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.