“This dull despair
Is the soul’s laziness. Rouse to the combat,
And thou art sure to conquer.”
ROWE.
There had been several days of bright morning frost, and they were
followed by a day of incessant rain. It was such a day as had tried
Violet’s temper, even in her old happy home, and beneath its influence
her spirits sank to utter despondency. Remembering the conversation
of the day before, she struggled hard to employ herself, and to
conceal from her parents what she felt. She read, she practised, she
rearranged the books and the ornaments of the room; she looked over her
clothes, and endeavoured to calculate how much she ought properly to
spend in clothing. But still there was no heart in her occupations; the
outward man was employed, but the inward was picturing a life made up
of rainy days in that small house, and her excited fancy was shivering
before the prospect.
All the long day through it rained; no villager passed by; the leafless
arms of the trees waved before the wind, and the small drops pattered
against the window; and Violet looked out, and looked around, and felt
despair. To Mr. and Mrs. Osborne the change was as great as to her,
but they bore it cheerfully. Mr. Osborne, like Violet, could not bear
inactivity, but, unlike her, a small thing occupied him. He had always
had a fancy for carpentering; he now determined to be the carpenter of
his establishment, and this rainy day was employed in clearing out the
shelves from a large cupboard, and preparing it for a carpenter’s shop;
making his arrangements with a care and forethought that occupied him
entirely. Violet assisted him during a part of the day, but there was
something of scorn in her heart; not for the employment itself, but for
the cheerful and absorbed attention which her father gave; and again,
as she sat alone at night, bitter tears fell from her eyes, and cold
despair settled on her heart. The conviction that she was wrong, shame
and disappointment in, and for, her in-submission, added their pangs,
and she lay down and rose up, feeling as if the fount of youth and joy
was dried up in her heart for ever.
Nor did the face of nature cheer her with its morning greeting.
The violence of the rain was over, but a mist that was almost rain
gave every prospect of another day of confinement and gloom. But
many a cloudy morning turns out a fine day, and so it was on this
occasion--morally, not atmospherically speaking.
Towards twelve o’clock Violet opened the window to prove to her mother
that the damp mist was _not_ rain. Looking out, she perceived Mr.
Pope and a lady approaching the house. Mr. Pope was wrapped in a long
cloak, and, as he marched along with rapid, important steps, his lady
companion was forced to trot by his side.
“Mr. Pope is coming to call, mamma,” Violet said to her mother, and
internally added, with a sigh, “I never thought I should have been
reduced to feel so glad.”
Mr. Pope entered pompously, and made his apologies for not having
called the previous day. He then introduced his wife.
Mrs. Pope was a plump little woman, with a fair, fresh-coloured face,
totally devoid of any expression but good temper. Mr. Pope had not
chosen his wife, like Socrates, as a trial to his temper, but much
more philosophically, as a solace to it. Mrs. Pope was Mrs. Pope in
order that she might admire him in those intervals when the voice of
the world was necessarily dumb; and she did it with all her heart.
She could not forget that he had chosen her, the seventh penniless
daughter of a penniless curate, to make her the comfortable wife of a
comfortable rector, and she loved and honoured him with all the soul
and all the intellect she possessed.
Leaving his wife to entertain Mrs. Osborne, Mr. Pope drew a chair near
to the window where Violet was, and observed:
“My business is with Miss Osborne.”
Violet smiled and sat down; and he then further observed:
“Without any flattery, Miss Osborne, you must allow me to say that you
sing and perform on the piano charmingly.”
“I don’t know who has spread such a report,” Violet replied, laughing;
“I have been well taught, but I ought to play much better than I do.”
“You have answered a question I was about to ask. I felt convinced
you had been well taught, but am glad to be assured of it. Of your
performance I can speak from my own knowledge. You look surprised;
allow me to explain myself. I was summoned yesterday evening to baptise
the young child of a farmer who lives half a mile beyond you. It was,
as you know, a most inclement night, and the summons was peculiarly
inconvenient to me, as my horse had slightly injured himself the
previous day. I unhesitatingly, however, complied with it; for I may
say, Miss Osborne, without pride, that duty with me has been at all
times a paramount consideration. On my return between nine and ten
o’clock, the rain had abated, the moon struggled through the clouds,
and I was rewarded for my exertions by a mild and pleasant walk,
singularly refreshing after the confinement of the day. I walked
leisurely, and as I drew near to this house I was gratified by hearing
strains of music; I paused, and drew as near as I could without
intrusion, and I must repeat, Miss Osborne, that I consider your
performance charming.”
