit of furniture. You should see the Dutch cottages, Ida. I wish the cottages here could be made Dutch. And then there must be a feast for old people; above sixty shall we say, or seventy? You must think about that too. And that will be all that we can do this time, for I am not rich.”

“No, Lionel, I should think not indeed, after all you have done.”

“Ah! but I hope my father will help. I want you to tell him my plans, and ask him if he will give some assistance.”

“I will if you wish it,” she said reluctantly.

“I do wish it.”

“I will, then.”

And she did.

Lord Ashford was pleased, pleased at any request of Lionel’s sent through Ida, and pleased in the thought that this feast was the sign of some impending event.

“Whatever you and Lionel like, my precious, is agreeable to me,” was his reply.

“It is Lionel,” she said with emphasis, “not me.”

“Ah! well,” pinching her cheek, “you young ones are rum ones. Tell Master Lionel I will give all the help an empty purse can afford.”

Ida laughed.

“He must be careful, my precious, that is all I mean. He knows as well as I do that we are not weighed down with gold and silver.”

Ida faithfully delivered her message, and it was given in her father’s hearing. He immediately said, that as many of his tenants’ children went to Holywell school, and as one almswoman was from Boscombe, he thought he might be allowed to contribute; and after some hesitation and an evident reluctance, Lionel consented.

The day was fixed for the twenty-second of June, which was Lionel’s birthday, and he began to make his preparations.

Whatever gifts he had not, Lionel certainly had the gift of interesting others in anything he undertook to do; and of swaying others to his will when he chose. Violet had not expected to bear any part in the proposed rejoicings, and when she first saw that he expected her help, she did not intend it should be given. “He and Ida were quite enough to manage the concern,” as she observed to her mother. But notwithstanding expectations and intentions, she was forced into the affair; and once forced to be interested, she found her advice and guidance so needful that she was, as usual, lured on, and ended by helping with all her might.

The night before the day Lionel called at the cottage to ask her to come early.

“I would not trouble you, but that we really do need help; and your help is help.”

Violet never gave herself importance by refusing and then consenting. When she saw he really wished it she said at once she would go.

“Thank you. You are always good-natured. When I say yours is real help I was thinking of Miss White. She is such a dolt. Of course she must help, and I have been to talk to her, but she is so silly and so helpless. I never can cease to thank you for having spoken the truth about her.”

“Poor thing!” Violet said gravely. “She is not in her proper place; that I fear is the history.”

Amy was not higher in Violet’s good books than she had been for the last two years. It was a painful subject.

“I did not mean to worry you by abusing her,” he said quickly and earnestly. “Well, thank you, and good night.”

Violet, always fulfilling her promises, always alert and punctual, knocked at half-past twelve at her father’s door, to ask him to accompany her, as had been arranged.

He was reading, and he grumbled a little. It was too early; and there was no need to be so very exact; and the sun was so hot; and the road was so dusty. As Violet, however, persisted in reminding him that she had promised, he rose to obey her.

“But these rural feasts are rather tedious, darling, except to those actively employed; and active employment is unfortunately not to my taste in this weather. You must be a good girl and let me off pretty soon.”

“No, indeed, papa,” she said playfully. “Considering that it is Lord Ashford’s park and Mr. Vane’s feast, I must have my chaperon.” For since the episode with Sir William Hamilton, Violet, to make atonement for her concealment, had been very discreet in her ways.

“Well, well,” he said grumbling, “if I might take my book I should not mind; but since it must be so, let us go.” They walked on, and he began again. “The only thing that will reconcile me to this feast will be if Lionel Vane makes it the occasion for his proposal. I shall then say it is good for something.”

“You are still bent on that marriage, papa,” Violet observed. In her heart she had the same hope.

“I only expect it because Pope tells me it is to be. As far as my eyes can judge, they see no symptoms of it. But perhaps that is likely to be the case with cousins. Pope says it is so. If I were asked what I saw, I should say he was as much, and more, in love with you, darling, than with Miss Hamilton.”

Violet laughed disdainfully; it provoked her father to say—

“And no bad taste, darling, if he was.”

“Don’t talk so, papa,” she said severely. “I don’t like it.”

“Well, then, let us talk of something else. What a deal of dust, to be sure!” And he laughed his merry laugh.

Violet remembered Albert’s warning, and felt piqued. Lionel should make haste and marry Ida; that she determined on the spot: she would not be exposed to such observations.

Mr. Osborne was right. Violet was more exact than others, and they were the first to appear. Lionel came next, and was very hearty in his thanks; and as there was a good deal to be done, he proposed an immediate beginning. Violet could do nothing with half a heart, and she set to work eagerly. Mr. Osborne looked on for a time, and then retired into a tent, begging Violet not to overheat herself.

Amy White and the mistress of the new institution were present and gave their assistance; but it was Violet who, with Lionel’s help, did the hard work; who moved the tables out of the fierce sun into the shade, and carried the crockery from the tents. Amy was prettily dressed, and being pretty and looking well, was afraid of rapid movements and cumbersome handfuls. Violet, always neat, and never disordered by her exertions, worked away, and looked as fresh as a rose while she worked.

Lionel helped with all his might; looking to Violet for advice, yet endeavouring to guess her wishes that he might spare her the bodily exercise. He watched her incessantly; now with eager, open looks and grateful words; now with furtive glances no less grateful, no less eager; and all the while there was a shadow on his countenance—a cloud which no eagerness in his business, and no bodily exertions dispersed.

The next to appear were Sir William Hamilton and Ida. She had been fretting under their delay; but Sir William, though so public a scene was very distasteful to him, thought it necessary to accompany his daughter, and had walked with his usual stately and leisurely pace.

“Who is that?” he asked, as they joined the groups who were busily occupied.

“That, papa?” said Ida in surprise. “Why, it is Miss White, the schoolmistress. Have you never seen her before?”

“I never remarked her to my knowledge. She is a very pretty young woman.”

“Yes,” Ida said hesitatingly. “She is quite a lady you know, poor thing.”

“Yes, I remember. She looks like a lady.”

“Oh! Violet,” Ida said regretfully, as she left her father with Mr. Osborne. “How late I am! and how have you got on?”

“But there is plenty to do, Ida,” said Lionel. “I wish you would help Miss White to cut the cakes;” adding, in a low voice, “She will cut thin ladies’ bits, and the poor children will be imposed upon.”

He accompanied her to a tent and stood with her for some time, giving instructions for the proper cut. He then returned to the table which Violet was setting out and assisted her.

CHAPTER V.

“Sir,

Your falsehood and your face are loathsome to me.

I trample on your offers and on you.

Begone!”

The Princess.

It was about this moment that the shower mentioned in a previous chapter suddenly fell. Ida and Miss White were under shelter. The other schoolmistress and a servant and maid from Ashford Park ran into their tent, and Violet, as has been related, flew into the one that was nearest to her. Lionel followed her.

She was breathless from the moment’s quick pace, and he said, “I am almost glad of this rain, because it will force you to rest. You have overtired yourself.”

“Tired!” she cried with disdain. “There has been nothing yet to tire. And yet I do believe you are tired,” she added, remarking that his face was flushed.

“Oh! no, I am not tired.”

“After all, it would not be very odd if we both were tired,” she said, thinking he did not like to own it. “Shall we sit down? We may as well,” and she sat down accordingly; but he did not follow her example.

“Flowers!” she cried, stretching out her fingers to a heap of cut flowers that lay on the table. “What is to be done with these?”

“They are to go on the tables in flower-pots. It was Ida’s thought; she sent them. Unfortunately the flower-pots are in one of the other tents.”

“Never mind. We will make them into bunches, and that will save time. What a pretty thought of Ida’s!” she added.

“Yes.”

She thought his “yes” cold, and her determination to force him to a proposal came to her mind. Thought in her brain was rapid; too rapid sometimes for a proper degree of reflection to accompany it; and the determination had no sooner recurred to her remembrance than she said playfully,

“By-the-bye, Mr. Vane, you have never yet thanked me for the way in which I have carried out your wishes. Do you remember a conversation we had long, long ago?”

“I am not sure that I do, thank you,” he said in a low voice.

She looked up surprised. “Do you not think Ida improved?”

“Improved! Oh! yes. How could it be otherwise?”

“Then what do you mean? Perhaps you think I take to myself undue honour? I assure you I only spoke in jest. I wondered if you did remember that talk we had. I know Ida is her own good self, and would have been so without any hands of mine.”

“I did not mean that,” he said agitatedly. “You force me to speak. Do you know what I did mean? I mean that by what you have done you have taken away my excuse—in part at least—for not loving Ida; which I do not—which I cannot do.”

“You do not love Ida!” And Violet turned pale with dismay. Not that she had any suspicion of further ill, but dismayed for Ida’s sake.

“No. Ida may be good, but you are better. I love the best.” He spoke with a strange abruptness, as if hardly daring to say the words he did say, as if they were spoken against his will, without his will.

“Mr. Vane, are you mad!” Violet said, a look of terror on her face.

“Mad! no, or only mad with struggling with my rebellious heart. I love you. Oh! Miss Osborne, do not look at me with anger. You should pity my misery.”

“Pity you! How dare you speak to me as you have done?” As her terror, her first dismay, passed off, anger, and mortification, and contempt, and divers other moods and passions, swept through her mind, and agitated her breast.

“Do not speak of dare to me. It has burst from me against my will, but I care not. I have struggled long—if you could but know how I have struggled not to love; but it was vain. I love you!”

Violet started up, but Leicester, who might have seen the movement, was now on his way homewards. The rain had abated, but large drops were still falling; and while others thought shelter needful, she was afraid of seeming bold. After looking out, she turned back into the tent. Lionel was leaning on the table, the picture of despair.

“Mr. Vane,” she said coldly, “this is not a day, and this is not a place, to make a scene. I will try and bear your presence for this day without showing the contempt I feel. After to-day....”

“Your contempt!” he said, writhing, as if she had stung him. “Oh! not contempt!”

“Contempt and scorn!” she said, with vehemence. “That to me—to me who have associated with you as your friend, unsuspicious, trusting; to me, to whose care you entrusted your future wife; that to me you should dare to address such words!” her voice faltered, and tears fell from her eyes. “Oh! what must you think of me?”

He seemed beside himself.

“Forget it!—forget it!” he cried, passionately. “I will try—I will do all you wish.”

“Forget what? Forget that you have confessed your utter unworthiness of Ida; forget your falsehood to her and to me? Such things are not forgotten.”

“You are right,” he said, passing his hand over his heated brow.

“Here they come. Mr. Vane,” she said, with dignity and command, “whatever must be known privately, do not let us be a show to the world. Recover yourself, and for this day, at least, show yourself to be a man. Help me. Take up those flowers.”

“Here, Ida,” she cried, as she entered the tent, “we have been saving time, that is, I have, and have put these flowers in order. Have you the vases to put them in?”

“I sent some up,” Ida said, and she turned to Lionel.

“They are in the tent. I will run and fetch them,” he murmured, and he hurried away.

“You look so tired, dear Violet,” Ida said, affectionately. “Mr. Osborne said you had been doing too much.”

“It is not that,” Violet said after a moment’s thought. “I have been rather annoyed about something. Never mind now, we have too much to do. Here come the flower-pots.”

Amy White brought them. Ida looked out to see what had become of Lionel. She had noticed, also, that he looked flushed. But she was unsuspicious, and too unselfish to worry with questions, and she helped Violet in silence.

When the vases were filled, they carried them to the various tables. Lionel joined Ida as she put down two on the table spread for the old alms-women.

“I chose these bright roses for them,” she said, smiling; “the commoner ones will do for the children.”

“How wet the grass is!” he remarked, looking down.

“Ma bonne made me put on thick boots; she said it would rain. I wonder if Violet has!” and Ida looked round. Lionel did not stir; Ida set down the flower-pots, and flew to ask her.

“She has,” she said, coming back; “you ought to have saved me that run, Lionel!” She thought he looked dull, and spoke smilingly to rouse him.

“I beg your pardon,” he replied, laughing constrainedly. Then, as if his laugh grated on his ears, asked quickly if the cake was all cut.

“Oh, yes, come and see,” Ida said, and he followed her like a man in a dream.

The festivities then began, and for some time all who had hands to help were busy in attending to the wants of those who sat down to eat; but when men and women, young and old, girls and boys, had ate as much and perhaps more than they could, Mr. Osborne approached Violet.

“You look tired, darling. Surely they can do without you now, and we may go home and rest ourselves.”

He did not expect an acquiescence, and was surprised at receiving it.

“Yes, papa,” Violet replied, wearily, “I will come. Wait for me here, and I will run and tell Ida that we are going home.”

Ida was comforting a poor little child, who was crying from the probably new discomfort of an indigestion. When Violet called, she left him.

“If you can do without me, Ida, I shall go. Papa is tired of staying, and I think I had rather go.”

“I don’t know if we can do without you, Violet.” Ida looked round for Lionel, who had been near, but had withdrawn at Violet’s approach; “but we will, for you look tired, as I told you before.”

“It is not tire exactly, but good-bye now. I hope you will get on well, and that the poor children will have a merry evening.”

She spoke so dejectedly that Ida again looked at her with curiosity, but meeting no further answer to her inquiring glance, went back to the crying child, and Violet looked about her till she espied Lionel. She then went towards him.

“I am going home, Mr. Vane,” she said, as she met him; “I suppose it will be some time before I see you again, and I do not like to part with anyone in anger. Good-bye.” She held out her hand.

Though her words were kind, the tone was cuttingly cold. He looked at her imploringly and piteously, as if to beg one gentler glance; and, angry as she was, his look of misery touched her. She could not help it.

“You have a hard duty before you,” she said, more gently; “you must tell Ida. I feel for you.”

“Thank you for feeling for me, but that is nothing,” he replied.

“I am sorry to hear you say so,” and her tone resumed its coldness. “Then, good-bye.”

“Not so unkindly!” he cried, with the same look of despair.

“How can I help it? Was it nothing to have taught Ida to look to you, not for happiness only, but for guidance? Is it nothing to have to destroy such trust as hers?”

His lip quivered.

“It would be torture if I could feel anything but your contempt, but I cannot.”

“Good-bye; I cannot stay to speak more. Tell Ida to let me know when she will see me. I must see her soon.” And she left him and followed her father from the spot.

As they walked home in silence, Mr. Osborne observed that tears were fast falling down his daughter’s face, and as soon as they entered the cottage she flew upstairs to her own room.

“There’s something wrong,” he observed to his wife; “there’s been something wrong nearly all the day. She was gay enough when we started, but there’s been some contretemps or other, and I think it has to do with Mr. Vane, for he looks as if he was ready to hang himself. You must go up in a short time, and see what the matter is.”

Mrs. Osborne went up and found Violet lying on her bed in one of her excitements of grief. The insult to herself was deeply felt; but it was the injury to Ida—it was the thought of the misery, the general disappointment which she, she who had so worked for the accomplishment of this hope, had been the means of producing, which nearly broke her heart, which made her weep as if she could not be comforted.

“My child, my dear, dear child, my darling!” cried Mrs. Osborne, terrified at the state in which she found her daughter.

Violet endeavoured to compose herself.

“Sit down, mamma,” she said, signing to a chair by her bed; “I will tell you all in a minute.” And very shortly she did recover herself sufficiently to pour into her mother’s ears the tale in all its bearings. “And oh! mamma, I am afraid I have been wrong to you and papa; I seem to do nothing but what is wrong, and only to cause misery,” and she sobbed passionately.

“Now, darling,” said her mother, soothingly, “don’t agitate yourself and blame yourself needlessly. We all make mistakes, and it would be very strange if you never did. I think you made a mistake here, but it was nothing wrong, dear. I know you meant to do the best.”

“It was wrong, was it?”

“I think you were over-young to be made the confidant in this affair. You know, dear, you are a young lady, and it does not do for a young lady to be independent.”

