Chapter VIII

“Grief call it not, ’twas anything but that,
A conflict of sensations without name.”

_The Prelude._

It was a new scene to which Violet was introduced on the following day. Not new to most people, nor in itself an uncommon scene of distress, but a new scene to her. The one small room up three pair of dingy stairs; the close suffocating air which emerged from that room--now the abode of wasting sickness and poverty, and which three weeks before had been the abode of death--the comfortless bed, the emaciated look of the sick woman, and the famine-stricken countenance of the pale fair girl;--all these things, no uncommon sight in this world, were new to Violet, and the sight subdued her. There was no word said, nor arrangement made, but as they entered the room a change took place in the common positions of Mrs. Osborne and her daughter. It was Mrs. Osborne who unconsciously went forward to speak, to help, to comfort; and Violet who as unconsciously drew back, mute, and awe-stricken.

The sick mother seemed to lie in a kind of apathy, and so had lain, her daughter said, since her boy’s death, which had taken place in that room about three weeks before. It was only when Mrs. Osborne laid upon the table a small basket of provisions, tea, broth, and arrowroot, that her eye brightened into anything like sense or attention. The daughter, who gave her name as Amy White, very simply and naturally, but tearfully related their misfortunes, and said, if it had not been for the kindness of one gentleman who had heard of their misery, they should now have been starving. She looked, as Leicester said, too fair and young and helpless to struggle with misfortune; and though she expressed her readiness to work, yet she seemed at a loss to know how to look for work, or what to do with herself in the wide world of London.

After relieving their present distress, and receiving a thankful acquiescence to a proposal, suggested by Violet, for removing them at once into a healthier lodging, Mrs. Osborne took leave, and Violet, with a few kind words and kinder looks, silently followed her.

“Oh! mamma,” she then exclaimed, “did you know there was such misery in the world?”

“Yes, dear,” said her mother, “I am afraid I did.”

“I feel as if I could not breathe,” Violet said and sighed, and she threw herself back in the barouche in profound thought.

When she returned home, and took off her bonnet, she also pulled off all her rings and bracelets, with a feeling of disgust; then sat down in the window of the drawing-room, to indulge in painful reflections. The sight of the strange inequality in the measure of good things allotted to human beings, cannot but excite reflection in every ardent and thoughtful mind, and the first approach of such reflections is overwhelming. Once Violet rose and exchanged her comfortable chair for a hard one, and several times her eyes wandered over the luxurious and ornamented room with a gaze of amazement and displeasure. She seemed to see at every turn the young lady’s figure (for lady she was by birth and education), in her worn and threadbare suit of black, and with her eyes distended by hunger and sorrow.

“Oh! Mr. Leicester,” she exclaimed, when, at the time appointed, Leicester came in, and, after hearing a few words from Mrs. Osborne, approached her, “you have made me miserable.”

“I can understand that,” he replied with quick sympathy. “I was afraid I should for a time, but not for long--not when you find how much good you can do.”

“I do feel so wicked,” she said, and tears gathered in her dark blue eyes and made them shine like the stars. “Only tell me, is such misery common? Of course I knew people were poor, but is such horrible misery common?”

“Not very uncommon, I fear.”

“Then why do we live as we do? Is it not wicked? This room oppresses me; why, the contents of this room only would save a hundred people from starving.”

“You are entering on a very large question,” he said gravely, “and not a new one. Such thoughts I suppose at times trouble us all.”

“And should they not?” she asked anxiously, looking up in his face.

“I am sure I cannot say they should not,” he replied in the same serious manner; “we do all, I doubt not, spend more on our luxurious tastes than is strictly right; that is a question for every man’s own conscience; but as to the other question--the inequality of men’s lots in this world--that is plainly an ordinance of God. So long as there are any ‘powers that be,’ strength of body, or mind, or talent, or beauty, opposed to weakness, folly, and deformity, inequality there must be, and the wildest democrat must submit to it. When once we allow this, the question as a general one is answered, but then comes a much more useful one.”

“And what is that?” Violet asked.

“I only mean the practical; the lessening the inequality by every means in our power; relieving the distress that comes before us, and if it cannot be done but by cutting off our luxuries, doing it.”

“I am glad you say that,” Violet said, eagerly; “I am sure I should not mind cutting off luxuries.”

“I am sure you would not,” he replied, warmly, and then added, smiling, “and now may we come to the matter in hand? I began to speak of it to Mrs. Osborne, but she desired me to come to you.”

“Because I usually do settle such things; but do you know, Mr. Leicester, it was quite changed to-day. When I went into that room I felt stupefied. I could not think of a word to say, while mamma was so wise and kind it made me ashamed of myself.”

“Surely without reason,” Leicester said; “if you did not expect to see such misery, it would have been unnatural not to be surprised by it. As we grow older, we know such things are and will be; and though we feel them, we are not amazed. But have you thought of any alleviations? I am sure you have.”

