“God hath so constituted our nature that in the very flow and
exercise of the good affections there shall be the oil of gladness.”
CHALMERS.
The following morning, while Violet was practising, she was drawn to
the window by the sound of the quick canter of a pony down the road,
and then its pause at the cottage door. On looking out she saw a little
pony of the palest chestnut, and on its back a young girl in a large
Sir Joshua hat, with dark thick curls falling in masses to her waist. A
grinning country boy, in a kind of livery, came running behind. Violet
guessed at once that it was Miss Hamilton, and without waiting for a
summons, flew to the door and opened it. As she stood there bright and
beautiful in the sunshine, smiling at the young stranger, a mutual
attraction took place; the child leapt from her pony, hurried as fast
as her petticoat permitted to Violet’s side, and put up her face to be
kissed.
“You are Miss Hamilton, I guess?” Violet said, smiling and playfully.
“Yes. Papa sent me. He told me you would teach me to sing. Will you?”
“We will talk about that. Will you come in?” and she led her into the
drawing-room.
Ida Hamilton was between eleven and twelve. She was well-grown for her
age, and on a large scale; but her expression was childish. Without
great beauty, her face was pretty and attractive. Her features were
tolerably well-formed, her eyes large and dark, and her hair beautiful.
The cast of her countenance was not lively or intellectual. There was
no deficiency, but intellect was not the predominant quality. A soft
beseeching look pervaded every feature, and spoke of a nature whose
delight was to give and receive affection. The expression was winning
and touching, but wanting in variety.
On entering the room, seeing Mrs. Osborne, who looked at her with her
gentle smile, Ida walked to her, and put up, or rather put down, her
cheek to be kissed. It seemed her natural form of greeting.
She then returned to Violet, and said:
“Papa sent me.”
“I am very glad to see you,” Violet smilingly and encouragingly
replied. “And now tell me, what can I do for you?”
“Can you teach me to sing and to play? You sing so _beautifully_. I
_wish_ you would,” and she raised her dark eyes with an expression
earnest beyond the occasion.
“Are you fond of music?”
“Yes, very; and it is the _only_ thing papa cares for me to do.”
Ida’s manner of speech was much like that of a young lady in a dashed
letter. She put pathetic emphasis on many of her words, and often very
needlessly.
“You must remember I am not a regular teacher,” Violet said. “I can’t
teach in a proper regular way; but, as I told your father, I shall be
very glad to do what I can to help you on. I will begin to-day, if you
like. Will you take off your bonnet and have a lesson?”
“No, I can’t stay to-day, thank you. It is very near Tommy’s
dinner-time, and he is _so_ hungry always. He would not like me to
stay.”
“No, no,” Violet said, won by this little trait of kindly thought, “it
would not do to interfere with Tommy’s dinner. But what shall we do
then? When can you come?”
“I want to know if you will come to me. Papa said I might ask. I should
_so_ like it.”
“Are you quite alone?”
“I have got _ma bonne_; but she is very good-natured, and you would not
mind her. Will you come to dinner to-morrow, and then give me a lesson
after? I _wish_ you would.”
“Well,” Violet said, after a little consideration, “I think I can. Miss
Hamilton wants me to go to luncheon with her to-morrow, mamma. I think
I will,” and she kissed her mother’s forehead.
“Yes, dear, if you like.”
“Then I will. And you say I am not to mind your _bonne_. You must take
care she does not frighten me.”
“Oh! she won’t. She is not very clever. She is nothing but _ma bonne_.
But I must go now, for Tommy begged me not to stay long. He is so
dreadfully hungry, he says!”
“Shall I give him a bit of bread, for fear he should faint?” Violet
asked, laughing.
“Oh! bread is no good to Tommy,” Ida said, with a look of earnest
dismay; “meat is what he likes. He told me once that if he did not have
proper meat, he thought he could eat _men_.”
“Oh! how shocking!” Violet cried in affected horror.