“But oh! mamma, I do so hate to be considered a young lady. I like to be a sensible woman.”

“But is it not childish, darling, to hate to be thought what you really are?”

“If you had known, what would you have done?”

“Perhaps nothing, dear. It is easy to say afterwards what we might have done. I think, however, that I should have warned you about Mr. Vane. I have often thought that he seemed inclined to like you.”

“Oh! mamma, why did you not speak? I think I should have listened to you.”

“I saw no reason, dearest. You never did anything indiscreet, and, as you all seemed happy together, I thought it a pity to disturb you with fancies that might be idle ones. I knew no reason, darling, you know, why he should not like you, and marry you, too, if you and he please.”

“Impossible!” and Violet’s cheeks glowed with suppressed indignant jealous love.

But the change of thought did her good. It made her feel that the world was not at an end, as it had seemed for the last few hours. She remembered all she had gone through, and felt that if she had borne the pangs of disappointed love with the weight of remorse for her own conduct besides, Ida, guiltless, might bear them also. They were not cheerful thoughts that arose; they were, on the contrary, despondent thoughts, regarding herself and Ida, and the world and all the world contained; but they were calming though sad, and the excitement of her misery passed by.

CHAPTER VI.

“What you have done hath not offended me.”

HENRY IV.

When Sir William and Ida, at the close of the day, wished Lionel good-bye, he detained Ida to say,

“I want to speak to you, Ida, to-morrow. Will you be in the garden at Boscombe at twelve o’clock?”

She acquiesced and followed her father. His manner had not been loverlike when he made his request, but that was not Lionel’s way; and, as she walked and thought, she fancied that to-morrow was to be the eventful day.

Once or twice the suspicion flitted through her mind that he was going to renounce the purposed connection; but it was driven away, as injurious to him; and, when quite beyond the influence and recollection of his dejected manner, her thoughts all merged into the trembling expectation that the long-delayed announcement was to be made.

She waited for him a full hour before he came.

During the night, Lionel’s mood of mind had undergone a change. The day before he had felt humbled to the dust, and, had he spoken to Ida then, it would have been penitently and with humility; but solitude and meditation had had with him the result of suggesting soothing and excusing thoughts.

“What had he done after all? Was he not free? Had he spoken for months, for years even, of his engagement? If he was bound, why was Violet thrown in his way? How could he see her and not admire her? Was she not superior to Ida, mentally and bodily too? Was it not like a fascination to be in her presence? Why should it be expected that he must resist it?”

These were the first series of thoughts, and, as there was no one to answer them with other suggestions, they became predominant in his mind. He looked on himself as an ill-used being.

He then proceeded to consider the consequences of what had occurred. How mad he had been! He had lost his chance of Violet by his own rashness. Why had he not first broken with Ida, and then—who in all the world could have forbidden him to choose Violet for his own? Now.... he became very dejected as he considered what lay before him. To have to humble himself to Ida, till now so imperiously treated; and, worse, to have his father condemning him! As these unpleasant facts presented themselves, he almost resolved to bury the whole matter in oblivion; to go abroad for a year, leaving the engagement still pending, and then to return and see whether it would be possible to fulfil it. If not, then to state that he had done his utmost to love Ida, but had failed.

This suggestion cheered him. It even opened a distant vista, in which he saw Violet pitying him, and relenting; but while under this more cheerful gleam of light, he suddenly remembered her indignant face when he had asked her to forget. Could he imagine she would associate with Ida, and leave her deceived? He sighed; thought with admiration of the openness of Violet’s character, and felt that this was not to be hoped for.

After many alternate risings and fallings of spirits, many different and opposite plans for his line of conduct, he determined on a half measure. He would confess all that had happened to Ida; but ask her forbearance for a time, leaving the engagement pending until he had had further time to consider the case, and to examine his own feelings.

It was in this frame of mind that at last he sought her. She had wandered from the garden to the pleasure grounds, and was leaning against some railings, when she suddenly heard his step. She blushed slightly, but went forward to meet him.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Ida,” he said, “but I had a good deal to think of, and I was late this morning.”

“Never mind,” and she smiled. “I am glad you were late, for you seemed so tired last night.”

“What made you think I was tired?”

“You looked so, and seemed so, too. You were not like yourself.”

“It was not tire exactly,” he said, and as he said the words, the very words Violet had used, a presentiment, keen and vivid, shot through Ida’s brain. She turned pale.

“What is the matter?” he asked with discomfort; not exactly guessing what, but feeling that he disliked extremely the task before him.

She was no longer pale at the question, but she said, with calmness and courage:

“Never mind me, Lionel. You said you wanted to speak to me. I have been waiting a long while, will you say it now?”

“Well, Ida,” he began, in his turn, with a colour varying from white to red, “it is about this engagement of ours. You know we both are free.”

“Yes,” with her eyes on the ground, “quite free, if we please.”

“Well, Ida, I must own that I had never thought of using my freedom. I never dwelt on the subject; but there are things in man, it seems, that cannot be governed, and without knowing it I have....” he hesitated, at a loss for a proper expression. But Ida did not help him. She waited to hear more, and he was obliged to proceed. “The fact is,” he continued, “that I have for some time been fighting with a fancy for Miss Osborne. I hoped it would go off—sometimes I felt sure it would; but it has not; and yesterday....” he paused.

“I think it was a pity, Lionel, that you fought,” Ida said. “When once you felt the fancy, I think it would have been better to say so.”

“You cannot be a good judge about that,” he said quickly. “Of course I wished to do what was expected of me, and a mere fancy was not enough to break the engagement, but....”

“I think it was,” she repeated.

“It was not. You may trust me, Ida, that I know best. But yesterday, somehow or other, the fancy mastered and maddened me, and I told her of it,” and as he recalled the scene a look of intense misery came over his countenance.

“Was Violet angry, then?” Ida asked, pitifully, reading the countenance that spoke what the words did not add.

“Yes. If I had been a heathen man, I believe I could have shot myself in her presence.”

“I am very sorry for you, Lionel. I can guess it must be a dreadful thing to love Violet and to offend her.”

He turned away, and walked a few steps from her. He did feel it a dreadful thing. Ida’s gentle words and sympathy touched, and yet humbled him.

She waited for a few seconds, but when he paused in his hurried walk, and she saw that he stood hanging over the railings silent and dejected, she went to him again.

“Well, then, Lionel, this must be ended. We are free, then; the engagement is broken.”

“Yes, Ida; but ... but ... are you willing?”

“Oh! yes,” she said, with sad quietness.

“If you wish it, it shall be so, but....”

“But what, Lionel? How can it be otherwise? I cannot understand.”

“It had struck me that it might be left; I would go away and try and shake off this horrid, painful, idle dream of mine, and then come back; and then if I can’t get the better of it, we might see what should be done. What do you think, Ida?” and he looked into her grave, listening, quiet face with some anxiety and some surprise.

“I think it would be very wrong to leave it,” she replied, with decision, yet with her usual gentleness of manner and speech; “I am sure it cannot be possible to like two people; nothing in this world, nothing, Lionel, should have ever tempted me to be your wife unless you loved me wholly. I know you are true, and therefore if you had said you did, I should have trusted you, and been your wife without fear.”

Lionel felt humiliated. He felt miserable altogether, and the sense of misery irritated him. The decision of Ida’s speech too—she who was usually submissive to his least suggestion—irritated him further, and at last he spoke with irritation.

“Very well, then. It must be as you please. As you will not give me time, you must take it into your own hands and break it off. I leave it entirely to you.”

“Oh! Lionel, not to me.”

“Yes, of course I do. I am willing to try further. You say you are not.” He looked once more and with anxiety in her face.

“No.”

“Very well, then; it is you that reject me, and break it off. The case is plain. I shall go this afternoon. If you please, I will write to my father from London, or I will send you a letter to give him. Say what you like best.”

“I think you had better write to him; but I think I must tell him too, for he will be very sorry.”

“I know he will, very; you had better consider, Ida, a little more.”

“There is nothing that I can consider, Lionel, or I would; I would willingly, for Uncle Ashford’s sake: but if you say it is my fault, then it is; for I would not be your wife unless you loved me best, for all the world.”

“And what shall you say, then?” he asked with curiosity.

“I shall tell him exactly the truth.”

“What! about Miss Osborne?” And Lionel’s cheeks were crimson with shame.

“Yes; and, indeed, Lionel, he cannot blame you. I am sure I do not. How could you help loving her best, if you once felt you were free to choose? Who could help loving Violet!”

The more Ida spoke the more Lionel felt her superiority to himself, and the consciousness was very humbling—very painful. He could not meet it as he ought, and, therefore, he met it in an angry spirit. Her calmness, too, and decision, annoyed him. He had expected tears, he had expected that she would be ready to wait for the bare hope of his return, as long as he himself should please. He was not sufficiently master of himself to reflect on this, and own that Ida was right; and baffled and disappointed in every way, in himself and in her, he yielded to the annoyance he felt.

“It is no use talking and arguing, Ida. You know very well that my father and Sir William will blame me; but as you choose to bring the matter to an end, there is no help for it. Therefore, do as you please. You must announce the fact, and I will write to both in a few days. And I don’t see now that there is anything more to be said. Good-bye, Ida!”

His voice shook and his lips quivered as he came to good-bye.

“Good-bye, Lionel! I wish I could wish you happiness, but if Violet is angry I don’t see how that is to be.”

“Never mind happiness, that is a very small matter. Good-bye!”

He held out his hand, and she gave hers. While he held it he remembered Violet’s message, and said—

“Miss Osborne told me to say, Ida, that she could come to you whenever you pleased. You were to send for her.”

“Thank you. I will write.”

“And if you see her, tell her she must forgive me. Tell her that I cannot breathe unless I have her forgiveness.”

He almost crushed Ida’s hand as he spoke, so vehement was his tone.

“I will. Good-bye, dear Lionel.” And Ida softly withdrew her hand and departed.

For through that passionate tone and touch, a chord, an answering echo, was touched and awakened in her heart, which made her feel powerless to endure further. It was the vague longing for something she was not to have, it was the vague sense of something she had lost, which till that instant had been unfelt. She slipped away and took refuge in solitude.

CHAPTER VII.

“Her sweetest minde

’Twixt mildness tempered and low courtesie,

Could leave as soon to be as to be kinde.”

P. FLETCHER.

Late in the afternoon a note was brought to Violet. She had been very dejected all the day, a mood of mind which for the last two hours had changed, but only changed into a restless longing to hear something. She had been afraid to go out; afraid of seeing or meeting anyone; and yet so desirous to know what was going forward, that the confinement was a pain. Latterly the dread that Ida might think she had been to blame, had drawn Lionel on, had been creeping over her like a horrible nightmare. When she looked back, when she remembered Albert’s warning, how she had received it and how she had overlooked it, the idea, however horrible, seemed possible. Altogether she was in that state of mind and spirits when a bell, a step, a note, or whatsoever the interruption to mere surmise may be, causes a rapture that borders on insanity.

She seized the note with trembling fingers, and her last, worst fear was put to flight.

“MY DEAREST VIOLET,—Lionel has been with me, and I believe he has gone away from Ashford. As, however, I am not quite certain of this, I will not ask you to come till to-morrow morning. Will you come then, and for a long visit? I long for your kind advice and help. Ever yours affectionately,

“IDA HAMILTON.”

When Violet and Ida met, it was as people meet after an event, an estrangement, or an affliction. They were affectionate but shy, and sat down in silence. On Violet’s side there was agitation as well. She could not forget that it was she who had injured Ida; that, had she been less blind and wilful, this evil might have been foreseen and prevented; nor till Ida had spoken could she entirely divest herself of the dread that in her inmost heart Ida saw this fact, or vaguely felt it.

Perhaps Ida did so far perceive it as to make her suspect the cause of Violet’s very evident agitation; for her first words were to place her in the position of the aggrieved party.

“Lionel left a message for you, Violet,” she said, breaking the silence by the pronunciation of the name which was the cause of constraint; “he says you must try and forgive him; and indeed, Violet, you must.”

Violet was surprised—surprised as Lionel had been—at Ida’s calmness and self-control.

“Oh! Ida, how can I?” she cried with quivering lips.

“Because he is so very miserable. I shall have to write to him some day to tell him what Uncle Ashford says, and I should be so glad when I do write if I could say you spoke kindly of him.”

“But, Ida, I cannot,” Violet said with warmth. “It is no use to speak kindly and to feel as I do. You do not know, even you do not know, how he has deceived me. After having taught me to look up to him and trust him, and much more besides ... it is beyond forgiveness—for a long, long time, at least!”

“I wish you would not speak so hardly. He did not mean to deceive. He struggled long. I do not defend all, but you must not be harsh. You should pity him.”

“When I say I cannot forgive, Ida, I mean nothing of wishing ill, nothing, as far as I know that is uncharitable or unkind. So far from wishing him ill, I still wish him, dear Ida, to find at last that good he has so madly thrown away, and so little deserves.”

And she rose and kissed Ida as she spoke.

But Ida shrank and trembled, and did not respond. She was soft, but not weak. The thread was broken that had bound her hopes to Lionel’s love.

“Oh! Ida, are you very unhappy?” Violet cried agitatedly, for that dejected but tearless grief spoke more in one so young and gentle of real unhappiness, than tears would have done.

“No, Violet, not for myself. I never did, I do not now think that anything I have to bear myself is difficult to bear, but I am unhappy for Lionel, and still more unhappy for Uncle Ashford. Poor Uncle Ashford!” she continued, and a tear fell on her cheek, “I am afraid it will be a great blow to him. He is getting old, and has been so anxious; and I think now, if he had a happy home, he would be good if he could.”

Violet felt her blood boil with indignation against Lionel; but she had seen that rage against him was not the way to soothe Ida.

“You have not told him yet?” was her only remark.

“No. I will tell papa to-night, and go to him to-morrow morning. I waited for you, Violet; I wanted your advice as to what I should say. I would make the best of it for poor Lionel if I could.”

And seeing that this was her chief desire, that resentment had found no entrance to her breast, and that she could not better comfort her than by helping her in this point, Violet, with true friendliness, banished her own selfish feelings, and gave the best of her attention and the best of her judgment to assist Ida in placing his conduct in the least unfavourable light.

Sir William, after the first surprise, and the first feeling of discomfiture in a long-sustained plot, was over, bore the news with equanimity. He had no particular liking to Lionel, and no special interest in the marriage. His interest had been to perform his promise to his dying wife, and his conscience assuring him that this had been fully carried out, he resigned himself to the disappointment with a few just but severe expressions.

“Nobody asked him to struggle,” was his reply to his daughter’s gentle words of excuse. “His duty was to know his own mind, and make it known to us.”

It is possible that the mere fact of Lionel’s ill-success with Violet softened Sir William’s feelings towards him. He wrote him a sharp letter, and there with him the matter ended.

But it was otherwise with Lord Ashford. Ida’s task with him was a painful one. He had cherished the plan, from many complicated feelings, for many years, and every year, as it passed, had added charms to the picture. A love almost as strong as a father’s to Ida, was added to his other less tangible feelings, and no doubt of ultimate success had ever presented itself to his fancy. He had been irritated by delay, but he had never ceased to store up hope for the future.

He seemed stunned when she first made him understand the fact; and afterwards, in talking it over, he wept, and bitterly. She did all she could to soothe and comfort him, and excuse Lionel; but every effort and every part of her efforts was in vain. He spoke of Lionel with a violence of resentment that astonished as much as it grieved her, and he shocked her further by sarcastic allusions to the disinterestedness of Violet’s friendship for her.

“I knew she was one of your saints,” he said bitterly; “outward saint, inward hypocrite.”

Ida, gentle and soft and forbearing, so long as he spoke, if harshly, yet justly, of his own son, fired up at this insinuation, and for the first time in their lives a coldness ensued between them. Ida, indeed distressed and unhappy, after a moment’s warmth, soothed and kissed him, and excused herself by pointing out the injustice of his suspicions; but he was thoroughly out of sorts, and was not to be soothed, and Ida left him at last in a dejection of spirits which made life assume a dreary darkness of hue to her youthful eyes.

