Chapter VIII

“There is instant delight in the first conceptions of benevolence;
there is sustained delight in its continued exercise; there is
consummated delight in the happy, smiling, prosperous result of it.”

CHALMERS.

The following day was the morning for Violet’s class. She went to the church and gave her instructions. On turning from the organ to take up her bonnet which lay on the seat, she observed in one of the open seats in the church below a man sitting, and after a second glance, though his back was turned and his head bent, fancied it was Mr. Vane.

She felt angry for a moment at his daring to come without her leave; but the next instant, as she dismissed the children, and said to Amy White, “I will walk home with you,” forgot what she had observed.

Among her other avocations, the welfare of Amy was not forgotten. She perceived that though endowed with a considerable share of patience and perseverance, Amy had no high thoughts upon her destiny. She had engaged to perform certain duties, and she rigidly performed them; but that the office of instructress had dignity; that education might be the means of effecting the highest good; that a task ennobling and inspiriting, if she could view it as such, was in her hands, were ideas that did not present themselves. To elevate, therefore, and improve her, to enlarge her mind on the subject of education, and try by occasional companionship to preserve that degree of refinement which her present position imperiled in a common-place mind, was one of Violet’s self-imposed tasks. Had conscience suggested that the hope of hearing Leicester’s name gave a charm it might not otherwise have possessed to this duty, she might perhaps have blushed and smiled and owned it; but she was at this time too busy for self-contemplation, and conscience gave no such hint. She was not aware on this day, as she turned from and forgot the intruder, what sweet hope it was which made her walk with Amy, an object of anticipation and attraction.

The secret hope was not disappointed. As they set forth together, taking an out-of-the-way route by a cottage at which Violet wished to call, Amy said:

“I must tell you a piece of good news, Miss Osborne. I know you will be glad. I had a letter from Mr. Hartley this morning, and he encloses me quite a little fortune. It is a curious story. A man, a gentleman, called upon him to ask where we were to be found. He said my poor father had once paid a debt for him when he was in distress in India, and that he had never been able to repay it till now.”

“My dear Amy, I am so glad,” Violet cordially said. “What a good, honest man! And it will be of real use to you now. How much is it?”

“Ah!” Amy replied with a blush, “I have said too much to you. I forgot that you would not think of it as I do. It is only ten pounds.”

“Indeed, Amy, you are wrong,” Violet said with honesty. “Whatever I may once have felt, I know the worth of ten pounds now. I too should look on it as a little fortune. Does Mr. Hartley say more?”

“Not much. He says he met Mr. Leicester, and told him the story, and that he was glad; but he writes in a hurry, and does not say much.”

“May I see the letter?”

“I left it with my mother. I only got it half an hour before I came out. Have you time to step in and see her? She would be pleased. If I am not troublesome in asking it.”

“I have plenty of time. I should like to see the letter. Wait a moment while I look in here, and I will come with you.”

She had brought a large checked apron for a slovenly woman, and having decked her in it, said she wished she had a looking-glass to show her how improved her appearance was.

The woman laughed, smoothed the apron, and evidently admired herself; but said it was difficult to be clean with ten children to run after; and difficult to spend on herself when they were in want. And then followed a narrative of all the small articles of which the ten small children were at that moment in urgent need.

Violet looked dismayed for a moment, then nodded kindly, and said she would see what could be done, and retreated.

“A fortnight’s hard work before me,” she said, laughing to Amy. “I must try and make up some at least of those deficiencies.”

“Oh! Miss Osborne, was there ever anyone like you. I believe never. All the people say so.”

“But I like it, Amy. I hate idleness. I like work--hard work; if I had no other, I should like to work in the fields. I wish you liked work better.”

Amy sighed and shook her head.

It was a good opportunity for one of Violet’s kindly lectures, and she gave it; but it was less forcible than usual, for her fancy was running in another direction. She was wording to herself that paragraph of Mr. Hartley’s letter which regarded Leicester, and when they came to the school she said:

“But you will be tired of my exhortations.”