“He did not mean anything bad,” Ida said, pitifully; “only he has such
a _wonderful_ appetite. He is a very good boy, and very good to my
pony. Good-bye. I hope you will let me love you,” and she put up her
face to be kissed.
Violet smiled her answer, and having assisted her to mount her steed,
stood nodding and smiling till she was out of sight.
“A dear child,” she soliloquized, as she re-entered the house; “and
what a poor little lonely thing it must be, in that large house and
with that stiff father! It will be a shame if I don’t try to make her
happier; and better, too,” she added, remembering what she had heard
from Mr. Pope of Ida’s neglected education. And her heart bounded at
the thought of this new prospect of usefulness as Alexander’s might
have done at the hope of a new world to conquer.
Violet’s time was now fully occupied. She taught her class three times
a week, and too conscientious not to endeavour to make herself fit
for what she had undertaken, she devoted a considerable time daily
to the study of music. But she had other employments. She could not
take interest in the children of her class, without going beyond the
hours of instruction. She inquired into their history, and their
circumstances; and finally remembering they were her neighbours, and
that she needed no leave from Mr. Pope to show a neighbourly kindness
towards them, visited them and their parents in their homes. This step
was no sooner taken, than, to a disposition like hers, occupations
multiplied. She had no longer lavish wealth, but she had thought, and
time, and intellect, and fingers at their service, and these were
given. Many a small comfort was planned, many a small ailment cured,
many a piece of advice offered and accepted. If she saw a baby in an
untidy dress, she could not rest till she had supplied it with a more
seemly garment; she would replace the filthy finery of a child by a
strong pinafore, and reject a piece of stained list from an old man’s
neck by offering a knitted comforter. When she had once entered on the
career of active benevolence, she found no time for rest, and no time
for regrets and repinings. She looked happy, and she was happy.
The following day was not her class day, and soon after twelve she
went up to prepare for her walk to Boscombe, the house of Sir William
Hamilton. When she came down she found that her father intended to
accompany her.
Mr. Osborne, a man of the world, and anxious in a mild way to observe
the proprieties of life, had felt some doubts about this visit to the
house of a widower; and though reluctant to oppose Violet’s wishes, was
determined at the least to satisfy himself that the existence of the
_bonne_ was not a myth.
They walked briskly to the door and rang the bell. The summons was
answered by Ida herself; and a servant, who appeared at the end of
the hall into which the door opened, seeing his young mistress, saved
himself further trouble and departed.
“_How_ good of you to come,” she said, putting up her face. “I am _so_
glad.”
“This is my father,” remarked Violet.
“Is Sir William at home?” asked Mr. Osborne, boldly.
“No. I am afraid not. I am _so_ sorry. Do you want him?”
“I should like to rest a little while,” he replied, determined to enter
the house and make his own observations. “May I come in?”
“Oh! yes, pray come in. Come to the fire; there is one in my
schoolroom, if you don’t mind;” and closing the hall door, she ran
across to a door on the opposite side, and led the way into her
schoolroom.
It was a large and pretty room, looking into the garden, and one glance
assured Mr. Osborne of the existence of the being of whom he was in
quest. A fat old Frenchwoman was seated in a chair by the fire. She had
but few teeth, and judging from her countenance, not many more ideas.
Still there she was, a piece of living propriety, and he felt empowered
to dismiss his objections from his mind.
He sat down, and addressed the old lady in bad French. She replied in
English equally bad. For a few seconds they conversed in this manner,
each, as is customary, adhering obstinately to the language of the
other; and then Mr. Osborne declared his legs to be rested, and took a
polite leave. As he crossed the hall he saw the dining-room door open,
and taking a cursory glance as he passed, further set his mind at ease,
by perceiving that the table was only prepared for three persons.
Meanwhile Ida and Violet conversed, and before dinner was announced,
Ida had drawn from Violet a promise to call her Ida; a boon asked
with great earnestness, and for the granting of which, after some
hesitation, boundless gratitude was expressed.