Lionel had indeed dealt hardly with her, in leaving her, blameless, to bear the brunt of the battle; in laying on her, to whom to give pain was worse than to feel it, the whole burden of the disclosure.

No great improvement followed. He allowed her to visit him, but he was a man who, with good impulses, had no self-restraint, and it was evident that the disappointment to his wishes was doing him serious harm.

“Poor Lionel,” Ida thought in her pitiful thoughts, “he meant to do so much good, and he has made himself and everybody miserable. It seems hard for such a little fault.”

Her anxiety regarding Lord Ashford helped, however, to divert Ida’s thoughts; and her father’s anxiety that there should be no talk in the country, spurred her on to take part in her usual occupations, and assisted her in throwing off her depression.

About a week after the event Violet, looking out of window one morning, saw her and Sir William pass on their way to the village. It was a very unaccustomed sight, for Sir William, though occasionally to be seen walking fast, riding, or driving, was too shy a man to wander, as Mr. Osborne did, with Violet. Nothing but the desire to please Violet had drawn him to the sequestered hamlet of Little Boscombe; and Holywell was, compared with that, a public place.

Ida nodded as they went by, but did not stop.

“Poor Ida!” Violet exclaimed to her mother, describing what she had seen. “Was there ever anybody so good and unselfish as she is? I do not see how an angel even could have borne such a thing better.”

Mrs. Osborne acquiesced, and with warmth.

“I cannot do as she does,” Violet continued. “I cannot go about as she does. I feel much more like poor Lord Ashford, cross with myself and all the world. If I stir out, I fancy people are looking at me and suspecting me. I am sure Mr. Pope suspects something, for he asked me if I knew why Mr. Vane was gone; and I know I looked guilty, and so I am afraid of meeting him, and afraid of meeting Sir William and Lord Ashford. If it is good for a person to feel so ashamed he hardly can lift up his head, then, mamma, some great good is being done to me.”

Violet continued to talk in this dejected strain. The sense of the disappointment and sorrow she had caused had fastened on her spirits. Her vivid fancy went over the past months, and her conscience, quickened by what had occurred here and there, recalled expressions and incidents which ought to have warned her of the impending danger. Dwelling morbidly on these things, she came to blame herself in a degree that was unjust; for it was one of those cases where afterwards it is easy to see dangers and moralise on them—dangers which eyes bent in a contrary direction at the moment of their occurrence cannot see.

She was still lingering in the drawing-room, working, but working spiritlessly, when her mother, who was leaving the room, said—

“There is Miss Hamilton at the gate. Have her in here, darling, to cheer you.”

Violet flew to the door and invited Ida to come in. She had called to see if Violet would go home with her, Sir William having already departed.

Violet consented, and Ida said—

“Was it not kind of papa to go with me to the school? It was his own proposal. He said, as there were so many of his tenants there, he thought he ought; but I know the reason really was, because he thought I was dull, and thought it would please me to see him interested.”

“And how did you get on?” Violet asked curiously. “Was Amy very shy?”

“Rather; but she heard a little class, and questioned them nicely. They did not know much, but papa, who does not think poor children know anything, was quite surprised, and complimented her.”

“What a pity,” Violet said, smiling; “now she will be set up. Still I am glad.”

“As we came home, papa seemed to be quite interested, and asked me a great many questions; among others he asked me what Miss White’s salary was, and he does not think it is enough. Do you think....” She had for a moment forgotten the late events, and stopped suddenly, with a blush, as she remembered them; after one instant, however, she went on steadily. “Do you think Lionel will object to a contribution from papa? You know the school was his poor mother’s plan, and he may not like help.”

Violet felt very awkward, and did not know what opinion to give. She was unwilling to lose such assistance for Amy, but felt the barrier between them all and Lionel.

“Might not Mr. Pope ask him?” she said, after some thought. “If it came from Mr. Pope, he need have no hesitation in saying exactly what he liked best.”

“Yes—you are right. That will be the way to manage it, and I will tell papa what you advise.”

“Think, not advise,” Violet said, with a blush as she left the room to get ready. No coquette, sighing over unmade conquests, ever felt a humiliation so great as was Violet’s in the thought of her successful ones. They seemed to meet and to thwart her on every side.

CHAPTER VIII.

“Twist ye, twine ye, even so,

Mingle shades of joy and woe,

Hope and fear, and peace and strife,

In the thread of human life.”

WALTER SCOTT.

A week or two of dejection and depression, and then, in the varying turns and events of life, a circumstance occurred to change the current of Violet’s ideas, and send her thoughts forward with hope and fear—fear enough to agitate, but hope enough to arouse and excite—into the future.

This circumstance was the announcement of Albert’s marriage to Margaret Leicester. He wrote himself to announce it; a few words to his aunt; a long letter enclosed to Violet; a letter so joyous, that, as old women say, it did the heart good to read it. He said that, though she had only been a month in England, the month was quite enough. He had never forgotten her, and he soon began to hope she had not forgotten him. He had not intended to propose so soon, but it happened that one evening they all went to a concert together, and he and Margaret were separated from Leicester and Rachel, and after a certain song that was sung, he felt suddenly impelled to try his chance, and it had all been settled in no time.

These and other particulars, with expressions of satisfaction in his great luck, and expectations of true happiness, filled up his letter; and Violet read and re-read, not for poor Albert’s sake, but for the constant recurrence of the name on which her affections were so immoveably fixed. All the disagreeable reflections of the last weeks melted into air. Her eyes shone, her step was light, and she was herself again.

The day following a more agitating letter arrived. One from Leicester himself. Violet saw the writing, and could scarcely sit at the table while her mother read. Without raising her eyes, her mother guessed the feelings of her daughter, and as soon as it was finished put it into her hand, saying,

“A few kind lines from Mr. Leicester. When you have read it, dear, give it to your father.”

Violet read:

“DEAR MRS. OSBORNE,

“I cannot allow you to hear of the event that is about to take place in our families, without assuring you of my hearty approval. I know Ellis well, and that knowledge disposes me to trust my sister’s happiness in his hands with perfect confidence. With equal confidence I think you may receive my sister as your nephew’s wife. I know his welfare is almost as dear to you as hers is to me, and I believe we may both be thankful for the destiny that allots them to each other. In a worldly point of view there certainly are some objections; yet I cannot consider the marriage unwise. They will have enough for the present moment, and the steadiness with which Ellis has fought for the last five years with his natural indolence, gives a promise for the future. I trust you will look on the engagement in the same light that I do. Pray remember me most kindly to Mr. Osborne and your daughter, and believe me,

“Most faithfully yours,

“JOHN LEICESTER.”

Violet almost choked as she read. The letter was so cold, so grave; not one word of the pleasure the alliance with her family gave him; not one expression that answered to the rapturous sensation with which she had heard of the connection that was to unite them.

Yet if Violet could have known with what feelings, with views how different to hers Leicester contemplated this alliance, she would not have complained that the letter was cold. In his eyes the connection was nothing but a source of pain. He had said he could not meet Violet as a friend, and though of late that word had been used in his heart, though he had said that as a friend and not as a lover he would go to learn his fate; yet since he had seen her, and even before he had seen her, the word had been recalled. He had suffered too much to wish to enter again into the strife; to him the connection that must so inevitably bring them together had no charms.

The perusal of Leicester’s letter changed Violet’s first feelings of unclouded joy into the agitations of hope and fear; but not the less her life was reanimated, and with something of her old spirit she applied herself to the helping and cheering of Ida, and her other labours of love.

Two or three days afterwards, a letter came from Margaret Leicester. This letter was also cold, for Margaret had not forgiven, could not forgive; but Violet was Albert’s cousin, almost his sister, and her resentment, though it influenced her style, did not influence her conduct. She wrote to intreat Violet to be her bridesmaid. There was to be no fuss, for they all hated a fuss; but Rachel would be one bridesmaid, and she wished Violet to be the other. The marriage was to take place at the end of August, and Mr. and Mrs. Osborne were also and warmly pressed to come up to attend it.

Violet’s reply, uninfluenced by the style of Margaret’s letter—which, indeed, because comparatively indifferent she scarcely perceived—was grateful and cordial. Perhaps as she wrote she felt that Leicester would read her words; perhaps she resolved that, should any feeling be still slumbering in his breast, no look or word of hers should henceforth repel him; but her thoughts and cares, if there were such, were in vain.

Of the letter, its words or its style, nothing was said; only when the matter was settled, Rachel seized an opportunity to observe,

“Margaret thought it right to ask Miss Osborne to be her bridesmaid, and she has consented.”

Leicester was reading. He put down his book and said quietly—

“I am glad she has done so. It struck me only this morning that it ought to be done.”

“You do not mind, John?” Rachel said timidly.

Leicester coloured; but he saw his sister’s anxious face.

“It is not perhaps what I like best,” he said with grave truth; “but I should never wish a recollection of what is passed to interfere with our present relations. Remember that. I shall do what I can to show that it is forgotten, and so I hope will you.”

“And must it be forgotten?” trembled on Rachel’s lips; but the inquiry was not spoken.

There was a look in his face that warned her off, which said, “Hitherto you may come, but no further. Leave me and my sorrows in peace.” And she obeyed him.

CHAPTER IX.

“Who loves must fear, and sure who loves like me

Must greatly fear.”

MASON’S Elfrida.

The six weeks interval passed rapidly. The wedding-day arrived. Mrs. Osborne remained at home. She was well, but never strong; and the long absence from excitement and fatigue which her country life had procured her, had made her in fancy, if not in reality, unequal to anything of the kind. Mr. Osborne and Violet went to the house of a friend near London, but, since Mrs. Osborne could not accompany them, only for two days. Albert came to them on the evening of their arrival, told them all the arrangements, and gave his precise instructions. He was rather proud of his arrangements. Margaret, he was sorry to say, was growing nervous, and he had tried so to plan the whole affair that there should be no waitings about, nor any extra thing to tire or excite her.

Violet was to be at the door of St. George’s Church at twenty minutes before twelve, and he would be there to receive her.

Mr. Osborne and Violet did as they were told. At a quarter before twelve Albert came to their carriage, and saying Margaret would arrive in a moment, begged Violet to come to the church door, and after the arrival to follow her and Rachel as they walked straight to the altar.

She obeyed like one in a dream, and there stood awaiting the moment which after six years should bring her and Leicester face to face once more.

She had not long to wait. The Leicesters’ carriage arrived, and Leicester got out. He first assisted Rachel from the carriage and up the steps of the portico, and she came on straight to Violet and shook hands with her with great warmth and cordiality. They then stood together while Leicester and Margaret passed. Margaret had, as Albert said, been growing nervous. This day it was more than nervousness. She could not leave the house of the brother whom she so passionately loved with calmness, and there had been a terrible scene before they left it. Leicester now passed rapidly with her to the altar; yet as he passed he turned his head and gave a glance and a sweet smile of recognition to Violet. She followed again, with Rachel, in a trance, hardly realizing what was going forward; outwardly calm, and still, and lovely, and bright; inwardly, the mind a blank, from the intensity of feeling with which she watched and waited for the events of the day.

When the service was over, and Albert conducted Margaret to the vestry, Leicester turned before he followed her, and shook hands kindly with both Violet and her father. He did not speak, but again with a slight smile of invitation invited them to follow as he passed on.

They did follow, and almost instantly Albert came to Violet.

“We are getting through it as fast as we can, for she’s in a terribly nervous state, poor thing; but come and sign your name, Violet, I should like to have you. Come.”

He touched her arm, and she obeyed. Leicester was writing. He looked up as she approached, and with the same kind half smiling look put his pen into her hand. The look was so peculiar, so devoid of anything except kindness and friendliness, that even while it troubled it stilled her.

She wrote, and meanwhile Albert, justly proud of his arrangements, had got the carriage ready, and he and Margaret went off. Rachel and Leicester followed. They paused to beg Violet and Mr. Osborne to come to luncheon in Clarges Street.

This was no surprise, for Albert had told them it was to be, and thither they proceeded.

The Leicesters had many friends, and though so late in August and the marriage so private a one, between twenty and thirty people were in the drawing-room when they arrived.

Rachel soon came down. She invited Violet to sit on the couch with her, and told her all particulars, as to one who had a special interest and special right to know. She said Margaret was too much agitated to appear. That Leicester was with her now, but that when luncheon was ready he would come down, and she would return to her. They were to start at two, and she almost wished it had been settled for an earlier hour. They were going to a place that had been lent them, about thirty or forty miles from London.

It was not long before Leicester appeared. He pointed out to Mr. Osborne the lady he wished him to take, and then offered his arm to Violet. She rose and they went down together.

“I am sorry Rachel cannot come,” he began at once, as if determined there should be no silences; “but poor Margaret is rather a spoiled child, and when she is over-excited we are obliged to give way to her. She promised me yesterday that she would go through it bravely, but the promise is forgotten, and she cannot help it.”

Violet felt timid, and unlike herself. She hardly knew what she answered, and no more was said till she found herself seated with Leicester at the top of a long table. Mr. Osborne and the lady, an aunt of the Leicesters, were opposite. An old gentleman, whom Violet in former days had very slightly known, but who had always loudly expressed to others his admiration of her and her beauty, came and sat at the side of the table next to her.

Leicester attended carefully to her wants, and whether it were the nearness of intercourse, or whether it were that Violet’s timidity—a mood and manner once seen, but not the mood and manner which lived in his remembrance of her—made him more bold, he said, in a voice far less constrained, far less stilling to agitating thoughts,

“I hope your opinion of this marriage is like mine. I should be glad to think that you look on it as I do.”

“If you mean my approbation,” Violet said heartily, “it is much more than that. It is so much the best thing that could have happened to poor Albert, that I only wonder how such good fortune was brought about.”

“You must not depreciate Ellis,” Leicester said in reply. “I think you were always disposed to do so. He may not have brilliant qualities, but if we consider only the steadiness and industry in his profession, and the constancy to one object which he has shown for six years, I think he is entitled to our respect and admiration.”

The words “which you were always disposed to do,” pleased Violet. As the drowning catch at twigs, so she caught at this slight recurrence to old opinions as a favourable symptom of his present state of mind. She felt she had lived in his thoughts; that the old conversations they had held had been silently repeated in his mind, as they had been in hers.

Another word had also fallen like music on her ear, the word “constancy.” Surely he would not have chosen Albert’s six years’ constancy as a topic for praise unless he himself were an example of the like virtue, unless he were entitled to the same commendation. Whether or not these inferences were justly drawn they elated her, and it seemed as if something of old relations was about to be resumed, the old relations of friendship, not of love, the first happy beginning, not the clouded close, when a servant came to speak to Leicester. It was a message from Rachel, and he rose to answer it. The old gentleman who sat on her other side, and who was longing to engage her attention to himself, immediately on seeing her free, began to speak; and when Leicester resumed his seat, the lady on his other side addressed him. Violet was annoyed, but she suddenly felt so joyous and happy, that she could not be much annoyed at anything, and, seeing that for the moment her selfish thoughts must be subdued, she, with her usual good-humour and sweetness of manner, gave her attention where it was required.

The old gentleman began to talk of Devonshire and its beauties, and Violet spoke with the warmth that was natural to her when she agreed strongly. After some little conversation on its external beauties, a few questions, as to how much of it she had seen, what parts were most to be admired, and what parts she most admired—on which latter part of the subject a slight altercation took place—he suddenly said,

“And how has young Vane turned out?”

If a shot had suddenly been discharged between Leicester and Violet, they could scarcely have been more startled than at this question; for it so happened that Lionel had passed at that moment from the thoughts of both as completely as if he had never existed. Leicester simply started, glanced one side glance at Violet, and then bidding adieu to a momentary hope that had been stealing over him, resumed his late constrained composure, and gave his attention, his apparent attention at least, to the lady at his left side.

