“Yet for me
Life’s morning radiance hath not left the hills,
Her dew is on the flowers.”
_The Prelude._
Violet returned ready for her walk, and set forth with Mr. and Mrs.
Pope. The dense fog, that was almost rain, still continued, and, for
a great part of the way, Mr. Pope apologized for the occurrence of
bad weather in his parish, assuring her that she would find it a rare
misfortune. Rainy seasons did occasionally prevail; he by no means
pretended to an exemption from the usual uncertainties of an English
climate; frosts, snows, fogs even, did at intervals occur, but she
would, after a short experience, discover that bad weather was the
exception, and that she had truly made her home in a pleasant place.
In passing along the village he touched again on the information given
during their first meeting; his suggestions for the schoolhouse and
the cottage gardens, &c., and so conversing they reached the church.
It was a beautiful old parish church, and had been repaired on the
outside with good taste. Within, taste had not penetrated. Circular
pews filled the whole body of the nave and aisles, and three pews of an
enormous size--one of which stood half in and half below the step into
the chancel--were not only shut in by high palings, but also by brass
rails and dull thick red curtains. A gallery, also curtained off, held
the organ, and organ and gallery together hid the west window, which
had great beauty in its shape.
Of want of beauty, however, Mr. Pope did not think. He took off
his hat as he entered the church, and then began to converse very
freely; naming the owners of the different pews, and describing every
alteration that had been made under his auspices.
Violet made an inquiry as to the pew to be allotted to her father.
Mr. Pope shewed her a seat which had been occupied by the last owner
of their cottage, but as it was near the door, offered in its stead a
place in his own roomy pew; one of the three fortunate possessors of
palings, railings, and curtains.
“This pew is occupied by Mrs. Pope, and any friend who comes to us for
the enjoyment of our delightful neighbourhood; but I assure you we are
seldom pressed for room, and I shall be most happy to accommodate Mr.
and Mrs. Osborne. You, Miss Osborne, will naturally have your seat in
the gallery.”
“Is your congregation large? Is the church crowded?” Violet asked.
“With two exceptions, Miss Osborne, all is as it should be. My
parishioners are duly sensible of the importance of public worship, and
were they not so, would be reluctant to be wanting in attention to me.
Nor should I perhaps say two exceptions. Sir William Hamilton is an
occasional attendant with his daughter; after our new arrangements, I
anticipate also a decided change in that quarter. That seat,” pointing
to Lord Ashford’s, half of which was in the chancel, “is, I regret to
say, always empty.”
“Does not Mr. Vane go to church?” Violet asked in surprise.
“Mr. Vane is seldom at home; when at home he certainly attends public
worship; but he does not occupy that seat. Mr. Vane has peculiar
opinions, and expresses a decided objection to occupy his father’s pew.
When present at our service, he sits in this pew, commonly called ‘the
stranger’s seat.’”
Violet felt considerable curiosity regarding this priggish boy, whose
opinions, and dissent from the opinions of his father, were thus
publicly expressed; but she asked no more questions, and followed Mr.
Pope to the organ gallery.
The organ was a good one, but had been disused for many years; a small
grinding organ having been thought preferable both by Mr. Pope and
his congregation. It had, however, been occasionally used by private
persons, and had lately been set in order at Mr. Vane’s expense. Mr.
Pope began to blow, and, while he blew, Violet had nothing to do but to
play and to admire. As the organ was in his parish, Mr. Pope admired
also; and then, having made a few arrangements for her comfort during
the hours of instruction, begged to be allowed to introduce her to her
pupils; she could afterwards, he said, appoint for instruction such
hours as she pleased.
Violet and Mrs. Pope followed him to the school. The children rose
noisily as they entered, and curtseyed low; and it was not till the
noise had subsided, and Mr. Pope had called “Sit down, children!”
that through the maze of curly heads Violet’s eyes fell on an old
acquaintance.
“Miss White, Miss Osborne is kind enough to call and see our school,”
said Mr. Pope; and blushing and smiling, Amy White came forward to meet
her benefactress.
The unexpected sight carried Violet far from the present, and it was
with a shock that she was transported to an old time. She became very
pale, and said, with great effort,
“You here, Amy! How is this?”
“Did you not know? Did not Mr. Leicester tell you?”
“No,” Violet replied faintly. The pang of the sudden mention of his
name was more than she could hear unmoved.
“I will tell you another time,” Amy said quickly, reading in her
speaking countenance the emotion her words had produced, though
referring that emotion to a different cause. And turning to Mr. Pope
she asked, “What class she should call up?”
He declined the hearing of a class, and proceeded to inform her
wherefore they were come, begging her to desire the children to sing
the National Anthem.
“Your experienced ear will no doubt be able to select such voices as
you will have most pleasure in training,” he observed to Violet.
Ashamed of her agitation, Violet had already recovered herself; but had
she not done so, the discordant twang of the voices as they performed
“God save the King,” must have driven every lingering spark of feeling
from her breast.
“Not bad,” said Mr. Pope, when they had finished. “I have had especial
pains bestowed on the National Anthem. I am loyal, and I wish to make
my parishioners loyal also. Will you be good enough, Miss Osborne, to
make your selection at once?”
Violet, however, boldly declined so summary a proceeding, and begging
to be left with Miss White, she said she would make a selection after
further trial.
He demurred. Violet saw that now or never she must emancipate herself
from thraldom, and good-humouredly persisted. Her persuasive powers
none could resist; and she at length succeeded in doing as she chose.
He and Mrs. Pope departed. As he went he promised to send her the two
boys who had hitherto accompanied the grinding organ with their voices.