“No, indeed, Miss Osborne. I only wish I _could_ feel as you do.”

“You will in time,” Violet said quickly, and hurried into the kitchen, where Mrs. White sat by the fire.

She offered her sincere and cheerful congratulations, and forgetting Mrs. White’s propensities, was abashed at the indifferent answer:

“No such great matter to make such a fuss about.”

“No, not great; but still a help, Mrs. White. I am sure I should feel it so.”

“Of course, when people are poor every little is a help. But Amy makes such a fuss, and Mr. Leicester calls it good news, and we shall be set down as rolling in riches, when I am sure we hardly make out bread to eat.”

“May I see the letter?” Violet asked, wisely declining to continue the argument.

“Yes, the letter is simple enough. Mr. Hartly might have told us a little more about it, I think. People forget what it is to live in the country and hear nothing.”

The letter was now in Violet’s eager hands, and though certainly simple enough, she contrived to extract pleasure from it. After telling his tale in as few words as possible, apologizing for extreme haste, Mr. Hartley added:

“I met your good friend Mr. Leicester, and told him my story. He begged me to give his kind regards to your mother, and to say he was rejoiced at the good news.”

The same Leicester--sending his discreet regards to the mother. Smiles played round Violet’s lips as she read, and three times the sentence was perused before she was satisfied.

“Well, then, good-bye, Mrs. White,” she then cried cheerfully. “I hope this fine weather agrees with your rheumatism.”

“I thought you were come in for a little chat, but it seems you only came to read my letter.”

A blush was on Violet’s cheek as she replied:

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be uncivil. I will very soon come and have a little chat with you, but I have not time to stay to-day.”

“Oh! no offence; I meant no offence; but some people think those who are poor have nothing to do but to work. I like a little chat as well as you do.”

“I will soon come back,” her young visitor replied kindly, and nodding with her gay smile to Amy, who stood sighing at her mother’s rudeness, she hastened into the fresh air.

“Poor thing! what a misfortune to have such a bad temper!” Violet was soliloquizing when she heard her name pronounced from behind. She turned round and saw Lionel Vane.

He took off his hat, and approaching, said:

“I beg your pardon, Miss Osborne; I am lucky to meet you. I went to church for the purpose, but when I came out you had disappeared.”

“I turned down a lane. But what can you want with me?” Violet said, addressing him like the boy she considered him to be.

“May I walk with you?” and he placed himself at her side.

“Certainly. I am going home. But what can you want?”

“To speak to you on a matter that concerns myself.” “Miss Hamilton,” he began abruptly, “confided to you, I find, the circumstances in which we stand.”

“Yes,” Violet said hesitatingly; “but I should think the less that is said about it the better.”

“You are right. I was about to ask you if you approved of the plans in question, but I guess from your tone that you do not.”

“I will have no guesses,” Violet said playfully; “nor will I be questioned about my opinions. I have nothing to do with the subject.”

“I beg your pardon. I will question no more. But though you withhold your approbation, I mean your opinions, there is something you can do for me. Will you hear me for a moment?”

“I cannot think why I am to be dragged into this business,” she said impatiently, provoked partly by the stateliness of his tone, and still more at being, as she said, dragged into an affair the plot of which she disapproved.

“If you will kindly let me speak, I think you will see why. Do listen to me!” he added, dropping for an instant his formal manner, and speaking with earnestness.

“Well, I will listen,” she more graciously replied.

“You may well imagine,” he resumed in his old manner, “that my future life causes me many anxious thoughts. Bound as I am, it is hardly safe for me to have opinions and wishes, and yet I have them.”

In her heart Violet acknowledged his case was hard.

“What are your wishes?” she asked, with kindness.

“My wish of course is to have a wife who suits my tone of mind, and would act and think and feel as I do. I am not a common person. I don’t mean to claim any high mental gifts, but I repeat it, _morally_, I am not a common person. I have a scorn of evil, which makes it hateful to me.”