Violet, taken by surprise, cast down her eyes, blushed deeply, and while she answered with outward quietness, “I believe he has turned out very well,” nervously picked to pieces a chicken bone on which she was engaged.

The old gentleman, unsuspicious and short-sighted, saw nothing; but to one observant, interested, and keen as Leicester was, her countenance was what would have been called “a tell-tale face.”

“I am glad to hear you say that,” continued her friend, “for Lord Ashford is an old acquaintance of mine. We were at college together, and though I have seen but little of him since those days, he is one of those persons one cannot forget. I suppose I must own that in some things he is not much entitled to approbation, but somehow or other I always find myself banishing harsh thoughts, and yielding to the charm he exercises.”

“I believe your feeling is the common one,” Violet replied. “I cannot say I felt the charm myself.”

“Perhaps not. I daresay you are right. But I am glad you approve of young Vane. I had heard a less favourable account. I had heard he was a selfish youth, and a negligent, or I might say an undutiful son, and my heart, knowing poor Ashford’s affectionate nature, bled for his father.”

“I think that was a very unfair report,” Violet began with her usual eagerness; then suddenly remembering that her opinion of Lionel had been in a degree at least qualified, paused to consider what it was that she did think, and went on sedately, “I mean that unless we know a person’s difficulties, we ought not to sit in judgment on their conduct. Mr. Vane had difficulties, and though he may not always have acted rightly, he had excuses which the world in general cannot know.”

“You are a kind and merciful advocate,” the old gentleman said smiling, and put up his glass to see better her expressive face.

“I only try to be just,” she said.

And having, as she thought, thoroughly done her duty, she took advantage of the pause to turn her head, and the old gentleman betook himself to his other neighbour.

But she did not find the Leicester from whom she had turned a few minutes before. He was another man; as regarded her, at least, another man. Had the countenance not been sufficient, her words would have assured him of what he suspected. The eager beginning, the sudden recollection, the quiet yet decisive defence, all told of an interest not perhaps as yet a surely-defined and settled interest, but an interest which would lead to bright hopes and a happy lot in the future.

“And what am I?” he said in his heart, “that I should, even were it possible, interpose my shadow before those brighter prospects.”

A thought unworthy of Leicester, yet too common to that proud yet humble atmosphere in which he lived and moved.

When she turned her face towards him, still lighted with the sudden happiness that had risen in her heart, eager to return to those old relations that had been about, as she hoped, to be resumed, he, misinterpreting the meaning of that speaking face, yet not the less resolved to go through with his duty as host, roused himself to converse with her. But the unbending and freedom of his first few words was gone. He spoke with kind interest of Mrs. Osborne, with more than interest, with warmth and affection, of his regret at not seeing her, and his hope of seeing her at some future time; but there was a something that suddenly froze Violet’s budding hopes—froze them as suddenly as they had lately expanded. She could not argue, she could only feel she had been mistaken.

The precious time passed on, and no step was gained. A shadow stole over Violet’s face, and the conversation flagged. The moment Leicester saw the carriage drive to the door, he looked round, and, seeing with relief that all were ready to move, rose from the table. When he had risen, he said to Violet with a smile,

“As I daresay you will like to see the departure, I will leave the door open. If you follow me to the door and stand near it you will see us pass.”

She thanked him, and he went before her, making way through the crowd of chairs and people about the table. He stationed her in a proper place, and then hurried away.

She leaned against a chair, sad at heart. She scarcely knew why she was so sad, but it was the sickness of dying hope that was stealing over her.

Albert came in a moment to wish her good-bye.

“We are going off as quickly as we came,” he said. “It will never do to go on as she is doing. She has had six weeks to think about it, and yet, I believe, she never thought what it would be to leave Leicester before. Now she would give the whole thing up if she could.”

“That is not an agreeable prospect for you,” Violet said, smiling at the placid way in which this statement was made.

“Oh! you don’t suppose I mind. Those violent things are never lasting. We shall do very well in a day or two. There they come, and I must go. Tell my uncle I did not want to make fuss by creeping through the crowd to him. Good-bye.”

Violet glanced out, and saw at the foot of the stairs Margaret clinging to Leicester, as if nothing could ever part her from him. Albert approached, gently unloosened her clasp, and hurried her to the carriage; and Leicester and Rachel disappeared.

Tears came into Violet’s eyes, partly at the sight she had witnessed, still more as she said, “What did I not throw away?—what have I not thrown away for ever?” She dashed them away, and moved to a window, and there stood looking out—looking out on vacancy, for nothing but a few empty carriages was to be seen—till Leicester’s voice made her start.

“Margaret was very sorry not to see you,” he said, “but she could not, poor thing! It has been a sad business; but she was the youngest, almost my daughter, and we must excuse her. She begged me to give you this with her love, and with some messages, which you will fancy better than I can repeat them.”

He smiled, but his voice was tremulous, and Violet’s heart was more tremulous still. When he added, “Shall I put it on?” and she held out her hand, it shook so much that she was terrified at herself.

The present was a belt of plain gold, fastening with a clasp tight to the arm. Leicester’s hand slightly trembled also, and it was a moment before he caught the fastening. In that moment Violet’s terror at her emotion had reached a point which gave her strength to conquer it, and when he raised his head she said, gaily:

“It is the prettiest bridesmaid’s present I ever saw. I will write in a day or two to Margaret to thank her and express my feelings. What is the name of their post town?”

Thankful at being so easily released, though perhaps startled, or rather jarred upon, by the gay tone of her voice, Leicester moved to a table and wrote the direction, and, as he returned, the carriage drove to the door, and Mr. Osborne, who was anxious to be gone, came to Violet’s side to summon her. She hurried upstairs to find Rachel, and when she came down Leicester was standing in the hall, and held out his arm to take her to the carriage.

When he put her in, he said:

“I am afraid this is good-bye; Rachel and I are going out of town for a day or two. I was afraid of the excitement for Rachel’s health.”

Violet shook hands, said good-bye, and drew back. This was the last blow. This was, then, the end of the day so fondly pictured. This was the end of her six years of constancy.

Mr. Osborne glanced in his daughter’s face, saw how pale it was, and imagined the cause. He took out a letter, and, as they drove towards Kensington, left her in peace.

This was her only time of peace, such as it was; for the kind friend who received them had prepared shoppings, and such other pleasures as the end of August could afford, for Violet’s entertainment on this day and the next; and on the following they returned home.

During the long journey of that day she sat in profound thought, looking on her future life, and asking herself how it was to be borne. As the twilight came on a few tears fell down her cheeks, and she had scarcely the pride or the strength to shake them away. And all the while, as her father sat by her side, apparently reading a novel, or dozing, he was anxiously watching her, and questioning what could be done to restore his darling to herself.

They arrived late, dined quickly, and after dinner Violet went to help the maid in the unpacking. When she re-entered the drawing-room, her mother called her, and said, smilingly:

“Come here, dearest, your father is talking treason. What do you think he says?”

“What, mamma?” and Violet tried to seem interested.

“Why, he says this taste of London has done him harm, and that he begins to think of a small house near London for our old age. But that is treason, is it not, darling?”

A shoot of joy and hope, so sudden that it was like a pain, took Violet’s breath away for a moment.

“Oh! mamma, papa does not really wish it?” she said, endeavouring to speak quietly.

“I think he does, dear. You should have heard all he has been saying; but we cannot think of it without your consent.”

“My consent!”

Violet paused, and then in the agitation of her heart her thoughts took a sudden turn; it came to her mind, and she felt with shame that it was always the same—her parents caring for her, not she for them.

“Oh! mamma, I cannot bear that word,” she said in a broken voice. “You must not talk of my consent. Wherever you are happiest, I will be happy too.”

“I know, darling,” her mother said, stroking her hand. “I only said consent, because you know we could not be happy unless you were well pleased. What do you say, dear? Could you leave Holywell?”

“Holywell is not what it was, mamma,” she said with a sigh.

“Well, darling,” said her father, “we must do nothing in a hurry; but think it well over. You know with your help we may be able to have a nice little house near London, now, and see our old friends again.”

The oppressive weight was lifted from Violet’s heart. A gleam of light had dawned in the future. But she was not so blind as not to perceive that her parents were, as usual, studying her good, and perhaps sacrificing to it their own pleasure. The time was past when such sacrifices could be permitted. Violet was much changed. She was gradually learning distrust of herself and genuine humility, and in the light which humility pours into the mind, was becoming acquainted with her heart, with the true cause of her faults and follies, and with the imperfections attending her best desires. And with Violet to know, was not simply to know. She was changed; and she meant to change. She took a lesson from Ida’s unselfish life, that Ida whom she had instructed, and resolved to be herself unselfish and submissive as Ida was.

In this frame of mind she determined that no restless desires to escape from Holywell—in plain words, to escape into the air where Leicester breathed—should lead her to yield to the purposed departure unless she had grounds to think it would be for her parents’ happiness as well as her own. This resolve was made before she closed her eyes that night, and the resolve itself brought peace to her troubled and disappointed heart.

CHAPTER X.

“She said

Brokenly that she knew it; she had failed

In sweet humility, had failed in all.”

The Princess.

It was not long before Violet was convinced that in forwarding a removal from Holywell she would not be opposing her father’s private wishes. Mr. Osborne was not old, but he was beginning to lose his activity, and some touches of rheumatism made the state of the weather a matter of importance to him. Under these circumstances his mind reverted to old friends, and he was far from reluctant to think of a return to that life of London in which he had passed the chief part of his days, and for which, from custom and habit as well as natural taste, he felt himself to be most fit. With Mrs. Osborne it was otherwise, but Violet knew her mother well enough to be aware that to her the yielding of her wishes was a greater happiness than their gratification would be. And this not as a form of speech, but in very truth.

Before, however, she had allowed herself to dwell on the thought of a change, a circumstance occurred that again altered her decision.

One morning, on going to the school to assist Amy White in hearing her classes, she found the school dismissed and Amy alone.

“Am I late?” she said, looking at her watch, “or is it a holiday?”

Amy blushed when she replied that it was not by rights a holiday, but she was busy, and she had sent the children home.

“You are not ill, are you, Amy?”

“No, Miss Osborne, but I have something to tell you. I was going to you to tell you this morning. Do you know that I am going to give up the school?”

“Oh! Amy, I am so glad!” Violet said heartily; “I hope you have got something that suits you better. When was this settled?”

“Only yesterday. I was going this very moment to tell you. No one knows it as yet.”

“And where are you going?”

Amy blushed again.

“At present only to B——,” naming the little town. “I am going there this afternoon to look for lodgings.”

“So soon? Oh! Amy,” Violet added smilingly, “I think I see how it is. I think I guess what has caused the change. You are going to be married?”

Amy blushed more violently, but made a sort of acquiescence.

“I am so glad,” Violet continued in a hearty eager way, fearing lest Amy, remembering an old conversation, dreaded a new interference, “and I wish you so much happiness. May I ask who the person is?”

But Amy looked down, and was silent.

“Dear Amy, you cannot think how often I have been afraid that I once made you unhappy by my advice. Do not fear me now. I am sure you are a better judge of what will make you happy than I can be.”

“Oh! no, Miss Osborne, I am so thankful to you for your advice—for that advice especially. Do not repent of it.”

“I don’t, unless you do. Well, will you not tell me?”

No answer.

“I won’t ask you any more,” Violet said, feeling a little hurt, but conquering the feeling. “You will tell me, I am sure, when it is all settled. Meanwhile I am very glad, dear Amy, that happier prospects are opening for you. May I go in and see your mother?”

“Oh! yes, Miss Osborne; and pray do not think me ungrateful!” and tears came into Amy’s eyes.

Violet was surprised at her manner, but after some more kind speeches went into the neat little kitchen, where Mrs. White was as usual seated by the fire. With her accustomed kindness she begged her not to get up, and sat down beside her.

“This is great news that Amy has been telling me, Mrs. White.”

“What has Amy told?” Mrs. White asked, and a shade of pink tinged her faded cheeks.

“She has not told me much, but quite enough for me to call it great news. That you are going to leave this place, and that there is—she does not deny it—a marriage in prospect. I wish you joy of both things, Mrs. White, for I know you will not much regret the parting from Holywell.”

“I have no quarrel with Holywell, Miss Osborne,” Mrs. White said peevishly. “Few people who had been used to better things would have thought it a boon to live in a kitchen.”

“Perhaps not. I hope you will never have to do it again.”

“I think not,” and she smiled grimly.

“Amy is very close. She will not tell me anything about these prospects, or this intended husband. Why is it to be a secret from me?”

“Perhaps she thinks you will be jealous.”

Violet coloured at the insolent freedom, and with difficulty restrained a sharp answer. But she had long resolved that Mrs. White should not provoke her, and she only carelessly replied,

“That is not likely. Well, I will not detain you if you are busy; but you must remember,” she added, with all her usual sweetness of manner, “that I am an old friend, and if there is anything I can do to help you in your removing, I shall be only too happy to do it.”

“Thank you, Miss Osborne. I believe you have tried to do what you could for us; but it has been a weary time, and I am in hopes we have found more able friends at last.”

Violet’s heart swelled at the thanklessness of one for whom she had indeed tried to do all she could; but she said no more, and left the room.

Amy was standing outside, and tears were still in her eyes.

“You must not mind my mother,” she said earnestly; “she has been awake all night with rheumatism in her bones, and it makes her speak what she does not mean.”

“Thank you, Amy,” Violet said, smiling, and holding out her hand. “Who ever has done it, I am sure I am thankful to him for taking you and your mother out of a situation for which you are not fit. I hope all bad days are passed, and all good ones are to come.”

As she crossed the garden on her departure, Sir William Hamilton approached from the road, and they both reached the gate together. He had been walking in his stiff way, with his eyes seeing only the ground, but he then looked up, and looked even more shy than usual.

“There is no school,” Violet said. “Miss White has dismissed the children.”

“Oh! indeed,” he replied with embarrassment.

“Is Ida coming? Is she in the village?”

“No. Ida is at home to-day. I am.... I am on business here.”

“Then I won’t detain you. Good-bye,” and Violet hurried on.

For a few steps she hurried, and then walked slowly, and began to think of the disappointments of her life. Amy, Lionel, Ida ... she thought of all the bright visions of a few years back, of the happiness it seemed to be her work to bring on all around, and she sighed as she walked. Holywell had certainly lost and was losing its charms. There was little to be done but the old routine, which Ida was as well able to attend to as she was; and, with the restlessness common to disappointed yet not hopeless affections, she pictured another sphere and new scenes, where a field of labour might open sufficient to give ease to her uneasy heart.

More languidly than usual, and wrapt in a brown study, she walked, till she heard her name called from behind her, and saw Mr. Pope. She had not walked fast, but he was portly; and, in his efforts to overtake her, was breathless.

She waited till he reached her, and then said, “What a fine day, Mr. Pope!” a greeting that was always music to his ears, for the fine days of Holywell were his own creation—in imagination at least.

“Glorious harvest weather,” he said, stroking his chest; “we have much in this locality to be thankful for. Well, Miss Osborne, we come from our duties—you from your instructions, and I from my study.”

“My duty has been small to-day. Miss White had dismissed the children.”

“I was aware of the fact. I saw the children from my study window, and questioned them as to what they did at that unseasonable hour. Nothing, you perceive, escapes my eye. In fact, Miss Osborne, it was of this, of some singular suspicions that have crossed my mind, that I came to speak to you. I speak in confidence.” He looked around and about, and then drawing nearer and lowering his voice, asked: “Has it ever struck you that Sir William Hamilton is ... I scarcely know how to word the question ... suppose we say more attentive than is becoming to Miss White?”

Violet started.

“No,” she said, “I never observed anything.”

“You are aware that he is at this moment at the school.”

“Yes, he said he was on business.”