“I am very glad you think so,” Violet said, not ill-pleased to receive
again the sweet incense of admiration, “and I ought to thank you for
your compliment.”
“No compliment, Miss Osborne; but indeed in my position I might not
have said so much on the subject, had I not a further object in view.
You were kind enough to offer me your services on the first occasion we
met....”
“Yes, indeed,” Violet interrupted, eagerly, “I should be so glad to be
of use.”
“Permit me to proceed, Miss Osborne. We are in this favoured spot so
singularly blest, that at the moment in which you spoke to me I was
unable to call to mind one single point in which your services--the
services of any person--were needful; and indeed it was not until I
returned home last night and was revolving in my mind, as is my custom,
my many responsibilities, that a suggestion offered itself, and,
after some consideration, was adopted. You are no doubt aware that it
is the duty of those in my situation to see that the Church service
is decently performed. A duty not always respected, but one which I,
among my many other duties, have made it my study to respect. I believe
I might appeal to the whole neighbourhood to bear me out in this
observation. But perfection, Miss Osborne, is difficult to attain; and
as it is my wish and practice always to own a failure, if it so happen
that one exists, I confess to you that our psalmody is not so perfect
as might be desired; and I regret this the more as Sir William Hamilton
has a fine ear for music, and that ear may possibly be occasionally
offended. When I returned home last night, Miss Osborne, the tones
of your voice haunted me, and an idea was suggested to me that you
might--having kindly made an offer of your services--undertake the
office of musical teacher to my school-children. I say no more, but lay
my request before you for your consideration.”
Violet’s eyes sparkled. It was indeed a new employment; but she was not
one to be daunted by difficulties, and the joy of being relieved from
the burden of herself made her hear the proposal with rapture.
“I shall be too happy to agree to it, if I can,” she said cordially. “I
must tell you that I have never thought about teaching at all, and it
may be more difficult than I suppose; but I can but try, and I shall
do my best to succeed. I am so much obliged to you for taking me at my
word and coming to me.”
Mr. Pope was extremely gratified. Instead of being obliged, he found he
was the obliger, and it was the position he preferred. He thanked her
with great condescension, and then added,
“Your kindness, Miss Osborne, emboldens me to request that you
will allow me to install you in your office this day. The fact is,
Sir William Hamilton is at present absent, and it would be highly
gratifying to me could I surprise him by a more perfect psalmody on
his return. The weather is not very propitious, but if you are not
delicate, which you must allow me to observe that I cannot suppose
possible” (glancing with a bow at the bright colouring of her cheeks),
“I would ask you to accompany me and Mrs. Pope to the church and to the
school. I will then introduce you to your pupils, and you can make such
arrangements as you think proper.”
Violet readily acquiesced, and left the room, kissing her mother’s brow
as she passed and saying,
“Mr. Pope will tell you, mamma, what I am going to do.”
Mr. Pope came forward accordingly, and, standing with his back to the
fire, made a narration to Mrs. Osborne of all he had thought, said,
and planned, more shortly expressing his gratification in Violet’s
acquiescence. Of the plan itself Mrs. Osborne heard nothing, for though
Mr. Pope’s voice was loud, a narrative always made her deaf; but she
had read her daughter’s pleasure in her speaking face, and she said a
few gratified and grateful words.
Mr. Pope stroked his chest, and looked more broadly benevolent than
ever.
“I am sure I don’t know where you get your thoughts,” said his admiring
wife; “they always are so good.”
“I am not aware,” he replied, “that I am indebted to anything but
my own reflection. I by no means pretend to inspirations, nor am I
much in the habit of seeking suggestions from others. I own that I am
singularly fortunate in the success of my ideas, as has been proved
to-day.”