The style of music admired in Holywell Church was this. Two boys
endeavoured with their singing to drown the grinding organ, and the
performer on the grinding organ was equally desirous to throw their
singing into the shade.
The materials from which her choir was to be formed were not at first
sight promising; but Violet had the gift of the good fairy, Order, and
she felt no despair in her task. One girl she discovered whose voice
was sweet and clear, and the boys’ loud voices, when softened, might,
she thought, become invaluable. A selection of four girls was made,
with which, added to the two boys, she resolved to be content; and
having appointed an hour on the following morning, which was Saturday,
and a holiday, for a first lesson, and having completely won the hearts
of all by her sweet smiles, kind words, and cordial manners, she
dismissed them, interested and happy.
When her business was completed, Amy begged her to visit her mother,
and conducted her through a neat little kitchen to a neat little
parlour. Though small and low, it looked so clean and bright, and
contrasted so strongly with even the best of the London lodgings
they had occupied, that Violet could hardly restrain some words of
congratulation; but Mrs. White was a grumbler, and her face was sour as
she said:
“Good morning Miss Osborne; we had expected a visit before now; we
began to think you did not choose to enter so humble an abode.”
“I never knew you were here, Mrs. White,” Violet said quickly. “I never
was so surprised as when I saw Amy. How was it, Amy? How came you to
leave Silcombe?”
“It was time to leave it when life was in danger,” Mrs. White began,
but Amy took the explanation into her own hands.
“The air of Silcombe was so relaxing, that it was feared mamma would
never be able to bear it. Mr. Vivian wrote to Mr. Leicester, to tell
him the doctor’s opinion, and it so happened that Mr. Leicester’s
friend had had an application for a schoolmistress from Mr. Pope on
the very day he wrote. It was all quickly settled. I had then to write
to Mr. Leicester,” Amy continued, with a deep blush, “to tell him that
we had no power to bear the expense of a removal. I wrote to ask his
advice--to ask if I might dare to trouble you.”
“Why did you not write to me?” Violet said, with some asperity; “why
was Mr. Leicester to be a better friend than me?”
“I only wrote to him to _advise_,” Amy said meekly; “I must have asked
_you_ for help.”
“And what did Mr. Leicester advise?” Violet asked, her curiosity
considerably aroused; “he never mentioned you to me.”
“Do you choose to read his letter?” Amy said, hesitatingly; “he speaks
of something ... but you will not mind?”
“Of our change of fortune,” she replied with calmness. “No, Amy, I
shall not mind.”
“He answered to mamma. There is the letter.”
And Violet, as she took it, could scarcely restrain a smile at the
characteristic discretion displayed by Leicester in addressing the
answer to the daughter’s letter to the mother:--
“DEAR MRS. WHITE,
“In reply to your daughter’s question, I regret to say that I cannot
advise an application to Miss Osborne at this moment. Some family
circumstances have caused her much distress, and I should fear she
would not be able to give to your request the attention she would
wish. I enclose ten pounds, five of which remained in my hands from
Mr. Osborne’s last donation. Should this be insufficient, I beg you
to let me know.
“When I have an opportunity, I will communicate to Miss Osborne your
change of plans, and you may be assured she will never cease to take
interest in your welfare and happiness.
“I remain,
“Sincerely yours,
“JOHN LEICESTER.”
“Clarges Street, December.”
Violet stood thoughtfully considering the letter for some minutes.
Little as was in it, it pleased her, for she was the soul of the
letter. She had been in all his thoughts as he wrote, and how dear
that conviction was to her she even yet was not aware. When she roused
herself, it was to say:
“And was it enough, Amy?”
“Yes, with a little care, quite enough,” she replied.
“That is to say,” observed Mrs. White, “that the chief part of the way
we performed our journey in a waggon; a conveyance to which I confess I
am not accustomed.”
“Oh! Amy, why did you not write to me?” said Violet.
“I could not,” Amy said.
“The rich,” said Mrs. White, sourly, “think the poor have nothing to do
but to ask; but to be always asking is one of the trials of the poor,
particularly of those who have known better days.”
“Yes, I am sure of that,” Violet said gently; “but when the poor know
that it is the happiness of the rich to give, they should not grudge
them that happiness.”
“You are very kind, Miss Osborne,” said Amy; “and will you forgive me
if I say how we have felt for _you_, and how I admire the way in which
you bear....”
Violet winced. She could not accustom herself to receive consolation
from those she had consoled.
“Don’t say that, Amy,” she interrupted her quickly; “I have not borne
our change of fortune well; and yet, when I see the troubles of others,
I know I have very little to bear. We have been rich, and now we are
not rich; but I hope still rich enough to be of use to others, and you
must never refuse to come to me if you are in want of anything I can
give. Good-bye for to-day. I will soon come again.”
She walked home with a buoyant step and a bounding heart. Though the
mist spread over the landscape, there was sunshine within, which no
outward influence could obscure. She thought she was happy because she
had found her work, and found objects for her care; and undoubtedly
this alone would have elated her, but there was a serene gladness in
her eyes, which spoke of another source of happiness. Through the vista
of the future she saw the link of interest that might unite again her
life with that of Leicester. The mere sound of his name, and sight of
his handwriting, seemed to bring her once more into his presence, and
to carry her daily work into the sphere of his knowledge. Not that
this hope was consciously pictured by her fancy; she loosened in no
degree the rein which bridled that portion of her dreamings; but there
are unconscious as well as conscious imaginations, and the unpermitted
fancy was enough to gild her life and invest every object with beauty.