“No good heart is happy alone.”
BISHOP HALL.
Leicester said no more at the time, but he had not spoken without
reason. He feared lest his sisters, especially Marian, Henrietta, and
Jessie, should too eagerly avail themselves of Violet’s good-nature,
and his sense of dignity could not bear that they should be patronised.
The very feelings with which Violet inspired him, made him the more
reluctant to place them in such a position.
Violet, however, interpreted his words as a reproof for her excitable
and fickle propensities; and became but the more desirous, by unceasing
thought and kindness, to prove to him that he had been mistaken. Too
happy to find recipients for her bounty, whose varied tastes and many
wishes permitted its free exercise, she yielded to every kindly impulse
that assailed her; and there was so much forethought, and--to use an
ugly but expressive word--delicacy in her attentions, that it seemed to
the Miss Leicesters only natural to take what was so naturally tendered.
“I say, Violet,” said Albert one evening, when he dined alone at his
uncle’s, “I don’t think Leicester is best pleased with you.”
Violet coloured, but asked, lightly:
“What now?”
“I happened to go with him to see his sisters yesterday--I rather like
that girl they call Margaret--and while we were there, a box of jewels
came in; a present from you, it appears.”
“Jewels!” said Violet, angrily; “my dear Albert--little twopenny
things, not worth talking about.”
“I don’t know how that may be. I saw a real gold bracelet, not very
heavy or precious, I dare say, but such as I should be very thankful to
get for twopence. And I tell you I don’t think Leicester was pleased.”
“Then people are very hard to please, and I can’t help it,” she
replied, quickly.
“I am not so sure of that. To tell you the truth, Violet, I do think
you make yourself rather a fool about those girls.”
“As to those trinkets, Albert, I really could not help giving them.
Jessie Leicester stood in mute admiration over some sham things we saw
in a shop. They were pretty, but I told her I could not bear to wear
sham trinkets; she said her brother felt the same; and though she did
not mind, she never dared to do it. In the course of conversation, I
discovered that they, poor girls, have hardly any trinkets at all.
But I was very discreet. This happened a fortnight ago, and I let a
whole fortnight pass before I sent my presents. They are really little
twopenny things; but whatever they are, they are true and not sham.”
“How very correctly you speak, Violet!” said Albert, dryly; “real gold
for twopence. However, whatever the case may be, I do not speak only
of the jewels. It is all very well to be attentive, but things may be
overdone.”
“What are you and Albert fighting about?” said Mr. Osborne, rousing
himself from a doze.
“Can kindnesses be overdone, papa?” said Violet, eagerly, “that is the
question.”
“It is not a very common fault, dear, as the world goes,” he said,
sleepily, “and so I would bear it when it is found.” And he dozed
again.
“But I say they _can_ be overdone, Violet,” persisted Albert, “and I
am quite sure I am right. Just change places, and ask yourself whether
_you_ would like the Miss Leicesters to smother you with presents. That
is the proper way of considering things. Do as you would be done by.”
“I cannot put myself in their place, and therefore I cannot consider
it in that light; but I suppose riches are not given us to keep to
ourselves? Would you and Mr. Leicester have been better pleased with me
if I had bought the trinkets for myself?”
“I believe it to be an absolute impossibility to argue with a woman,”
observed Albert, rising; “however clever they may be, and I allow you
are clever, Violet, they have no more perception of the matter that
lies before them than an infant in arms. You fly off to some abstract
question which has nothing to do with our discussion, and which an
idiot could answer. Good night, for I am going; only remember that I am
right and you are wrong, and so you will find.”
“Well, good night,” she said smiling, “you have made me uncomfortable,
though I cannot see why, and that ought to be triumph enough for you.”
“My dear Violet,” he said with a kind of parental dignity, “I assure
you I want no triumph of that kind. My wish is to see you act properly.
I am always sorry when I cannot approve of what you do.”
She laughed, and he left her; and Violet, though she could not see
why, remained uncomfortable. She was not long left in discomfort; for
Leicester, who was always welcomed, and was now a constant visitor at
the house, called late in the afternoon of the following day. With
Violet, and even with her father and mother, his shyness had passed
away, and with something of a thoughtless thankfulness, he yielded
himself to the charm that was enthralling him.
Violet saw in his face that he had something to say; but she did not
intend to stand on the defensive, and therefore talked on common
subjects, leaving it to him to attack her if he thought proper.
At a pause he did so.
