“She said
Brokenly that she knew it; she had failed
In sweet humility, had failed in all.”
_The Princess._
It was not long before Violet was convinced that in forwarding a
removal from Holywell she would not be opposing her father’s private
wishes. Mr. Osborne was not old, but he was beginning to lose his
activity, and some touches of rheumatism made the state of the weather
a matter of importance to him. Under these circumstances his mind
reverted to old friends, and he was far from reluctant to think of a
return to that life of London in which he had passed the chief part
of his days, and for which, from custom and habit as well as natural
taste, he felt himself to be most fit. With Mrs. Osborne it was
otherwise, but Violet knew her mother well enough to be aware that
to her the yielding of her wishes was a greater happiness than their
gratification would be. And this not as a form of speech, but in very
truth.
Before, however, she had allowed herself to dwell on the thought of a
change, a circumstance occurred that again altered her decision.
One morning, on going to the school to assist Amy White in hearing her
classes, she found the school dismissed and Amy alone.
“Am I late?” she said, looking at her watch, “or is it a holiday?”
Amy blushed when she replied that it was not by rights a holiday, but
she was busy, and she had sent the children home.
“You are not ill, are you, Amy?”
“No, Miss Osborne, but I have something to tell you. I was going to you
to tell you this morning. Do you know that I am going to give up the
school?”
“Oh! Amy, I am so glad!” Violet said heartily; “I hope you have got
something that suits you better. When was this settled?”
“Only yesterday. I was going this very moment to tell you. No one knows
it as yet.”
“And where are you going?”
Amy blushed again.
“At present only to B----,” naming the little town. “I am going there
this afternoon to look for lodgings.”
“So soon? Oh! Amy,” Violet added smilingly, “I think I see how it is. I
think I guess what has caused the change. You are going to be married?”
Amy blushed more violently, but made a sort of acquiescence.
“I am so glad,” Violet continued in a hearty eager way, fearing lest
Amy, remembering an old conversation, dreaded a new interference, “and
I wish you so much happiness. May I ask who the person is?”
But Amy looked down, and was silent.
“Dear Amy, you cannot think how often I have been afraid that I once
made you unhappy by my advice. Do not fear me now. I am sure you are a
better judge of what will make you happy than I can be.”
“Oh! no, Miss Osborne, I am so thankful to you for your advice--for
that advice especially. Do not repent of it.”
“I don’t, unless you do. Well, will you not tell me?”
No answer.
“I won’t ask you any more,” Violet said, feeling a little hurt, but
conquering the feeling. “You will tell me, I am sure, when it is all
settled. Meanwhile I am very glad, dear Amy, that happier prospects are
opening for you. May I go in and see your mother?”
“Oh! yes, Miss Osborne; and pray do not think me ungrateful!” and tears
came into Amy’s eyes.
Violet was surprised at her manner, but after some more kind speeches
went into the neat little kitchen, where Mrs. White was as usual seated
by the fire. With her accustomed kindness she begged her not to get up,
and sat down beside her.
“This is great news that Amy has been telling me, Mrs. White.”
“What has Amy told?” Mrs. White asked, and a shade of pink tinged her
faded cheeks.
“She has not told me much, but quite enough for me to call it great
news. That you are going to leave this place, and that there is--she
does not deny it--a marriage in prospect. I wish you joy of both
things, Mrs. White, for I know _you_ will not much regret the parting
from Holywell.”
“I have no quarrel with Holywell, Miss Osborne,” Mrs. White said
peevishly. “Few people who had been used to better things would have
thought it a boon to live in a kitchen.”
“Perhaps not. I hope you will never have to do it again.”
“I think not,” and she smiled grimly.
“Amy is very close. She will not tell me anything about these
prospects, or this intended husband. Why is it to be a secret from me?”
“Perhaps she thinks you will be jealous.”
Violet coloured at the insolent freedom, and with difficulty restrained
a sharp answer. But she had long resolved that Mrs. White should not
provoke her, and she only carelessly replied,
“That is not likely. Well, I will not detain you if you are busy; but
you must remember,” she added, with all her usual sweetness of manner,
“that I am an old friend, and if there is anything I can do to help you
in your removing, I shall be only too happy to do it.”
“Thank you, Miss Osborne. I believe you have tried to do what you could
for us; but it has been a weary time, and I am in hopes we have found
more able friends at last.”