Up to the last sentence he spoke in a grave, measured tone, but at those words his eyes flashed, and there was a heart of some kind in what he said.

Some are quick and some are slow. Violet was quick, and remembering what she had heard, she discovered an allusion to his father in the warmth of his tone. The suspicion kept her silent, and she made no remark on what he said.

He paused for a moment in expectation of an observation; receiving none, he went on:

“Such being my feeling, you may guess that Ida Hamilton’s character causes me great uneasiness.”

“She seems a dear, affectionate little thing,” Violet said warmly.

“I don’t deny it; but you must be aware, Miss Osborne, that affectionate natures are not always those who pass safest through the world. Unless principle, good firm principle, moral and religious, can be given to Ida, her very goodness and warmth of feeling may lead her into errors; and my future life, _our_ future life, may be fraught with misery.”

Though he spoke in a tone singular and irritating in so young a man, there was no doubt of his earnestness, nor yet of the truth of what he said.

“I almost wonder,” Violet said, after a pause of thought, “that feeling as you do, you do not at once assert the freedom which of course must be yours, and break this engagement.”

“Do not put such thoughts into my head. My mother wishes for it, and that is enough.”

So softened, so altered was his voice and countenance, that Violet was taken by surprise; she was compelled to feel an interest in him.

“But why do you come to me? What can I do for you?” she asked.

“Much. You can take Ida and make her such as I wish her, such as she ought to be. You have already influence; exert it for the sake of the happiness of two lives.”

“And why have you fixed upon me for this task? And how,” she added playfully, “have you formed so high an idea of my powers and virtues?”

“There is such a thing, Miss Osborne, as physiognomy.”

“Yes; but I should not suppose your experience in physiognomies was very great.”

“More perhaps than you think,” he calmly said. “But I own I have other grounds for my opinion. I hear of you, and were it only the conversation you held yesterday with Ida on the subject of truth, it were enough to assure me that the friend I wished for her is found. She told me what had passed, and I think she will not readily deceive again.”

The sweet incense of praise, the sweet flattery of hearing her words had been words in season! It stole through Violet’s heart and brain, and cheered and elated her.

“Well,” she replied, “if all you ask of me is to give such simple notions of right and wrong as that, I think I can promise it shall be done; for in fact I could not associate with her without doing it. But here we are at home, will you come in?”

“Not to-day, thank you. I will call before I go. Thank you for your promise, it is all I ask or wish. Good morning.”

He took off his hat with formal politeness, but Violet said, “Good-bye,” and frankly held out her hand.

Her father was at the open window of the drawing-room, and when she entered, said:

“Why, darling, what is this? What has Mr. Vane got to say to you?”

“Do you know him, papa? I never saw him till yesterday.”

“Only by sight. What has he to say for himself?”

“He was impertinent enough to come to the church while I was giving my lesson,” Violet said; “and he asked if he might walk home with me.”

“But that is not quite the thing for young ladies and gentlemen, is it, darling?”

“Young ladies and gentlemen!” Violet said scornfully; “a priggish schoolboy!”

Her father laughed.

“Well, he does not look very advanced in years, certainly,” and having so remarked he said no more.

Violet, annoyed at the mystery in which against her will she was involved, slipped away to avoid further questioning; but as she stood in her room and looked out on the world just budding into spring, the annoyance passed from her mind, and happy thoughts took possession.

“What mattered the loss of fortune! How little had been taken from her! It had not been her wealth that gave happiness, for still in her poverty all seemed to come to her for help, and hang upon her for sympathy and encouragement.”

There came a faint whisper of some words she had heard, and at the time had not heeded:

“I shall hear of you, I know I shall, the help, the friend, the comforter of many,” and a tear soft and glad fell on her cheek. Leicester _would_ hear of all she was doing and would do, and would know that he had not wasted his love and care on a heart that could not feel and profit; he would own that, in spite of her faults, she was worthy of his affection. Sweet and bright lay the present around her, sweet and bright shone a future before her, and she went down to rejoin her parents with a face shining like the spring sun in the fresh grass.