After luncheon, mindful of her object, Violet proposed a music lesson
and gave it, and after this again sat down while Ida exhibited her
treasures. Touched by the lonely position of the young girl, she
endeavoured--though with a fancy somewhat preoccupied by her plans
for the improvement and elevation of her mind--to enter with cheerful
interest into her small pleasures. She was occupied in admiring a
doll’s slipper, sent from Paris by a friend of _ma bonne’s_, a scarlet
cloth shoe embroidered in beads of green and gold, when she was
startled by the entry at the window of a large greyhound. It came in
with a flying leap, and bounding to Ida, saluted her by licking her
hand. It was a beautiful creature, perfect in shape, and of a white
whose brightness was dazzling.
“Oh! what a beauty!” Violet cried, springing up. “Whose is it?”
Ida had hurried to the window, and looked eagerly out, but now returned.
“It’s Lionel’s,” she said; “but I don’t see him.”
“And who is Lionel?” Violet asked in some surprise.
“Don’t you know?” said Ida, looking in her face.
“No, indeed. How should I?”
“Lionel is to be my husband.” She spoke softly, and added, “I thought
papa had told you.”
“What do you mean, my dear Ida?” Violet said quickly. “I never heard
anything so ridiculous. At your age people don’t talk of husbands.”
“Ah! but it’s true. It is indeed. Ask _ma bonne_. _She_ knows it.”
But _ma bonne_, having indulged in a very good dinner, was taking a nap
by the fire, and Violet did not feel desirous to disturb her.
“Well, I think it very ridiculous,” Violet repeated; “but do make it
come to me,” pointing to the greyhound, which was now stretched in an
expecting attitude upon the floor. “I never saw such a beauty. I should
like to stroke its head.”
“I don’t think she will move. She’s expecting Lionel, I am sure.”
“What is its name?”
“Lionel calls her Angel, because she’s so white, and without a spot or
a stain upon her. And that’s what he says we ought all to be.”
Surprised at this moral sentiment of Lionel’s, and her curiosity
considerably excited, Violet was considering whether it was right to
gratify it by making inquiries into this ridiculous subject, when the
sound of a whistle was heard. Angel sprang out of the window, and Ida
again hurried to look out. Violet retreated, and sat down.
“Angel _is_ so fond of Lionel,” Ida remarked, with a sigh, as she
leaned out.
“Why do you sigh?” Violet asked.
“Because I ought to be as good as Angel for Lionel to like me, or to
let me like him. But I am not.”
“And do you like him very much?”
“Like Lionel!” She turned back from the window. “I _must_ like him,
because of what I told you; and besides, I can’t help it. Even when he
is not kind, I can’t help it. He is so good, so very good.”
“Good, but unkind!” Violet said satirically, having already decided
that Lionel was a young prig.
“Only to me not always kind; and it is for my good. He wishes me to
be good as he is. Oh! how I wish I could. But there he is!” and she
screamed. “He’s coming here after all.”
Violet sat still and expectant. Curiosity was not to be restrained, and
she glanced out of window to see what object presented itself.
A young man, a very young man--half boy, half man--passed, and joined
Ida at the further window.
“I was afraid you did not mean to come,” Ida said plaintively.
“Oh! yes, here I am. Do you want me?”
“I have got Miss Osborne to-day, and she is _so_ kind. She has been
teaching me to play.”
“I am very glad, and I hope you will take pains to improve yourself.”
“But, Lionel, she won’t believe what I say about _us_. She says it is
ridiculous.”
“What do you mean by ‘about us’?” he said, like a teasing schoolboy.
“Why, I mean that you are to be my.... I mean that I am to be your
wife. But it is true, isn’t it?”
“That must depend,” he replied coldly. “I won’t have anything to say to
you if you are not good. If you tell stories, for instance, as you did,
you know....”
“Oh! Lionel, don’t go back to that,” Ida said, with tears in her voice.
“But I must go back to it. It is horrible! Good-bye, I can’t stay
to-day.”