“Ahem! ahem! It is hardly befitting my position, Miss Osborne, to dwell upon suspicious appearances to a young lady of your age, but Miss White is more or less under your protection, and I confess that, feeling perplexed how to act, I was anxious to know what steps you would think it right for me to take.”

“Do you know that Miss White is going to leave the school?” Violet asked.

“To leave the school! Astonishing!”

“She told me the fact this morning. I should not repeat it, but that it may help you in coming to a decision. Perhaps it will be better to wait for a day or two, and see how things turn out. She will be sure to go to you this evening, if her plans are sufficiently formed.”

“To leave the school!—astonishing! I feel myself utterly perplexed. Pray, Miss Osborne, how do you account for this singular and sudden resolution?”

“I fancy she is going to be married; but as she did not in plain words tell me so, I would rather not have my guess mentioned.”

“Married! It is impossible, yet it is certainly singular. I trust, Miss Osborne, we shall have no scandals in this locality.”

“I am sure I trust not. If you do not hear from Miss White to-day, do you like me to speak to her to-morrow? I am not afraid of her doing anything wrong; but I do not think she is very wise, and if there is anything in her ways that you disapprove, I think it would be kind to point it out. It might be less painful from me than from you.”

“It may perhaps be well. To tell you the truth, Miss Osborne, though my eyes are wide open, and few things escape them, yet this did escape me. Suspicions regarding any of my flock, who are, thank God, superior in conduct to the generality of men, is not a feature of my mind. But yesterday a person in whom I have some confidence breathed a word in my ear which made me at once awake and alive, and the events of this morning—the dismissal of the children and the visit of Sir William—were, as you may believe, confirmation strong as proofs of Holy Writ.”

“Still appearances are deceitful things. Sir William has shown, as I know from Miss Hamilton, much interest in Miss White’s circumstances. Perhaps he is only helping her to some better situation. Will it not be better to wait for a day or two before you do anything?”

Mr. Pope consented to a delay, and Violet returned home. But though to him she had suggested other possibilities, in her own mind the case was clear. Sir William intended to marry Amy White. Amy White was to be Ida’s stepmother. When she recalled Amy’s intense blushes and Mrs. White’s words, she felt there was no room for doubt.

“And is this, too, my fault, mamma?” she said, as she poured out of a full heart all her fears and suspicions. “If this should prove to be the case, will it be laid at my door? Is it because I have foolishly petted her, and advised her wrongly?”

“No, dearest. You have nothing to do with it. How could you have? You must not be morbid, darling, in your self-condemnation. Certainly we do not always know what will be the end of the words we speak, or the advice we give; but God is too merciful to lay such results to our charge. Why, dear, a man would never dare to speak at all if he had to consider in such a degree the consequences of his words. Let us try to speak good words, the very best we can, and then leave results to God.”

Mrs. Osborne’s advice to Violet was needful; for she who once in her cheerful confidence had almost felt she could do no wrong, now saddened and depressed, was haunted with the nightmare of her past errors, negligences, ignorances, short-sightedness, and human infirmities of all kinds. It was probably a needful, but it was a severe discipline.

When once a suspicion has been breathed, even when there are no evil tongues to set it afloat—and of course there could be no evil tongues in a Paradise like Holywell—it somehow is shortly set afloat. Before another day had passed the attentions, more than befitting, of Sir William Hamilton to Miss White were openly talked of, and Mr. Pope thought there was no time to be lost, if he was to prevent the occurrence of scandals in his parish. He decided on going straight to Sir William; a decision remarkably unpleasant, and unquestionably an offering on the altar of his duty.

Sir William looked extremely put out. After a short consideration, however, he replied—

“It was my wish to have postponed a declaration of my intentions until I had removed Miss White from her present position; but since my neighbours insist on receiving immediate information regarding my private affairs, I confess it certainly is my intention to make her my wife. And what, Mr. Pope,” he asked more boldly than usual, “have you got to say against it?”

“Only, this, Sir William,” replied Mr. Pope as boldly, “that I think such marriages unwise. Miss White is undoubtedly a lady by birth, and possibly her education may have been sufficiently cultivated to make her a fit associate for your daughter, but I think her position here ought to have secured her against such notice and such attentions on your part. Excuse me for speaking my mind.”

Sir William coloured and looked distressed for a moment; but resuming his stiffness, replied:

“I have said it was my wish to alter her position before I made my intention known; since, however, my intentions have been thwarted, I empower you to announce the marriage to-morrow morning. You must give me a few hours to break the news to my daughter.”

Having so said, he bowed and withdrew; wrote a few lines to Ida, ordered a trunk to be packed, and a servant to be in readiness, and took his departure from Boscombe before Ida’s return from her drive.

A day afterwards Mrs. White and Amy removed to B——, and thence to Linton, where it was heard that Sir William followed them, to prosecute his courtship at leisure.

On the evening of that day Violet received a note from Ida:—

“MY DEAREST VIOLET,

“Do you know this wonderful news? Papa has gone, but he has left me a note, a very kind note, to tell me of it. Is it for his happiness? If it is, I will try and be glad. Will you come and see me to-morrow? I long for you to tell me what to think.

“Ever yours affectionately,

“IDA HAMILTON.”

“We must not leave Holywell, papa,” Violet said, as she put the note into his hands. “Poor Ida, she will want help and comfort.”

“You are right, darling. For this year at least we must make up our minds to be still and stationary.”

There was a momentary choking sensation in Violet’s throat. The vague hope of change had for these past weeks grappled with the depression of disappointment. But she was a true friend; and had the hope that lured her thoughts away been a definite, instead of an illusive one, she would still have put it aside for Ida’s sake.

CHAPTER XI.

“Oh! purblind race of miserable men,

How many among us at this very hour

Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves.”

TENNYSON.—Idylls.

Sir William Hamilton’s conduct was very easy of explanation. His love for Violet had turned his thoughts towards marriage. His ill-success had not, as is sometimes the case, robbed the prospect of its charms. But he was too shy to submit again to a repulse, and lived too secluded a life to have much freedom of choice. Almost as soon, therefore, as his attention was caught by Amy’s looks, he settled his plans, and prosecuted them accordingly.

The consequences of this engagement were also such as might have been expected. He became so desperately in love with his pretty and submissive young betrothed, that her will was his will; and as hers was her mother’s will, Mrs. White reigned in all her glory. She gave herself the airs of a princess, and far from seeming elated at her daughter’s marriage, appeared to consider the alliance as a matter of course. It was the very way to deal with Sir William; he wished it to be considered a matter of course, and he treated Mrs. White with all the deference she exacted.

In one respect she used her influence wrongly. The fortune of Ida’s mother had been left in Sir William’s power, with the exception of that now cancelled document, which, in the event of Ida’s marriage to Lionel, settled all on them. Mrs. White insisted that half of it, since Amy had no fortune, should be settled on the younger children of the new family. Mr. Pope, who heard everything, heard of this fact, and mentioned it to Mr. Osborne. Since Ida’s portion would still be large for a young lady, the fact was more important, as showing whose influence would be paramount, than in any other light. It was so at least regarded by Violet.

Shortly afterwards there was an announcement that Mrs. White was to take up her abode at Boscombe; and at this discovery Violet, who had hitherto made the best of the matter to Ida, dwelling on Amy’s gentleness, and beauty, and other merits, found herself silenced. She had no consolation to offer. She offered therefore what she felt—sympathy and commiseration of the most intense kind. She felt that to her Mrs. White’s presence would poison every source of happiness in life.

“I don’t think it will be to me what it would be to you, Violet,” Ida said in reply. “I don’t think I mind things as you do. For one thing, I don’t expect to be very happy. I have made up my mind to it; and when one does not expect, a little more or less to bear is no great matter.”

Ida spoke quite cheerfully; more as if stating a fact than as if expressing an opinion; but Violet was shocked.

“Oh! Ida, how can you speak as you do? And I, who am older, and ought to expect less, feel that happiness is so much that thing for which I was born, that, though I may submit, I never can be content to be without it.”

“I don’t mean that I am unhappy,” Ida said apologetically. “I only mean that I don’t know, and never did know what great happiness is, and I don’t expect to know it. Even when I seemed the happiest, I was always afraid that in some way or other, and I never could tell how, I did not please Lionel; so that I am almost more contented now than I have ever been.”

Violet looked grave. Ida seldom mentioned Lionel; when she did the name was always a stab to her heart; but before she spoke, Ida went on.

“And I think, Violet, it is much better as it is. I think if I was very happy I should forget things I ought to remember; and now it pleases me better to think of those things than it does to dream about this world. So don’t trouble about Mrs. White and me. I don’t think I can ever like her, but I don’t think I much care whether she comes or not.”

It was seldom that Ida spoke of herself at all, and very seldom so unreservedly. The insight she gave to Violet—offering in these few words a glimpse into a young heart, which, in the midst of what is called prosperity, owned to having never been happy—shocked and saddened her. She could only hope that the same gentle and submissive spirit which bore her through definite trials, would also bear her through the undefined vexations which must assail her future lot; vexations which Violet’s own quicker and more sensitive temper pronounced unbearable.

Before the wonder excited by Sir William Hamilton’s marriage had wholly died away, a new event startled the inhabitants of Holywell, and Mr. Pope more than any. What with the cold winter, and the distress, and the marriage of Sir William, and this new event, he began to think he was rector of a parish that was but human after all.

“I think the world is really going mad!” exclaimed Mr. Osborne, entering the cottage drawing-room in the dusk of an October evening. “What do you think I have just heard from Pope? Now, only guess.”

But Violet refused to guess, and insisted on hearing the news at once. It was this: that Lord Ashford was going to be married to a farmer’s daughter.

“True! oh, yes,” when Violet said it could not be true. “Pope saw Lord Ashford himself this morning, and he told him of it, and told him to announce it right and left, if he pleased, which, by the way, he does seem pleased to do. He said he was not the least ashamed of what he was doing, that he had as good a right to select whom he chose as Sir William; and when Pope said something with regard to his son, he observed that his son might be hanged.”

The maid brought in the lamp at this moment, and Mr. Osborne, who was when he came in as excited as Mr. Pope had been with his news, sat down more composedly, and waited till the room was empty before he went on.

“It appears she is a respectable, well-conducted girl, handsome, but of little education. She has had charge of a young setter, belonging to Lord Ashford, of a peculiar breed, and in this way he has become acquainted with her. It is a bad business; worse than Sir William’s, for he never can make a lady of her, I fear.”

“Does Mr. Pope know her?” Violet enquired.

“Yes. Her father is a well-to-do farmer, but rough and ignorant. During an illness he had two years ago Pope visited him and saw her. He says there is no harm in her, but that she is coarse. She waited on her father with kindness, but did not seem to know how to behave; talked loud, and laughed loud, and burst in with questions about farm business in the midst of his reading. In short, that she did not seem to be a person with whom Lionel Vane or Miss Hamilton would easily associate. He pointed this out to Lord Ashford, but he said that was Lionel’s own business. He was growing old and wanted company, and if his son did not choose to give it him, he must provide it for himself.”

Violet made no observations. Mr. Osborne was excited with the news, but she could not be excited. It seemed as if there was to be no end to the consequences of Lionel’s fancy for her.

Mrs. Osborne asked a few questions.

To one of them Mr. Osborne replied.

“Pope thinks it is rather serious as regards the property. It is heavily mortgaged already, and, if fortunes are to be made for a new family, Lionel Vane will not come in for much when he succeeds. But I cannot have much pity for Lionel Vane. I am more sorry for Pope, who seems to have taken it quite to heart. Now, darling, what have I said to distress you?” he asked, suddenly observing Violet’s depressed countenance.

“Nothing that you have said, papa, but only I am sorry for Mr. Vane. I think he meant to do so much that was right, and he does only do mischief and cause sorrow. Like me,” she added, and a tear flashed in her eye.

“No, no,” Mr. Osborne said gravely, for both he and his wife were annoyed at Violet’s self-tormenting spirit, “there is no likeness. All people in this world make mistakes; and surely that can cause us no surprise when we consider what human nature is. But Lionel Vane’s mistakes are of another kind. Allowing whatever you please for his feeling for his mother, yet certainly, even for her sake, the well-being of his father ought to have been an object to him. He must have seen enough during his last visit here to discover that Lord Ashford required care and society—I mean that it was necessary for his welfare; but no. Lionel Vane goes on his own wilful way and takes no heed of the mischief he does or the misery he makes. Now, darling, I won’t have you taking this to heart, as Pope does. After all, we are all blind mortals, and perhaps in a year we shall say it is the best thing that could have happened for Lord Ashford. The girl may be a strong-minded, useful girl; and as she will sympathise in all his out-of-door amusements, she may make a good wife after all.”

Violet’s feelings of dismay were shared by Ida. She had taken her father’s marriage and all its accompaniments very calmly; but she was excited at Lord Ashford’s in a degree that surprised and distressed Violet. Distressed her because it revealed how very dear Lionel had been, how dear he still was, and how entirely his affairs absorbed her mind, to the exclusion of her own. She went almost immediately to see Lord Ashford, not in any hope of altering his intention, but to make one more effort to soothe his mind towards Lionel. She, like Mr. Pope, was seized with terror that the new family would cut him out, and that “poor Lionel, who would do so much good with his money, would have no money to do good with.”

Ever since the breaking off of the engagement, Lord Ashford had received her visits coldly. He felt himself injured and would not forgive; not even her, who like him was a sufferer, because she defended the culprit. But on this occasion he was in high good-humour, pinched her cheek and called her “my precious;” and she, emboldened by his kindness, made her request that he would write to Lionel himself, and tell him all about it; and that he would remember and never forget that Lionel was his own son, and must not be forgotten.

Lord Ashford was touched with the earnest manner of her petition, and promised to do what she wished.

“But depend upon it, Ida,” he added, “whatever I do, Mr. Lionel will make my conduct the ground of his absenting himself from us for years to come. But I don’t care. He did not choose to think of my pleasure, and now he may please himself, and I will not say a word against it.”

Lord Ashford was right. Lionel returned a cold answer, and remained abroad. But his cold answer did him injustice. While he wrote it his heart was throbbing with torture at the insult—for thus he considered the marriage—to his mother’s memory. Perhaps Violet only was really just in her estimate of Lionel’s character. For she only fully knew how the exclusive love for one parent, and a morbid dwelling on her wrongs, had almost warped his sense of right and wrong in other respects. “Be ye angry and sin not.” Lionel had obeyed the first part of the precept, and been angry, and justly so, at his mother’s sorrows; but he forgot the second, and made his anger a sin. And now his sin of anger had found him out. He had neglected his father’s happiness and his father’s good, and in return his father neglected him.

Sir William was to be married in London at the beginning of November. Amid the vexation which this marriage caused to Violet, there shot from it a spark of light which brightened her heart. Amy White asked Leicester to be her trustee; and he, knowing few particulars of the case, wrote to Violet, to ask her wishes, and her opinion on the subject. The letter was concisely expressed, and was confined to its one purpose; but it and its answer caused in Violet’s mind an emotion, an excitement, which once again touched with light the cloud that had fallen on her days.

Her reply was also concise. She took good care that no feeling should be apparent. She said she was glad to hear of Amy’s application, and begged him to have no hesitation in acceding to it. That, though she regretted the marriage, Amy had done nothing deserving of blame, and she had great hopes it might turn out well.

Little as there was in such a formal application for her opinion to excite hope in her mind regarding feelings of another nature, yet such was its effect. During two dreary winter months it cheered her walks and animated her charity. It gave her spirits to endure, and to smile at the condescension with which Mrs. White received her call in the drawing-room at Boscombe, and power to smother a part of her indignation at the sight of Ida reduced to the simple position of a common daughter of the house. This was the work, not of Amy, but of her mother. Amy behaved herself very properly, and, though her mind was shallow, and her society could give little pleasure to her step-daughter, yet she and Ida got on without difficulty, and even with friendship. But Mrs. White was the Dowager Lady Hamilton, exercising all the rights, and much more than the rights, which that imaginary personage would have had; and the more Sir William submitted to her will and whims, the more she exercised him in submission. If Ida’s principles had not been stayed on a rock too high and firm for Mrs. White to move, there would have been little peace in the house. Sir William loved his daughter, and, had he known the trifling insolencies to which she was subject, he might have resented them, and in resenting them, have caused strife in his wife’s heart between her duty to her mother and to him. But Ida took at once, and of herself, the position that she thought befitting, and, armed with the invincible armour of Christian love and dutiful submission, the shafts of petty tyranny were too slight to wound her. Violet watched her with admiration, and sighed to think how far beyond her powers such endurance would have been.