“Do you remember, Miss Osborne, a remark connected with your kindness
to my sisters which I made about three weeks ago?”
“You told me not to spoil them,” she replied demurely. “I am sure I
hope I have done no serious harm.”
“I trust not, and yet I am anxious once again to repeat my words.”
“It is no use, Mr. Leicester,” she said wilfully, “if you choose to
forbid me the house you can; but if I am allowed to see them, I must
take my pleasure.”
He said nothing, but looked dissatisfied.
“I am sure I am very sorry,” she continued, a little hurt by his
manner, “that I should give pain or discomfort to anybody; but I really
think it is without reason.”
“It does give me pain, I confess,” he replied, “to see this lavish
waste and profusion of gifts. I cannot but think of numbers whose
bitter sorrows would be alleviated, if half was bestowed on their
necessity.”
“Is that all?” said Violet quickly. “Then I do not mind. I thought it
was that you were too proud to let _me_ give, or _them_ receive.”
He smiled, not quite easily, and said,
“I am never sure of what my motives are; and I may be actuated by low
ones. But be that as it may, I am sure it is right to wish that one in
your position should learn that there may be extravagance in giving
as well as in other things. I speak plainly,” he added, colouring; “I
scarcely know why I so presume, except that I think I know what some of
life’s trials are better than you do.”
“And if you could know,” she said warmly, “how I long to be told of
those trials, you would not apologise for speaking. But I must say a
word in my defence. We are not, I hope, uncharitable in this house.
There is hardly a society in London to which we do not subscribe; and
we give soup twice a week, and a good many things besides. But I am
afraid I think life would be very dry if we were only kind to the poor.”
“There is a medium in all things, though some persons refuse to see
it,” he replied smiling. “Perhaps I should not persist in arguing this
matter with you, if it were not that I know at this moment of a case of
sorrow beyond my powers to relieve, on which a portion of what you have
given my sisters would be wisely bestowed, and would be received as a
blessing from heaven.”
“Oh! Mr. Leicester, and why have you not told me of it before? Do you
not know that my life, my hope, my whole pleasure in life, is to do
good?”
And all the warmth and kindliness of her nature sparkled in her eyes,
and animated her face.
“I do know,” he replied with earnestness, “and it was for that reason
I came to you. I had seen this case of sorrow but a short time before
your last gifts to my sisters, and I resolved I would point out to you
wiser and better objects for your generosity. Do not think I or they
are ungrateful, for such is far from being the case.”
“Do not speak any more about gratitude,” she said quickly, “I hate the
word; and now tell me what is this case of sorrow?”
“An officer’s wife and daughter left utterly destitute. There is the
small widow’s pension, but the sickness and death of a child have
swallowed it up, and much more than that, I fear. At this moment they
are without the common necessaries of life, and the widow herself is
ill. Their destitute state was pointed out to me, and I went to them;
but, as I said, their necessity is beyond my powers to relieve, and
their case is more suited to a woman’s kindness than a man’s.”
“I will go to them,” said Violet. “Mamma,” and she went across and
kissed her mother, “you will take me to see a poor woman, will you not?”
“Yes, dear, certainly. Where does she live?” and Mrs. Osborne roused
herself eagerly.
“It is in a part of London,” Leicester said, smiling, “to which I would
not willingly send you. You must be prepared for real misery and its
many accompaniments; but I suppose such sights are good for us all. I
will write the direction.”
It was to one of the small streets near Soho Square.
“I will go to-morrow,” Violet said, “and I wish to-morrow was come.
Could we meet you there, Mr. Leicester, and we might consider what
could be done?”
“I will come here, if you will allow me,” he replied. “The mother is
too ill, and the daughter too young and pretty to be a fit charge for
me. I am thankful to resign them into your hands. I believe you are
making out a romance,” he added smiling, as he saw a peculiar look in
Violet’s face, “but I assure you I am far too prosaic a person for such
kind of romances. Do not waste your imagination upon me.”
“Is the girl so very pretty?” Violet asked with curiosity.
“Not by any means dangerously beautiful,” he said, smiling again, “but
certainly pretty, and so fair and young and helpless looking, that I
shall be glad to think of her as having a kind adviser and friend. Any
assistance I and my sisters can give, you may depend on our giving, but
if you will accept the charge I resign it gratefully to you.”
“And I take it gratefully,” Violet said with warmth; “and I hope I
shall acquit myself to your satisfaction.”