“Won’t you come in and see Miss Osborne?”
“Is she there?” he asked, in a lower voice.
“Yes. Close. Hearing us,” Ida whispered, but very audibly.
“Why did you not tell me? Making me like a bear! Yes, I will come in.”
He put his foot over the low sill of the window and entered, Angel
bounding in after him.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Osborne,” he said, with the formed manners of
a man, “for behaving so unceremoniously; but Ida never told me you were
here.”
“I was here though, and listening,” Violet said, smiling.
“I beg your pardon. I did not know it. That is all I can say.”
“And if you wish for my pardon it is granted,” she said, laughing with
careless ease. “I am not offended. What a beautiful greyhound you have!”
“Ah! yes. Is she not a gem?” and he caressingly put his hand on the
smooth white head. “Do you think I have named her well?”
“It is a curious name for a dog, is it not?”
“Perhaps it is; but I like it,” with decision; then, changing his
position and looking at her for a moment, he said, “You are very good
to come and teach Ida. Is it not tiresome?”
“Not at all,” Violet said coldly.
“Well, I hope she will take pains to improve your kindness. Good
morning.”
He bowed courteously, though with formality; then carelessly held out
his hand to Ida, and said,
“Good-bye.”
She approached him, and put up her cheek to be kissed.
“No, no,” he said impatiently, and jumped out of the window.
Lionel Vane was well-formed, and his features finely cut; but he was
not handsome. There was no glow of youth about him. His countenance
was far from inexpressive; his dark eyes and small lips far from
passionless; but the dry and staid air was unsuited to his boyish
years, and it offended. On the other hand, the contrast between
his manners and his years--the assumption which yet had nothing of
affectation in it--gave him an interest he might otherwise have lacked.
He irritated, annoyed, or amused, as the case might be, but he also
certainly excited a degree of interest and attention.
Ida returned to Violet when he disappeared.
“I hope you liked him,” she said anxiously. “Is he not good?”
“Who is he? What is his name?”
“Lionel! Oh! you mean his name. Don’t you know? He is my cousin; he is
Uncle Ashford’s son.”
“Oh! then he is Mr. Vane!” Violet said, light dawning upon her.
“Yes; but he is not at all like Uncle Ashford. I am afraid Uncle
Ashford is not very good. I don’t think Lionel likes him much.”
“Not like his own father! My dear Ida, how you shock me!”
“But we can’t like people if they are not good, can we?--I mean good
people can’t.”
“By-the-bye, Ida,” Violet said, unwilling to discuss the question,
“what was that I heard your cousin say to you? Something that gave me
great pain. I do like truth, I must own, better than anything, and
should find it very hard to like a person who....” she paused, for
Ida’s eyes filled with tears.
“Then you will never like me, for I did tell a story the other day, and
I have done it before.”
“But, my dear Ida, how could you? What made you? What did you say?”
“I pretended to Lionel that papa sent me to him, and he had not.” Ida’s
eyes were cast down, and large tears fell on the floor. “And Lionel
found it out, and he was _so_ angry.”
“He was right. A story is a horrid thing. What made you do it?”
“It was to be with _him_,” she said piteously. “It does me so much good
to see him. Nobody tells me of good things but him.”
“Well, I am sure you never will do such a thing again,” Violet cried,
relaxing from her severity. “We must not do evil that good may come;
don’t you know where we are told this?”
Ida tearfully shook her head.
“It is in the Bible,” Violet said, reverently.
“I don’t read the Bible,” was Ida’s reply. “_Ma bonne_ says it is too
difficult for me.”
“Oh! but she is quite wrong,” Violet said quickly; “that is,”
correcting herself, “I think she is. But we will talk of this again. I
must go now.”
She rose and began to put on her things.
“Must you really go? Yes, of course you must. You are very good to have
staid so long. But you must wait a minute while I look for papa. He
said he wished to speak to you before you went.”
“Very well,” Violet said, not well pleased, but reluctant to refuse.
“But I must go directly, will you say?”