“How gay the habitations that bedeck
This fertile valley! Not a house but seems
To give assurance of content within;
As if the sunshine of the day were met
By answering brightness in the hearts of all.”
_The Excursion._
The choice of the Osbornes’ future place of abode was decided by a mere
fancy of Violet’s. When about seventeen, she had been on a visit into
Devonshire with her father and mother; and in their journey homewards
they had passed through a village so prettily situated, that Violet
had laughingly said, “When I retire from the world, this shall be the
scene of my retirement.”
The circumstance had long been forgotten, the pretty scene apparently
obliterated from her memory, but from the depths of memory at this
time it suddenly came forth again. One restless night, as she lay half
dreaming, half thinking, endeavouring to fix on some one English county
for which she had a fancy greater than for others, this forgotten scene
flashed vividly before her eyes. She saw again the nests of cottages
with their picturesque shapes, the beautiful old church, the almshouses
close to the church, in the porches of which ancient men and women sat
idle or at work; she saw little dwelling-places, like so many pretty
Parsonages embosomed in shrubs, damp perhaps to the possessors, but
suggesting small epithets expressive of comfort, and beauty, and
longing to every passer-by; she saw the country, green and wooded and
sunny, made up of hill and dale, broken banks and fertile fields.
The scene flashed before her with the suddenness and vividness of
lightning, and it brought light and hope and pleasure to her sad heart.
_There_, in that spot, she felt a power to begin and enjoy life again;
_there_ she saw visions of days of usefulness and activity, where she,
although poor, might once again pour out her kind heart in kindnesses.
She could scarcely lie still till morning, and when she greeted her
parents with her thought, Albert might well have said, “You look like
your old self,” so radiant with hope was her countenance.
Too happy to see his daughter interested, Mr. Osborne caught eagerly
at her suggestion; and that very day an old servant in whom he had
confidence was dispatched to the village of Hollywell, on the borders
of Dorsetshire and Devonshire, to make inquiries if a house suitable to
Mr. Osborne’s means, and to the necessary comforts of the family, could
be procured.
From this time the cloud hung no more on Violet’s countenance. When
the old servant returned successful, her heart bounded with old joyful
feelings, and she felt that she was Violet Osborne once more.
Thus sanguine and hopeful, she bore, herself, and with her devoted love
assisted her father and mother to bear, the painful parting with their
old home that ensued. None who saw her now could have guessed that it
was the same being who had abandoned herself to selfish sorrow; and she
herself forgot, in the blameless present, that there had been aught
that was blamable in the past.
In the interval between leaving Park Lane and taking possession of
their new abode, Mr. Osborne passed a few weeks at a villa lent him
by a friend. Nothing could be more sequestered than the spot, or more
secluded than their life; but the house and grounds were furnished
and decorated with every beauty and comfort that art and money can
give, and both Mr. Osborne and his daughter, fond of art, and fond
of literature, found the time too short to examine all that might
be examined, and master all that could be seen. It was a time of
excitement to the intellect, and in endeavouring to bear away with her
some faint records of the beauties spread before her, Violet had hardly
time to sigh that such luxury of taste must be resigned for ever.
It was at the close of a day in the early part of February, that the
Osbornes entered their new home. There was a bustle of excitement in
the first arrival; there was interest, curiosity, hope, and fear, all
alive and eager. There was excitement, and also gratification; the
outside, even in the fading light, was picturesque, and what fresh,
clean home, lighted with blazing fires, could look otherwise than
attractive, after a journey, which, for Mrs. Osborne’s sake, had
occupied two days, and had been performed in the cramp and cold, and
stuffiness of a hired chaise. But the arrival was over, the whole of
the small house had been seen, and Violet was at liberty to think.
It was no pleasant liberty. An unspeakable dreariness stole over her.
She was in her new _home_. She was in that spot, the fancy of which had
beckoned her so hopefully onward; she was at home again, and at rest;
she was to live and enjoy; but the rest and enjoyment would not come at
her call. A depression, new in its kind, a depression of eyes, limbs,
senses, and faculties, stole over her. The small, low rooms seemed to
take away her breath; the narrow dimensions of the house to paralyze
her limbs. It seemed as if fancy could never stray, bounded by such
limits, or she herself, in such an atmosphere, ever exercise her powers
again.
She had begged her mother to rest, and said she would assist in
unpacking, and in looking to the arrangements of the house. She had
hoped for, she had gone with zest to the occupation, but there was
little to be done. Two old servants, a housemaid and kitchenmaid had
from attachment to Violet insisted on accompanying her into retirement,
and by their care everything was already well settled. Every effort on
Violet’s part was forbidden; every endeavour to make herself useful was
resisted. _They_ did not understand how undesired was their care; they
robbed her of all that could have cheered her thoughts, and she had
nothing to do but to submit.
Weary of her own room she went down to the drawing-room. Mr. and Mrs.
Osborne, more indolent than Violet, and at an age when a tedious
journey fatigues the body as well as the mind, were lying back in calm
repose on each side of the fire. Candles were not yet brought in, nor
the shutters shut, and Violet sat down in the window and endeavoured to
peer out. The morning had been bright and frosty, but a mist had lately
been gathering, and a small rain was now pattering against the windows.
In the west there was a misty streak of red still lingering, and by its
light she endeavoured to realise the features of the scene on which
she was to look. A grass plot, about ten yards broad, was enclosed by
palings and a gate. The palings were twined with evergreens, and tall
dark shrubs ornamented the grass. Beyond the palings some large trees
waved their leafless branches, and beyond was the dull grey sky.
“I shall never breathe here. I must have been mad to come,” was her
thought.
One of the maids brought in candles, and begged her to move while she
closed the shutters. She obeyed mechanically, and then resumed her
place, almost unconscious that the prospect on which she had been
gazing was shut out. By the light of the candle she looked round to
examine the faces of her parents, but they both slept, or rested in
a repose as deep as sleep, and the countenances of both were placid
and content. The rain pattered on, and deeper and deeper grew her
despondency, and almost with scorn she contemplated the tranquil faces
of her parents.
At last her father roused himself.
“Violet, darling, are you there?” he said.
“Yes, papa,” and she slowly rose.
“Will you play us a tune, dear? It will cheer us a little this dull
evening.”
With tears in her eyes Violet kissed his brow, and passed on to the
pianoforte. Tears of self-reproach. He was dull then as well as she,
and she had been thinking only of herself. They were wholesome tears;
while she played, they dropped fast, and in falling cleared the
atmosphere of her mind from the bad spirit of discontent.
That night as she sat alone and meditated in her room, struggling
against the depression that still assailed her, she prayed as she never
before had prayed for help against herself--for help not to be weary
in the well-doing she had set before her eyes, not to be weary in the
steadfast performance of her filial duty. Her heart was sad, and, for
the time being, she felt weak and afraid, and feeling weak, her prayers
were earnest, as they had never been. She fell asleep with tears on her
lashes, but something of a new-born peace in her heart.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.
Transcriber note
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected, but archaic spelling
and hyphenation kept as in the original.
Italics is enclosed in underscores.
Smallcaps have been capitalised.