Violet’s heart swelled at the thanklessness of one for whom she had
indeed tried to do all she could; but she said no more, and left the
room.
Amy was standing outside, and tears were still in her eyes.
“You must not mind my mother,” she said earnestly; “she has been awake
all night with rheumatism in her bones, and it makes her speak what she
does not mean.”
“Thank you, Amy,” Violet said, smiling, and holding out her hand. “Who
ever has done it, I am sure I am thankful to him for taking you and
your mother out of a situation for which you are not fit. I hope all
bad days are passed, and all good ones are to come.”
As she crossed the garden on her departure, Sir William Hamilton
approached from the road, and they both reached the gate together.
He had been walking in his stiff way, with his eyes seeing only the
ground, but he then looked up, and looked even more shy than usual.
“There is no school,” Violet said. “Miss White has dismissed the
children.”
“Oh! indeed,” he replied with embarrassment.
“Is Ida coming? Is she in the village?”
“No. Ida is at home to-day. I am.... I am on business here.”
“Then I won’t detain you. Good-bye,” and Violet hurried on.
For a few steps she hurried, and then walked slowly, and began to think
of the disappointments of her life. Amy, Lionel, Ida ... she thought of
all the bright visions of a few years back, of the happiness it seemed
to be her work to bring on all around, and she sighed as she walked.
Holywell had certainly lost and was losing its charms. There was little
to be done but the old routine, which Ida was as well able to attend
to as she was; and, with the restlessness common to disappointed yet
not hopeless affections, she pictured another sphere and new scenes,
where a field of labour might open sufficient to give ease to her
uneasy heart.
More languidly than usual, and wrapt in a brown study, she walked, till
she heard her name called from behind her, and saw Mr. Pope. She had
not walked fast, but he was portly; and, in his efforts to overtake
her, was breathless.
She waited till he reached her, and then said, “What a fine day, Mr.
Pope!” a greeting that was always music to his ears, for the fine days
of Holywell were his own creation--in imagination at least.
“Glorious harvest weather,” he said, stroking his chest; “we have much
in this locality to be thankful for. Well, Miss Osborne, we come from
our duties--you from your instructions, and I from my study.”
“My duty has been small to-day. Miss White had dismissed the children.”
“I was aware of the fact. I saw the children from my study window, and
questioned them as to what they did at that unseasonable hour. Nothing,
you perceive, escapes my eye. In fact, Miss Osborne, it was of this,
of some singular suspicions that have crossed my mind, that I came to
speak to you. I speak in confidence.” He looked around and about, and
then drawing nearer and lowering his voice, asked: “Has it ever struck
you that Sir William Hamilton is ... I scarcely know how to word the
question ... suppose we say more attentive than is becoming to Miss
White?”
Violet started.
“No,” she said, “I never observed anything.”
“You are aware that he is at this moment at the school.”
“Yes, he said he was on business.”
“Ahem! ahem! It is hardly befitting my position, Miss Osborne, to dwell
upon suspicious appearances to a young lady of your age, but Miss White
is more or less under your protection, and I confess that, feeling
perplexed how to act, I was anxious to know what steps you would think
it right for me to take.”
“Do you know that Miss White is going to leave the school?” Violet
asked.
“To leave the school! Astonishing!”
“She told me the fact this morning. I should not repeat it, but that it
may help you in coming to a decision. Perhaps it will be better to wait
for a day or two, and see how things turn out. She will be sure to go
to you this evening, if her plans are sufficiently formed.”
“To leave the school!--astonishing! I feel myself utterly perplexed.
Pray, Miss Osborne, how do you account for this singular and sudden
resolution?”
“I fancy she is going to be married; but as she did not in plain words
tell me so, I would rather not have my guess mentioned.”
“Married! It is impossible, yet it is certainly singular. I trust,
Miss Osborne, we shall have no scandals in this locality.”
“I am sure I trust not. If you do not hear from Miss White to-day, do
you like me to speak to her to-morrow? I am not afraid of her doing
anything wrong; but I do not think she is very wise, and if there is
anything in her ways that you disapprove, I think it would be kind to
point it out. It might be less painful from me than from you.”
“It may perhaps be well. To tell you the truth, Miss Osborne, though
my eyes are wide open, and few things escape them, yet this did escape
me. Suspicions regarding any of my flock, who are, thank God, superior
in conduct to the generality of men, is not a feature of my mind.