CHAPTER XII.

“... The new day comes, the light

Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults

Lived over.”

The Princess.

The simple reception of Leicester’s letter had brought hope and animation to Violet. She was destined to receive encouragement to her hopes at a time, and from a source, that was little expected.

In the month of January there was a good deal of illness in the neighbourhood of Holywell. The winter was mild, but influenza and rheumatism were very prevalent, and Violet had constant occupation in paying consolatory visits to the various sick persons whom she took under her charge. Among those attacked by the latter complaint was the landlady of the little country inn. Rheumatism settled in her knees, and for several weeks she was disabled from her usual active life, and confined to her little parlour. After a time Violet heard of her illness, and, always kind, paid her a friendly visit. She found her low and dull, and returned again and again, supplying her with books both profitable and amusing, and, with what she prized far more, a ready listener and sympathizing companion.

They had been simple acquaintances before, they now became friends, and Violet herself received entertainment from the shrewd remarks and quaint conversation of the old dame.

She found her one day extremely low; on inquiring into the cause, she was informed that a very nice young gentleman had arrived.

“Such a one as I like, Miss Osborne, and I can’t see to him the least bit; and though Sally’s a good girl, and does her duty well enough, she does not see into the gentleman’s minds as I do; and many a comfort I should be glad to give, and never mind the cost, he won’t have, because it has pleased God to send me this rheumatism.”

“But I think,” Violet said consolingly, “young gentlemen are in the habit of thinking of their own comforts. Don’t you think he will tell Sally what he wants?”

“Some will, Miss Osborne, and I don’t care a button for them. Sally may wait on them for ever and ever, and I won’t grumble; but some gentlemen are modest, and when they come to a decent house such as this, they take what they find and make no noise, and them I like to treat to a few comforts out of the way, and never care for the cost.”

“You must see a great many, and very different sorts of people, Mrs. Wilkinson. Always, I suppose, somebody coming and going?”

Thus Violet led her on to talk of her life’s experiences—a favourite topic.

“Always, Miss Osborne, and has been this twenty-five years. I have seen a good deal in my day, and seeing gives practice, you know; and now I do but need to look at a gentleman as he walks in, or even to hear him call ‘Landlady,’ and I know in a second what he’s made of.”

“And have you made many friends among your many acquaintances?”

“Well, Miss Osborne, I’m not one of those who run up a friendship out of nothing. I must have grounds to like before I take to liking. Some smooth people are caught by a pink face, or a palavering tongue, but I am not. I like the pink face well enough, but I like a good heart better. Some young gentlemen come here, and I never ask them to come again; I would as lief they stayed away; and some I like, as the world goes; we are friends and we are not friends; they may come or go as they please; but some few I lodge in my heart, and it aches at times to think I never shall see them again.”

Amused and interested at her classification of her guests, Violet inquired a little further, asking particulars regarding the qualities that pleased her best.

“It’s hard to say, Miss Osborne. I can no more tell you why sometimes, when a gentleman steps in, my heart flies to him, than I can tell how this rheumatism gets into my bones; but this I know, it never flies to him without good reason. If you, even you, Miss Osborne, was to tell me that you had seen him misconduct himself with your own eyes, I should give you the lie, for I should know it couldn’t be,” and she slapped her hand on the table.

“That is being very confident,” Violet said, and she sighed, for she felt she had not a like confidence in most of her fellow-creatures.

“Not a bit too much, because I see and I know. Now, there was a gentleman down here last year, not so very young, nor old neither; and I did but see him for an hour or so, for he did not sleep in the house, but I never can forget him. I know he couldn’t do a bad thing; couldn’t do it if he tried; and though I saw him but the once, my heart aches when I think of him; and I believe I would walk twenty miles with the rheumatism and all, if I could have but the luck to see his face again.”

“And who was he?” Violet said with some curiosity.

“I don’t know who he was. He came here for an hour or so, and we had a good bit of talk. We talked about you, Miss Osborne, and Miss Hamilton, and Mr. Vane, and all the world about here. That is, he listened kindly, for he was not much of a talker himself. A sweet, modest gentleman, who had a bit of colour coming and going in his face; and, as I told him, I did not believe he would dare to call ‘Boots,’ he seemed so modest and so shy.”

Violet’s heart fluttered, she scarcely knew why. She knew it was impossible, but Leicester came into her mind.

“And that is the sort of person you like?” she asked lightly, though there was a bit of colour coming and going on her cheek also.

“Why, Miss Osborne, as to him, a queen might have liked him, for he had a fine presence. Not so very young, and a bit of grey here and there in his black hair; but a fine noble countenance, and something in his eyes so sad and so sweet, I find him lodging in my heart when I’m least thinking about him.”

“It must have been him!” Violet thought, and she scarcely dared to ask another question.

“And are you sure you will never see him again?” at last she said.

“He said he was a Londoner, but I told him I should be happy to see him, and he said he would not forget. He was down here, let me see, the day of the great feast, Mr. Vane’s feast, and he went out to see it, for he said he was a Londoner and did not often see such sights; but he only stayed a half-hour or so, and then came home again, and set off, looking weary enough. But, however, he saw the country, and he thought it a beautiful country.”

Violet’s face was in a crimson glow as she thought of that day. Remembering all its events, she became certain Leicester had been at Holywell. After a moment’s consideration, determined to be more sure if she could, she said—

“I can’t help thinking that I know this person. Are you sure you do not remember his name?”

“I was fancying you knew him,” said her keen-eyed companion; “and I should be glad to remember if I could; but I don’t so much as think I overheard the name. On a bit of a book he was reading there was a name of one of them Northern towns, but I don’t call to mind what it was. I only remember thinking how did it come from the north if he was a Londoner; but it may have belonged to some friend.”

“Leicester,” Violet said quietly.

“I believe it was, Miss Osborne; but a name is but a name, and I don’t trouble myself to remember them all. Bless you, it would need the memory of a King Solomon to remember all the names that are belled about in my ears. I think of the man, and that’s enough for me.”

“Mamma,” Violet said, seating herself by her mother, when shortly afterwards she re-entered the Cottage, “did you ever hear of Mr. Leicester’s being in this neighbourhood?” There was something almost stern in her countenance as she anxiously fixed it on Mrs. Osborne’s face.

“I, dearest?” Mrs. Osborne asked in astonishment. “No, never.”

“I am glad you did not,” Violet replied with a look and sigh of relief. All the way homewards she had been picturing as she walked that questions had been asked about her in private; that others had undertaken to answer for her state of mind; and the idea had worked like madness in her brain. “I could not have borne to think you had. But he was here, mamma, last summer. Old Mrs. Wilkinson just told me so. Why did he come, and why did he go?”

“I cannot tell.” Mrs. Osborne looked extremely perplexed. After a little consideration she said, “Do you like me to find out from Albert, dear?”

“Oh! no, mamma, not for the whole world!” She rose from her seat, and as she kissed her mother’s forehead, added, “All mysteries come to light at some time or other,” and left the room.

And asked no more. She could have patience now. Mysteries there might be; a mistake there might have been; but Leicester had not forgotten her, and that knowledge was enough.

The months flowed on. It had been settled by Mr. Osborne and Violet that the projected removal should not take place till the close of the following autumn. By that time Ida’s new life would be a settled thing, and probably the wish of his young wife to see more of the world would in some degree enlarge the sphere of Sir William’s acquaintance, and allow his daughter other society than that of her stepmother and Mrs. White. Should a son be born to Sir William, possibly great changes might take place; but be it as it might, Violet had been satisfied after this year to leave things at Boscombe to take their own course, and to allow her father and herself to follow where their wishes led them.

This arrangement had been made before the discovery of Leicester’s visit. The discovery did not make her impatient. There was a day on which her mind was fixed as that on which all should be made clear; either she would know she was given up, or she would know that she was loved. In the course of the summer a young Ellis was expected to make its appearance, and there could be no doubt that some among them would be invited to undertake the responsible office of sponsor. She had looked to this; to this she still looked, and now, relieved in mind and heart, hopeful and cheerful, could wait and be patient.

The months flowed on. If Violet had been one whose mind was pleased with the follies of human kind, these months might have given considerable entertainment in the struggles for supremacy which arose between Ashford Park and Boscombe.

The new Lady Ashford, a well-conducted but vulgar-minded girl, elated with her good fortune, was desirous of securing all the attention that was her due. The Dowager Lady Hamilton—(for Amy, in this as in all other respects, behaved with perfect propriety, and to the utmost of her power withdrew from the contest)—ambitious for her daughter, endeavoured to surpass Lady Ashford, and since she could not do so in rank, made a show of superior riches and grandeur. If Lady Ashford gave in charity, Lady Hamilton gave doubly and trebly to the same. When it was known that Lady Ashford had insisted having on a new paper for her sitting-room—and, indeed, it was much required—Lady Hamilton was forced by her mother to make a request for the same, although hers did not require it. Lady Ashford’s paper was cheap, though gaudy. Amy’s was, therefore, studded with gold. When Lady Ashford, persuaded by Mr. Pope to go to church regularly, arrived in a barouche, Mrs. White refused to be conveyed thither in any less splendid manner. In all things great, and all things small, the same rivalry was carried on; and if the time should ever come when the two houses opened their doors for the admission of general society, it was probable that the noise of the strife would be heard far and near.

But Violet, though she sometimes smiled, was far more inclined to sigh at the pitiable sight; and her compassion for Ida increased as she watched the despicable turmoil that such a rivalry excited in her home.

“Oh! Ida,” she said one day, “I wish you would give me your receipt for bearing with the follies of the world. I do not find that Christian charity is enough. That makes me bear with all kinds of infirmities, and even with wickedness; but I do not find it enough for Mrs. White.”

Ida smiled a little at her vehemence, but said:

“I am so sorry for papa, and for Amy, too, that I would not for the world seem to see all I do see. I know they are often annoyed, and I do my best to pass things off quietly. My hope, too, is, that Mrs. White will improve. She used to grumble, you know; now she boasts; but when she is used to being comfortable, that will go off; and if I have a great many brothers and sisters, as I hope I shall, she will have other things to care for, and, I dare say, may become a good grandmother.”

“In short, Ida, yours is the Christian charity which not only beareth, but hopeth all things. Well, I will try and hope too; but it vexes me, no one can tell how much, to see what you have to bear.”

For the sting of Mrs. White’s follies, which Violet’s charity was insufficient to pardon, lay in herself. If Ida had been married to Lionel, Mrs. White could not have vexed, how great soever her folly might have been.

The months flowed on, till the day on which Violet’s heart was set arrived. A Miss Ellis was born in June, and, as had been hoped and expected, at the end of July she was christened Violet, and Violet was her god-mother. She went up with Mr. Osborne to the christening, and she and Leicester stood together at the font.

Leicester met her as he had done the year before, with kindness, with consideration, with everything but warmth; the same constraint sat upon him, and froze Violet. Beneath its influence timidity again stole over her; that trust in his feeling for her which, in the distance, had seemed so strong, died away, and those efforts she had intended to make to destroy the barrier between them became an impossibility. At one time it seemed probable that this day would close as unsatisfactorily as the memorable day on the year before. But it was destined to be otherwise.

On the return from church a luncheon was provided at Albert’s small house, and a few special friends were invited to partake of it.

As they stood in the drawing-room, Albert said:

“I am going to have the child brought down for you to see, Violet, and you, Leicester.” Leicester was at a little distance, but approached on hearing his name. “I don’t the least expect admiration for so small a thing, but it is proper that you should both make acquaintance with your charge. I know you are busy to-day, Leicester, but wait, I beg you, and don’t go till it comes,” and he left the room; possibly not without some thought in his head of bringing Violet and Leicester together.

“Busy to-day.” The words rang like a knell in Violet’s ears, and she could scarcely refrain from repeating them with her lips. The time to which she had so looked forward, in a few moments, then, would be gone.

Leicester stood by her side, but she could think of no question with which to address him, except that one which was in her heart, which for months had been on her tongue, but which her tongue refused to utter,

“Why did you come to Holywell?”

Seeing her thus standing silent, the old gentleman, her great admirer, one of those old friends of the Leicester family, who came to every ceremonial, approached her and claimed her for his own. He began, as he had done the year before, to descant on the beauties of Devonshire, making new and eager inquiries into what parts she had been, and the few remaining minutes of Leicester’s society were snatched from her grasp.

Despair was in Violet’s heart; but we are all blind mortals, and little know in things great and small what will be for our good.

Despair was in Violet’s heart, but, after one instant, the natural sweetness and kindliness of her disposition prevailed over her despair. She would not disappoint his eager expectations, and, remembering the argument of the year before, recurred to it. It had been regarding the relative beauties of the neighbourhood of Holywell with other and more famous parts of Devonshire.

“Time has not changed my opinion,” she said playfully, “I am still ready to fight a battle for Holywell.”

The old gentleman was delighted—flattered at her recollection of a former conversation, and delighted to renew the strife. He jested with her about her prejudices, and endeavoured to displace Holywell from the high station on which she had throned it, with many words and merry ones—but in vain.

“It comes to this, then,” he said suddenly, “we must lay the case before a judge, and vow to stand by his decision. Will Leicester do? Leicester,” slightly raising his voice, “are you competent? Have you ever seen Holywell?”

Violet started. This question, which her lips trembled to put, yet dared not frame, was asked in her hearing. Surprised, startled, expectant, she turned her eyes upon him to hear the answer.

He was standing in the shadow of the window curtain, while Violet stood in the full light of the window, but the flush that overspread his cheek was such as no shadow could conceal. That flush, however, was involuntary. His voice and words were composed and sedate.

“Yes,” he said, “I saw it once, and own its beauty. Of the rest of Devonshire I have seen but little, but, unless books and pictures are more false than they are even usually allowed to be, I am afraid I must give my verdict against Miss Osborne.”

The old gentleman, though he rated Leicester severely for his want of gallantry, was enchanted, and went off, to Violet’s relief, to relate to Mr. Osborne what had passed;—to her relief, and yet to her dismay.

He went, and again there was silence. But the agony of the moment’s suspense, the dread of losing that favourable chance, the conviction that that flush confessed some feeling concealed within, the intense desire to penetrate the mystery—these and other sensations spurred Violet on, stilled her, gave her courage, and, almost before she knew her lips had formed the words, she had said quietly and even indifferently,

“When did you see Holywell, Mr. Leicester?”

But, though she spoke quietly, she did not dare to raise her eyes to watch the effect of the question. She pulled a flower from a nosegay she held, and then endeavoured to force it into its place again.

Leicester cast his eyes upon her, and a swift sudden hope leapt into his heart.

“One day last year,” he replied in a voice that tried to be natural, but was not.

“I feared so,” Violet said.

She paused a moment, while the happiness of life hung trembling in the balance; then gathering courage and speaking with calmness and quiet dignity, continued—

“I say fear, because the truth is, we heard of your visit, and I must confess that I do not think it was the act of a friend to come so near, and yet to pass us by.”

“You are right,” he replied with emotion. “It was not the act of a friend. But I cannot be a friend. I told you so once before; I repeat it now. It is beyond my power.”

They stood side by side, immoveable and dumb. Violet dared not speak—dared not look up; and Leicester with eager eyes examined her attitude, endeavouring thence to gather whether he was to speak, or for ever hold his peace.