“Of removing them at once from that dreadful place; yes, we settled that; but we want your advice as to _where_. And then after that, I suppose, a small pension--for a time, at any rate. Mamma is sure papa will give it.”

Leicester shook his head.

“I am against pensions where they can he avoided,” he said.

“But can they be avoided?” Violet said, anxiously. “That poor girl could never work, and she could not leave her mother to be a governess, even if she was fit for one.”

“I will tell you my plan,” Leicester said. “I went to-day to speak to a clergyman on the subject--a man versed in such cases, and he suggested that she should keep a village school. It would give her a home for her mother, and the work would not be hard. He mentioned to me a village in which such a person at this very moment is wanted, and he wrote to make further inquiries. I was much pleased with the plan.”

“Where is the village?” Violet asked.

“In Dorsetshire. _You_ are not satisfied,” he said, looking at her, and seeing the cloud on her countenance.

“I am only disappointed. She goes, and I have done with her. I had hoped to be a real friend. Her pale face took my fancy, poor girl, and I had thought of a thousand kindnesses I could do her.”

“Do not doubt she will want them,” Leicester said; “I was only afraid of putting too much upon you. To hold such a situation, she must be respectable, or she would not be respected; and think of all that her house, and her dress, and her mother will require to make them respectable. I fear you will find only too much required of you.”

“Nothing can be too much while I have money to give. Oh! how I have wasted my life! Yes, I see--yes, I see!” she repeated, her eyes brightening, and an arch smile playing on her lips, “for here, at any rate, you will not forbid me to give; here even you will allow that giving is a virtue.”

“In moderation,” he said, with a smile, “only in moderation.”

Activity soon banished the cloud of thoughtfulness that had oppressed Violet’s spirits, and with more than her usual fervour she threw herself into the task before her. But her charity had not yet learned wisdom; and it needed the united efforts and entreaties of her mother and Leicester to restrain the exuberance of her benevolence; a benevolence that threatened to turn the head of her victim, and spoil her for ever for the lot in life that was her portion. But Violet, ardent as she was, had a mind open to reason; and when once the injury she might do was clearly set before her eyes, she laid a strong hand upon herself, and restrained her generosity.

Leicester’s plan was a successful one, and after some trouble and correspondence, and many arrangements large and small, Amy White and her mother, still an invalid, but improving in health, were settled comfortably in their new abode. It was an affair which occupied many weeks; there was not only trouble, but there were disappointments. Amy was very helpless, and Mrs. White a grumbler by nature; but Violet’s patience never gave way, nor did her ardour flag. Even Albert was obliged to do her justice, and allow that it was not the novelty alone that caught her fancy, and occupied her attention.

On the other hand, it might possibly have been suggested that the feeling which animated her was not pure benevolence. During these weeks the intimacy between her and Leicester made rapid strides. As he was the medium through which all communications to the country clergyman passed, his advice or his knowledge were constantly required; and having laid the burden of Amy’s necessities on Violet’s shoulders, he could not refuse to give his time and trouble to assist her in her task. With this reflection, he satisfied himself, when conscience suggested that his steps too frequently turned towards her abode, and that his heart beat too rapidly in her presence. It would soon be over--this time of happiness, so he argued; and once over, he would gradually withdraw himself, and wean himself from a pleasure that might be bought too dear.

No sentiment marked this intercourse. Mrs. Osborne always, and Albert often, partook in it; the one silently, the other criticisingly; but nevertheless its freedom and constancy had dangers, if danger is the proper word to apply to what might have been for the happiness and benefit of both sides.

This danger at last suggested itself to Albert, and remembering that he had been the means of introducing Leicester into the house, he conscientiously pointed it out to Mrs. Osborne.

“I say, Aunt Elizabeth,” he said, one day, “if this goes on, we shall have Violet falling in love with Leicester.”

“Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Osborne, quietly; “I saw that from the first day he came here.”

“And don’t you mind? Or if you are too unworldly to care about rank and poverty, won’t my uncle mind? Don’t he wish Violet to make a good marriage?”

“I think he will be sorry if it should happen so--a little sorry. Without being worldly, dear Albert, we should perhaps like Violet to marry some person who could make her more of a queen. But you know we told her when she grew up that she was to please herself, and we feel the same now. She is the best judge of what will make her happy; and if she is happy, we are happy too.”

“You are quite a philosopher,” Albert said, smiling; “well, I know what I think. She will be a happy woman if she gets Leicester for a husband, but I don’t quite see how it is to be managed. Leicester could never propose, that is certain; he would die in the attempt, or even at the mere thought of it. He must have a hint if such a thing is to be.”

“No, dear,” Mrs. Osborne said, laying her hand on his arm; “_never_ give hints about such things. I like to think that marriages are made in Heaven, and I would leave them to be made there. It may, after all, be a mere fancy on Violet’s part. Remember how excitable she is, and how soon she changes. If they really love each other, Mr. Leicester will find it out in time; and when he has found it out, he will not fear to speak. For the present, it is best to let it alone.”