But yesterday a person in whom I have some confidence breathed a
word in my ear which made me at once awake and alive, and the events
of this morning--the dismissal of the children and the visit of Sir
William--were, as you may believe, confirmation strong as proofs of
Holy Writ.”
“Still appearances are deceitful things. Sir William has shown, as I
know from Miss Hamilton, much interest in Miss White’s circumstances.
Perhaps he is only helping her to some better situation. Will it not be
better to wait for a day or two before you do anything?”
Mr. Pope consented to a delay, and Violet returned home. But though to
him she had suggested other possibilities, in her own mind the case
was clear. Sir William intended to marry Amy White. Amy White was to
be Ida’s stepmother. When she recalled Amy’s intense blushes and Mrs.
White’s words, she felt there was no room for doubt.
“And is this, too, my fault, mamma?” she said, as she poured out of a
full heart all her fears and suspicions. “If this should prove to be
the case, will it be laid at my door? Is it because I have foolishly
petted her, and advised her wrongly?”
“No, dearest. You have nothing to do with it. How could you have? You
must not be morbid, darling, in your self-condemnation. Certainly we
do not always know what will be the end of the words we speak, or the
advice we give; but God is too merciful to lay such results to our
charge. Why, dear, a man would never dare to speak at all if he had to
consider in such a degree the consequences of his words. Let us try to
speak good words, the very best we can, and then leave results to God.”
Mrs. Osborne’s advice to Violet was needful; for she who once in her
cheerful confidence had almost felt she could do no wrong, now saddened
and depressed, was haunted with the nightmare of her past errors,
negligences, ignorances, short-sightedness, and human infirmities of
all kinds. It was probably a needful, but it was a severe discipline.
When once a suspicion has been breathed, even when there are no evil
tongues to set it afloat--and of course there could be no evil tongues
in a Paradise like Holywell--it somehow is shortly set afloat.
Before another day had passed the attentions, more than befitting,
of Sir William Hamilton to Miss White were openly talked of, and Mr.
Pope thought there was no time to be lost, if he was to prevent the
occurrence of scandals in his parish. He decided on going straight to
Sir William; a decision remarkably unpleasant, and unquestionably an
offering on the altar of his duty.
Sir William looked extremely put out. After a short consideration,
however, he replied--
“It was my wish to have postponed a declaration of my intentions
until I had removed Miss White from her present position; but since
my neighbours insist on receiving immediate information regarding my
private affairs, I confess it certainly is my intention to make her my
wife. And what, Mr. Pope,” he asked more boldly than usual, “have you
got to say against it?”
“Only, this, Sir William,” replied Mr. Pope as boldly, “that I think
such marriages unwise. Miss White is undoubtedly a lady by birth, and
possibly her education may have been sufficiently cultivated to make
her a fit associate for your daughter, but I think her position here
ought to have secured her against such notice and such attentions on
your part. Excuse me for speaking my mind.”
Sir William coloured and looked distressed for a moment; but resuming
his stiffness, replied:
“I have said it was my wish to alter her position before I made my
intention known; since, however, my intentions have been thwarted, I
empower you to announce the marriage to-morrow morning. You must give
me a few hours to break the news to my daughter.”
Having so said, he bowed and withdrew; wrote a few lines to Ida,
ordered a trunk to be packed, and a servant to be in readiness, and
took his departure from Boscombe before Ida’s return from her drive.
A day afterwards Mrs. White and Amy removed to B----, and thence to
Linton, where it was heard that Sir William followed them, to prosecute
his courtship at leisure.
On the evening of that day Violet received a note from Ida:--
“MY DEAREST VIOLET,
“Do you know this wonderful news? Papa has gone, but he has left me a
note, a very kind note, to tell me of it. Is it for his happiness? If
it is, I will try and be glad. Will you come and see me to-morrow? I
long for you to tell me what to think.
“Ever yours affectionately,
“IDA HAMILTON.”
“We must not leave Holywell, papa,” Violet said, as she put the note
into his hands. “Poor Ida, she will want help and comfort.”
“You are right, darling. For this year at least we must make up our
minds to be still and stationary.”
There was a momentary choking sensation in Violet’s throat. The vague
hope of change had for these past weeks grappled with the depression of
disappointment. But she was a true friend; and had the hope that lured
her thoughts away been a definite, instead of an illusive one, she
would still have put it aside for Ida’s sake.