A scream from Miss Ellis gave notice of her approach. The imminent danger of losing such a moment gave to Leicester’s coward heart the spur it needed. He stooped his head and said low but firmly—

“It is because I would be more than a friend. If that is still too presumptuous a hope, give me a sign, and it shall be cast away for ever.”

And when the infant, robed in lace, was brought to claim the attention of its sponsors, the barrier built up seven years before was broken down.

Albert glanced a look, saw how it was, and was satisfied.

CHAPTER XIII.

“Rich in love

And sweet humility, she was herself

To the degree that she desired beloved.”

The Excursion.

Two months afterwards Mr. Pope joined the hands of Leicester and Violet. It was at Holywell that the marriage took place. It was there, commended to Ida’s special charge, that Violet left her parents, during her absence, and until she could receive them into her own house in Clarges Street.

It was a great satisfaction to Mr. Pope to perform this ceremony. Two marriages had lately taken place in his parish, but not under his auspices; and though his disapproval of the unions had softened the blow, he still looked on himself as deprived of his rights, and the married pair as deprived of his blessing. Privately he had some doubts whether under these circumstances the marriages held good, but he was discreet enough to keep this doubt to his own mind. When, therefore, he understood that Violet was to be indebted to him for the bestowal of the marriage blessing, his broad face shone with unmitigated satisfaction; and when the ceremony was performed it was performed in tones so sonorous, and with movements of such pomp and dignity, that every bystander—so he imagined at least—became aware of the loss those suffered who were deprived on such an occasion of his services.

He looked on Violet as his own creation. In the course of the years of their acquaintance he had come to admire and respect her; to listen to her opinion, and to court her assistance; but still it was as his own creation; his own discovery; a reflection of himself. This made the value of her services; this caused the regret with which he saw her depart. When he shook hands with her for the last time, he felt as if a limb was about to be severed from his body, and, loth that such a severance should be made, he repeated the shake again and again, at each repetition with redoubled violence, till his eyes, and hers also, overflowed with the exertions he made.

It is not always that endeavours for the good of others are repaid either by appreciation or gratitude; and Violet had learned better things than to do her work for earthly reward. But such a reward must ever be sweet when it comes, and the burst of love and regret that followed the announcement of her marriage in the neighbourhood, took her by surprise, and made her own heart swell with answering gratitude and love. She certainly deserved some reward, for she had worked on in dreary days as in days of excitement and sunshine, amid vexations within and without, as well as when all hung upon her words and encouragement. And if she soberly considered what she had done, there was enough to satisfy even her exacting nature. She could not look back on Holywell as she had found it, and as she left it, without thankfulness for all she had been able to do. From her an electric spark had fallen; the spark of love and true benevolence, and it had set on fire all who came within her sphere of influence. Plans for the welfare of the poor, for the comfort of their bodies and the soothing and elevation of their minds; plans for the healthier teaching of the young; endeavours to win the thoughts of all to a more enlightened service to God, and a more reverent devotion in His worship. It mattered not on what good work she cast her eyes, she could not but see that of that work she had been the life and the soul; her mind quick to find the way or her hands willing to execute the ideas of others. She could look about and see the fruit of her labours, and know that the impulse she had given would not die away.

For above all there was Ida—above all, because there is no work so great as that which touches on an individual man—there was Ida, moulded and framed by the conscious and unconscious working of her mind; Ida left to carry on every good work, and to take her place as the help, the friend, the consoler, of the poor.

All this Violet saw, and loving the place on which she had poured out her loving heart, wept as she parted from it.

But though Violet left Holywell with regret, yet she was supremely happy. In the end of October she was established in Clarges Street, and there received her father and mother, until they could provide a house suited to their means.

Clarges Street remained the abode of Leicester alone. He had hoped, he had implored that Rachel would remain, and Violet added her entreaties; but she and Margaret had in the meanwhile decided otherwise. Perhaps some rankling remembrance of Violet’s behaviour to their brother made them argue that it would be best to let her be alone. But this was in private. Ostensibly it was in the hope and intention of securing Leicester’s happiness that the resolution was taken. Between them it had been resolved that Rachel should live with Margaret; and Rachel had less reluctance in acceding to the proposal, as she felt that the income which Leicester had secured to her would shortly be a help to Albert in his ménage. It was not likely that his income would increase, industrious though he was, for several years, and it was likely that his family might do so in undue proportion. She accepted, therefore, the offer that came from Albert himself, and removed to their abode, after having made all ready for Violet’s reception.

If any hard thoughts, however, any recollections of her love of power, did linger in their breasts, they were soon swept away; and, though the arrangement succeeded too well for any permanent alteration to be made, Rachel was often Violet’s guest, and at each succeeding visit the warmth and cordiality of her sister-in-law made her dearer to her heart.

CHAPTER XIV.

“Soyons doux si nous voulons être regrettés.”

CHATEAUBRIAND.

“Mr. Vane.”

The door of Violet’s drawing-room in Clarges Street opened, this name was pronounced, and Lionel entered; but Violet was not there. A young lady sat by the fire reading.

She raised her head, and Ida and Lionel met once more. It was nearly two years since Violet’s marriage. They had not met since that interview in the garden at Boscombe. Both looked and felt awkward enough.

As might be expected, Ida, though, perhaps, feeling the most, recovered herself first, and when they had shaken hands she said,

“I did not know you were in England, Lionel.”

“No, I daresay not. I have been in England, though, for a week or two. Travelling about; seeing things.”

“You did not expect to find me here?” Ida now said, simply.

“No. I came to see Mrs.—” he paused. Hitherto Ida had been in his thoughts, but as he had to pronounce her name, the remembrance of all connected with Violet came over him, and he coloured crimson as he forced out, “Mrs. Leicester.”

“I am staying with Violet—I have been here three weeks.”

Ida spoke quickly, to relieve him.

“And she is not at home?”

“I am afraid not. She walks by herself, and I suppose the servant did not know she went out. Will you wait for her?” Ida added timidly, “or will you come again?”

He made no audible answer to her propositions, but seated himself in obedience to a movement on her part, and she did the same.

A very awful silence followed. He sat twirling his hat in his hands, and looking awkward and unhappy.

Ida longed to speak and relieve him, but could think of no subject that was suitable to the occasion. Her father, his father, Violet, his travels—all seemed topics rife in unpleasant recollections. At last, her heart heating and growing nervous, she said abruptly,

“I don’t think Violet will be long.”

“Let her be as long as she pleases,” he burst out. “Oh! Ida, I am so weary of my life. Have you forgiven me?”

She blushed deeply.

“Why go back? Forget all that, Lionel.”

“Have you forgiven me?” he repeated passionately.

“There was nothing ... yes, there was a little to forgive,” she corrected herself truthfully. “You ought to have let me know before. But whatever it was it is long, long forgiven.”

“And do you think you could ever like me again?” and he leant forward, his hands on his knees, gazing into her face. “If I try hard to please you, do you think you ever could?”

“My dear Lionel,” Ida said, and tears fell from her eyes, and her voice was broken.

“Don’t say in a hurry that you can’t. I came to-day to ask Miss Osborne to intercede for me; but it is far better to speak to yourself. I know I was a brute to you, and that you are an angel. If you were not, I should not come to you; but indeed I will try to make myself worthier of you, if you will try to like me again.”

“My dear Lionel,” she said, smiling faintly through her still falling tears, “I am afraid I have no need to try. I always have.”

“Have you, Ida?” he sprang from his seat and came towards her. “What! in spite of all? Oh! how happy you make me. I have so longed for your love. I have been so weary, so ashamed, so desolate, so longing for your soft voice to comfort me. If you will trust me, we will yet be happy.”

They had not got much further when the door again opened, and Violet stood on the threshold. Violet, bright, thoughtful, radiant, looking the picture of a good heart, and a happy love. She stood amazed, and as she recalled the by no means calm interview which was the last between her and Lionel, she too felt awkward and abashed. But she soon saw that a deeper agitation stirred the hearts of her companions, and her own discomfort melted before the sight. She was not quite certain what the cause of the agitation might be, but she suspected it. She had never ceased to hope that Lionel’s love for her had been an abberration, and that the calm and trusting affection he had seemed to feel for Ida would in the end prevail and win him back.

She went towards him and shook hands with frank cordiality, saying as Ida had done,

“We did not know you were in England.”

To which Lionel replied with embarrassment,

“Your servant told me you were at home, and I came up.”

“I am afraid,” Violet said playfully, “that I have a habit of stealing out without my servant’s knowledge; always supposing he is to learn the fact by intuition. I should not have returned as it is, if the day had not been so fine. I came back to persuade you to come out, Ida. She has been shut up with a cold ever since she came to London; but it really is fine to-day, is it not?”

“Yes, very,” he replied, twirling his hat.

“Then I will go and put on my things,” Ida said, thankfully starting up.

Violet advised that so it should be, and she departed.

They sat down, and Violet once more felt a little awkward, and, like Ida, unable to fix on a proper subject for conversation. During the two instants that she took for consideration he had made up his own mind, and he said abruptly and colouring deeply:

“I came here to ask you to beg Ida to forgive me; but I have asked her herself; and it only remains,” and his countenance worked with emotion, and became purple with the effort he made, “that I should ask you to forgive me yourself.”

“Oh! yes, Mr. Vane. Let bygones be bygones. I was very angry once, but I never think of it now.”

He seemed relieved at her light tone, and the intense glow began to die away.

“And now tell me,” she said smiling, “does Ida forgive? She never seemed resentful, but forgiveness is another thing.”

“Yes, and I think she will try me again; and if she will, I will do all in my power to make her forget what a brute I was to her.”

Violet did not immediately speak, and a shade of gravity and thoughtfulness stole over her face.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked anxiously.

“I am wondering,” she said slowly, “whether you are worthy of her. I do not believe anybody will inquire but me, therefore I confess I do feel anxious to know what your feelings for her are. How long have you been of this mind? I beg your pardon,” she added, seeing the same purple glow and a look of distress on his countenance, “but Ida is in my house and under my protection, and if you will forgive me for saying so, I do think something more than a return on your part is required. Do you love her as she ought to be loved—with all your heart?”

“I think I do,” he said, tremulously; “but I have not thought of myself in that way. I came back because I longed to have what I once so madly gave up; because I could not bear to be absent from her any longer. A year ago, two years ago, if it had not been for shame and pride,” and again his colour rose, “I should have returned to her; but it took time and the weary life I have led to subdue me. It is done now, and if she consents I hope you will not be my enemy.”

Violet was so surprised at his tone—it was so unlike the stately Lionel—that she allowed him, although satisfied at once, to speak to the end before she recovered from her surprise. She then said, warmly and frankly:

“You must forgive me for having been impertinent. If Ida had mother, or sister, or friend, I should not have done it....”

“I thank you for it,” he cried, heartily.

“Thank you; then, I assure you,” she added, smiling, “that so far as my consent is necessary, I consent most joyfully, and wish you both every happiness that earth can give. And now I will call Ida, and we will go for a walk in the Park. Will you come with us?” She shook hands with him, and went in search of Ida.

For two years the dread of these two interviews, the pride of his heart, the shame of confession, had kept Lionel weary, lonely, restless, and miserable, a wanderer on the face of the earth. One vehement resolution was made, and in half an hour all was over, as simply and prosaically as any other piece of work belonging to the day.

And here the tale comes to a close. Lionel and Ida were not very rich, but notwithstanding the change in the face of affairs since their first engagement, they were very comfortable, and Lionel was able to do a part, at least, of the good he had once intended to do. His wish had been to settle in London, but Ida felt too deeply the consequences of his past neglect of his father to permit this, and he gave up his will to hers. Lord Ashford was not very happy in his marriage. Lady Ashford was young, active, and good-natured, but vulgar-minded and uneducated. Lord Ashford, owing to the life he had led, was growing old apace, and required softer cares than hers. Had he been ten years younger, her sympathy with his active life might have bound them together, and the rest might have followed with time; but infirmities began, very shortly after his marriage, to make active life a matter of pain; and with the mind she had no sympathy. His love for Ida had already begun to return in full force, and she felt that, as a daughter, she might still be a help and comfort to him; and there was yet a good hope of turning his latter days into the paths of pleasantness and peace.

A house was therefore found in the neighbourhood; and under Ida’s guidance Lionel learned that, in a good as well as a selfish sense, charity should begin at home.

THE END.

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BY SIR BERNARD BURKE, ULSTER KING OF ARMS.

“It were impossible to praise too highly this most interesting book. It ought to be found on every drawing-room table. Here you have nearly fifty captivating romances with the pith of all their interest preserved in undiminished poignancy, and any one may be read in half an hour.”—Standard.

VOL. XV.—THE LAIRD OF NORLAW.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “MRS MARGARET MAITLAND.”

“The Laird of Norlaw fully sustains the author’s high reputation.”—Sunday Times.

VOL. XVI.—THE ENGLISHWOMAN IN ITALY.

“We can praise Mrs Gretton’s book as interesting, unexaggerated, and full of opportune instruction.”—The Times.

VOL. XVII.—NOTHING NEW.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“‘Nothing New’ displays all those superior merits which have made ‘John Halifax’ one of the most popular works of the day.”—Post.

VOL. XVIII.—FREER’S LIFE OF JEANNE D’ALBRET.

“Nothing can be more interesting than Miss Freer’s story of the life of Jeanne D’Albret, and the narrative is as trustworthy as it is attractive.”—Post.

VOL. XIX.—THE VALLEY OF A HUNDRED FIRES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “MARGARET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS.”

“We know no novel of the last three or four years to equal this latest production of the popular authoress of ‘Margaret and her Bridesmaids.’ If asked to classify it, we should give it a place between ‘John Halifax’ and ‘The Caxtons.’”—Herald.

VOL. XX.—THE ROMANCE OF THE FORUM.

BY PETER BURKE, SERJEANT AT LAW.

“A work of singular interest, which can never fail to charm. The present cheap and elegant edition includes the true story of the Colleen Bawn.”—Illustrated News.

VOL. XXI.—ADELE. BY JULIA KAVANAGH.

“‘Adele’ is the best work we have read by Miss Kavanagh; it is a charming story, full of delicate character painting.”—Athenæum.

VOL. XXII.—STUDIES FROM LIFE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“These ‘Studies from Life’ are remarkable for graphic power and observation. The book will not diminish the reputation of the accomplished author.”—Saturday Review.

VOL. XXIII.—GRANDMOTHER’S MONEY.

“We commend ‘Grandmother’s Money’ to readers in search of a good novel. The characters are true to human nature, the story is interesting, and there is throughout a healthy tone of morality.”—Athenæum.

VOL. XXIV.—A BOOK ABOUT DOCTORS.

BY J. C. JEAFFRESON, ESQ.

“A delightful book.”—Athenæum. “A book to be read and re-read; fit for the study as well as the drawing-room table and the circulating library.”—Lancet.

VOL. XXV.—NO CHURCH.

“We advise all who have the opportunity to read this book. It is well worth the study.”—Athenæum.

VOL. XXVI.—MISTRESS AND MAID.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“A good wholesome book, gracefully written, and as pleasant to read as it is instructive.”—Athenæum. “A charming tale charmingly told. All the characters are drawn with life-like naturalness.”—Herald. “The spirit of the whole book is excellent. It is written with the same true-hearted earnestness as ‘John Halifax.’”—Examiner.

VOL. XXVII.—LOST AND SAVED.

BY THE HON. MRS NORTON.

“‘Lost and Saved’ will be read with eager interest. It is a vigorous novel.”—Times. “A novel of rare excellence; fresh in its thought, and with a brave soul speaking through it. It is Mrs Norton’s best prose work.”—Examiner.

VOL. XXVIII.—LES MISERABLES. BY VICTOR HUGO.

AUTHORISED COPYRIGHT ENGLISH TRANSLATION.

“The merits of ‘Les Miserables’ do not merely consist in the conception of it as a whole; it abounds, page after page, with details of unequalled beauty. In dealing with all the emotions, doubts, fears, which go to make up our common humanity, M. Victor Hugo has stamped upon every page the hall-mark of genius.”—Quarterly Review.

VOL. XXIX.—BARBARA’S HISTORY.

BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS.

“It is not often that we light upon a novel of so much merit and interest as ‘Barbara’s History.’ It is a work conspicuous for taste and literary culture. It is a very graceful and charming book, with a well-managed story, clearly-cut characters, and sentiments expressed with an exquisite elocution. The dialogues especially sparkle with repartee. It is a book which the world will like. This is high praise of a work of art, and so we intend it.”—Times.

VOL. XXX.—LIFE OF THE REV. EDWARD IRVING.

BY MRS OLIPHANT.

“A good book on a most interesting theme.”—Times.

“A truly interesting and most affecting memoir. Irving’s life ought to have a niche in every gallery of religious biography. There are few lives that will be fuller of instruction, interest, and consolation.”—Saturday Review.

“Mrs Oliphant’s Life of Irving supplies a long-felt desideratum. It is copious, earnest, and eloquent. Irving, as a man and as a pastor, is not only fully sketched, but exhibited with many broad, powerful, and life-like touches, which leave a strong impression.”—Edinburgh Review.

13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

MESSRS. HURST AND BLACKETT’S

LIST OF NEW WORKS.

A JOURNEY FROM LONDON TO PERSEPOLIS; including WANDERINGS IN DAGHESTAN, GEORGIA, ARMENIA, KURDISTAN, MESOPOTAMIA, AND PERSIA. By J. USSHER, Esq., F.R.G.S. Royal 8vo, with numerous beautiful Coloured Illustrations. 42s. Elegantly bound.

“This work does not yield to any recent book of travels in extent and variety of interest. Its title, ‘From London to Persepolis,’ is well chosen and highly suggestive. A wonderful chain of association is suspended from these two points, and the traveller goes along its line, gathering link after link into his hand, each gemmed with thought, knowledge, speculation, and adventure. The reader will feel that in closing this memorable book he takes leave of a treasury of knowledge. The whole book is interesting, and its unaffected style and quick spirit of observation lend an unfailing freshness to its pages. The illustrations are beautiful, and have been executed with admirable taste and judgment.”—Post.

“This work is in every way creditable to the author, who has produced a mass of pleasant reading, both entertaining and instructive. Mr. Ussher’s journey may be defined as a complete oriental grand tour of the Asiatic west-central district. He started down the Danube, making for Odessa. Thence, having duly ‘done’ the Crimea, he coasted the Circassian shore in a steamer to Poti, and from that to Tiflis. This was the height of summer, and, the season being favourable, he crossed the Dariel Pass northwards, turned to the east, and visited the mountain fastnesses of Shamil’s country, recently conquered by the Russians. Thence he returned to Tiflis by the old Persian province of Shirvan, along the Caspian, by Derbend and the famous fire-springs of Baku. From Tiflis he went to Gumri, and over the frontier to Kars, and the splendid ruins of Ani, and through the Russian territory to the Turkish frontier fortress of Bayazid, stopping by the way at Erivan and the great monastery of Etchmiadzin. From Bayazid he went to Van, and saw all the chief points of interest on the lake of that name; thence to Bitlis and Diarbekir. From Diarbekir he went to Mosul by the upper road, visited Nineveh, paid his respects to the winged bulls and all our old friends there, and floated on his raft of inflated skins down the Tigris to Baghdad. From Mosul he made an excursion to the devil-worshipping country, and another from Baghdad to Hilleh and the Birs Nimrud, or so-called Tower of Babel. After resting in the city of the Caliphs, he followed the track of his illustrious predecessor, Sindbad, to Bassora, only on board of a different craft, having got a passage in the steamer Comet; and the English monthly sailing packet took him from Bassora across the gulf to Bushire. From thence he went to Tehran over the ‘broad dominions of the king of kings,’ stopping at all the interesting places, particularly at Persepolis; and from Tehran returned home through Armenia by Trebisonde and the Black Sea.”—Saturday Review.

“This is a book of travel of which no review can give an adequate idea. The extent of country traversed, the number and beauty of the coloured illustrations, and the good sense, humour, and information with which it abounds, all tend to increase the author’s just meed of praise, while they render the critic’s task all the harder. We must, after all, trust to our readers to explore for themselves the many points of amusement, interest and beauty which the book contains. We can assure them that they will not meet with a single page of dulness. Mr. Ussher handles such topics as Persepolis, Nineveh, and the cities of the Eastern world, with singular completeness, and leaves the ordinary reader nothing to desire. The coloured illustrations are really perfect of their kind. Merely as a collection of spirited, well-coloured engravings they are worth the cost of the whole volume.”—Herald.

“Mr. Ussher went by the Danube to Constantinople, crossed thence to Sebastopol, and passed through the Crimea to Kertch, and so on to Poti. From Poti he went to Teflis, and made thence an excursion to Gunib and Baku on the Caspian. The record of this journey is the most interesting part of the book. Having returned to Teflis, Mr. Ussher visited Gumri and Kars, and went thence to Lake Van, and so by Diarbekr and Mosul to Baghdad. From Baghdad he went to Babylon and Kerbela, and returning to Baghdad, descended the river to Basra, and crossed to Bushire. Thence he went by Shiraz and Isfahan to Tehran, and returned to Europe by the Tabreez and Trebisonde route. The reader will find the author of this pleasant volume an agreeable companion. He is a good observer, and describes well what he sees.”—Athenæum.

“A truly magnificent work, adorned with gorgeously-coloured illustrations. We are lured over its pages with a pleasant fascination, and derive no little information from so agreeable a cicerone as Mr. Ussher.”—Sun.

COURT AND SOCIETY FROM ELIZABETH TO ANNE, Edited from the Papers at Kimbolton, by the DUKE OF MANCHESTER. Second Edition, Revised. 2 vols. 8vo, with Fine Portraits. 30s., bound.

“The Duke of Manchester has done a welcome service to the lover of gossip and secret history by publishing these family papers. Persons who like to see greatness without the plumes and mail in which history presents it, will accept these volumes with hearty thanks to their noble editor. In them will be found something new about many men and women in whom the reader can never cease to feel an interest—much about the divorce of Henry the Eighth and Catherine of Arragon—a great deal about the love affairs of Queen Elizabeth—something about Bacon, and (indirectly) about Shakespeare—more about Lord Essex and Lady Rich—the very strange story of Walter Montagu, poet, profligate, courtier, pervert, secret agent, abbot—many details of the Civil War and Cromwell’s Government, and of the Restoration—much that is new about the Revolution and the Settlement, the exiled Court of St. Germains, the wars of William of Orange, the campaigns of Marlborough, the intrigues of Duchess Sarah, and the town life of fine ladies and gentlemen during the days of Anne. With all this is mingled a good deal of gossip about the loves of great poets, the frailties of great beauties, the rivalries of great wits, the quarrels of great peers.”—Athenæum.

“These volumes are sure to excite curiosity. A great deal of interesting matter is here collected, from sources which are not within everybody’s reach.”—Times.

“The public are indebted to the noble author for contributing, from the archives of his ancestral seat, many important documents otherwise inaccessible to the historical inquirer, as well as for the lively, picturesque, and piquant sketches of Court and Society, which render his work powerfully attractive to the general reader. The work contains varied information relating to secret Court intrigues, numerous narratives of an exciting nature, and valuable materials for authentic history. Scarcely any personage whose name figured before the world during the long period embraced by the volumes is passed over in silence.”—Morning Post.

THE LIFE OF THE REV. EDWARD IRVING, Minister of the National Scotch Church, London. Illustrated by his Journal and Correspondence. By Mrs. OLIPHANT. Fourth and Cheaper Edition, Revised, in 1 vol., with Portrait, 5s., bound.

“We who read these memoirs must own to the nobility of Irving’s character, the grandeur of his aims, and the extent of his powers. His friend Carlyle bears this testimony to his worth:—‘I call him, on the whole, the best man I have ever, after trial enough, found in this world, or hope to find.’ A character such as this is deserving of study, and his life ought to be written. Mrs. Oliphant has undertaken the work and has produced a biography of considerable merit. The author fully understands her hero, and sets forth the incidents of his career with the skill of a practised hand. The book is a good book on a most interesting theme.”—Times.

“Mrs. Oliphant’s ‘Life of Edward Irving’ supplies a long-felt desideratum. It is copious, earnest, and eloquent. On every page there is the impress of a large and masterly comprehension, and of a bold, fluent, and poetic skill of portraiture. Irving as a man and as a pastor is not only fully sketched, but exhibited with many broad, powerful, and life-like touches, which leave a strong impression.”—Edinburgh Review.

“A truly interesting and most affecting memoir. Irving’s life ought to have a niche in every gallery of religious biography. There are few lives that will be fuller of instruction, interest, and consolation.”—Saturday Review.

THE LIFE OF JOSIAH WEDGWOOD. From his Private Correspondence and Family Papers, in the possession of JOSEPH MAYER, Esq., F.S.A., FRANCIS WEDGWOOD, Esq., C. DARWIN, Esq., M.A., F.S.A., &c., and other Original Sources. By ELIZA METEYARD. 2 vols. 8vo, with fine Portraits and other Illustrations. (In the Press.)

Under the Especial Patronage of Her Majesty.

Published annually, in One Vol., royal 8vo, with the Arms beautifully

engraved, handsomely bound, with gilt edges, price 31s. 6d.

LODGE’S PEERAGE

AND BARONETAGE,

CORRECTED BY THE NOBILITY.

THE THIRTY-FOURTH EDITION FOR 1865 IS NOW READY.

LODGE’S PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE is acknowledged to be the most complete, as well as the most elegant, work of the kind. As an established and authentic authority on all questions respecting the family histories, honours, and connections of the titled aristocracy, no work has ever stood so high. It is published under the especial patronage of Her Majesty, and is annually corrected throughout, from the personal communications of the Nobility. It is the only work of its class in which, the type being kept constantly standing, every correction is made in its proper place to the date of publication, an advantage which gives it supremacy over all its competitors. Independently of its full and authentic information respecting the existing Peers and Baronets of the realm, the most sedulous attention is given in its pages to the collateral branches of the various noble families, and the names of many thousand individuals are introduced, which do not appear in other records of the titled classes. For its authority, correctness, and facility of arrangement, and the beauty of its typography and binding, the work is justly entitled to the place it occupies on the tables of Her Majesty and the Nobility.

LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS.

Historical View of the Peerage.

Parliamentary Roll of the House of Lords.

English, Scotch, and Irish Peers, in their orders of Precedence.

Alphabetical List of Peers of Great Britain and the United Kingdom, holding superior rank in the Scotch or Irish Peerage.

Alphabetical list of Scotch and Irish Peers, holding superior titles in the Peerage of Great Britain and the United Kingdom.

A Collective list of Peers, in their order of Precedence.

Table of Precedency among Men.

Table of Precedency among Women.

The Queen and the Royal Family.

Peers of the Blood Royal.

The Peerage, alphabetically arranged.

Families of such Extinct Peers as have left Widows or Issue.

Alphabetical List of the Surnames of all the Peers.

The Archbishops and Bishops of England, Ireland, and the Colonies.

The Baronetage alphabetically arranged.

Alphabetical List of Surnames assumed by members of Noble Families.

Alphabetical List of the Second Titles of Peers, usually borne by their Eldest Sons.

Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Dukes, Marquises, and Earls, who, having married Commoners, retain the title of Lady before their own Christian and their Husband’s Surnames.

Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Viscounts and Barons, who, having married Commoners, are styled Honourable Mrs.; and, in case of the husband being a Baronet or Knight, Honourable Lady.

Mottoes alphabetically arranged and translated.

“Lodge’s Peerage must supersede all other works of the kind, for two reasons: first, it is on a better plan; and secondly, it is better executed. We can safely pronounce it to be the readiest, the most useful, and exactest of modern works on the subject.”—Spectator.

“A work which corrects all errors of former works. It is a most useful publication.”—Times.

“A work of great value. It is the most faithful record we possess of the aristocracy of the day.”—Post.

“The best existing, and, we believe, the best possible peerage. It is the standard authority on the subject.”—Herald.

THE NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS,

PUBLISHED BY HURST & BLACKETT.

LISABEE’S LOVE STORY. By the author of “John and I,” “Dr. Jacob,” &c. 3 vols.

CARRY’S CONFESSION. By the author of “High Church,” “No Church,” “Owen,” “Mattie,” &c. 3 vols.

“There is a great deal of sterling merit in this author’s writings. The present interesting story tells an intricate history simply and well. The dramatis personæ are well drawn, and show a thorough knowledge of human life. ‘Carry’s Confession’ is certainly a superior work, and one which will add to the good opinion generally held of its author.”—Observer.

CHRISTIAN’S MISTAKE. By the Author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” 1 vol., 10s. 6d.

“A more charming story, to our taste, has rarely been written. Within the compass of a single volume the writer has hit off a circle of varied characters all true to nature—some true to the highest nature—and she has entangled them in a story which keeps us in suspense till its knot is happily and gracefully resolved; while, at the same time, a pathetic interest is sustained by an art of which it would be difficult to analyse the secret. It is a choice gift to be able thus to render human nature so truly, to penetrate its depths with such a searching sagacity, and to illuminate them with a radiance so eminently the writer’s own. Even if tried by the standard of the Archbishop of York, we should expect that even he would pronounce ‘Christian’s Mistake’ a novel without a fault.”—Times.

BEATRICE. By JULIA KAVANAGH, Author of “Nathalie,” “Adele,” &c. 3 vols.

“Miss Kavanagh is a writer of considerable and uncommon ability. Her novels never fail to interest. They are thoughtful books, and bespeak a highly-toned and cultivated mind. ‘Beatrice’ is a very interesting story, admirably constructed. It is calculated to increase Miss Kavanagh’s reputation as a novelist. It is very much superior in power and in skilful construction to any of the author’s former works; and the interest created by Beatrice Gordon is vivid and unflagging. Beatrice is the finest female character Miss Kavanagh has yet drawn.”—Post.

SHATTERED IDOLS. Second Edition. 3 vols.

“A remarkable and original novel.”—Athenæum.

“A remarkably clever, original, and interesting novel. The plot is very striking and ingenious. It is pleasantly relieved by some capital sketches of society and individuals, manifestly done from and to the life.”—Post.

“This work proceeds, we believe, from the pen of an accomplished lady of title. It is one of the most exciting and attractive stories that have lately appeared, and will be perused by every novel reader.”—U.S. Mag.

BLOUNT TEMPEST. By the Rev. J.C.M. BELLEW. Third Edition, Revised. 3 vols.

“This book is well written. The story is interesting and full of incident. The accounts of the various old families and family places are extremely well done. The picture of life at Hampton Court is very good, and there is an amusing account of a commemoration day at Oxford.”—Athenæum.

“A remarkably clever novel; thoroughly original, and independent of any fashion, school, or class. The reader will acknowledge that no nobler lesson was ever taught from pulpit or altar step than the author teaches in this beautiful story. There is much dignity and purity in the sketches of female character. The heroine, Mabel Massey, is a charming creature.”—Post.

MR. STEWART’S INTENTIONS. By the Author of “Grandmother’s Money,” &c. 3 vols.

“This novel is superior to all the author’s previous stories, and is so entertaining and artistic a work that we are able to congratulate him upon its goodness almost without a single important reserve. The volumes abound in vigorous and suggestive writing, and with passages that stir the deeper affections.”—Athenæum.

THE QUEEN OF THE COUNTY. By the Author of “Margaret and her Bridesmaids.” 3 vols.

“A novel of the first class. It is a story of exciting interest.”—Post.

Transcriber note

- Obvious typographic errors have been corrected, but archaic spelling and hyphenation kept as in the original.

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Table of Contents

VIOLET OSBORNE. VOL. III.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

Transcriber note

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