“Oh! enviable fate to be
Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee,
With lyre and sword, with song and steel,
A hand to smite, a heart to feel.”
_The Golden Legend._
Though Albert’s visit in some degree roused Violet, she remained
an altered creature. She had to strive against vain longings, vain
regrets, and at times that half-frenzy of self-condemnation, of marvel
at her own rashness, and passionate desire to re-act one scene in her
life, which leaves scars and traces on the soul. She set before her
eyes a far-distant hope, and with the power of youth, and the courage
of a strong nature, the hope was a tangible thing. It brightened the
distance, but it could not affect her daily tasks. _They_ no longer
were done in the light of that smile which she had so fondly pictured,
as watching her in her daily course, and approving it. She was thus
being taught better things; she was being insensibly raised and
elevated; a better influence was stealing into her benevolence; it
was all for good, and that she could acknowledge; but this conviction
did not at the moment cheer her. She was depressed. Life had lost its
spring time.
It was Ida’s affection which first restored pleasantness to her
daily tasks. Ida saw she was sad, and wondered why; but too gentle
and tender to question, was satisfied with exerting her own little
arts to beguile her. One day she would draw her to a ramble in the
beautiful country; another day to a drive; one day needed her help in
some purchase, another day in paying a visit ordered by Sir William.
Shortly, also, seeing that to do good was the passion of Violet’s soul,
she began to turn her own thoughts in that direction, and, unlocking
little stores of money which her lonely life had taught her to hoard,
begged Violet’s help and counsel in distributing them to the poor of
the neighbourhood. Though far from quick, love also made her observant;
and when she had received in answer to her childish questions,
“Why don’t you live in a larger house?” and, “Why don’t you have a
carriage?” the short answer, “Because we can’t afford it,” she began
to consider what poverty was, and being unable to solve the problem,
carried it to Lionel.
“What does Miss Osborne mean by can’t afford?”
“That she has not money enough.”
“But I thought all ladies had money.”
“Then you see as usual you made a mistake.”
“But if she is poor, how can she have such pretty clothes?”
“People may be poor without being beggars. Don’t be a goose.”
This was all the information Ida could obtain from Lionel in her
perplexity; but though she could not fully understand, she received
the fact that Violet was poor into her heart, and with quiet, watchful
affection endeavoured to help her; especially in that line in which
Violet was willing to receive help. Through her Sir William Hamilton
was also drawn to interest himself in philanthropy; not indeed with
personal exertions, but by allowing Ida to mention Violet’s suggestions
to him, and giving the useful help of money and the support of his name.
As fresh duties, therefore, opened upon her, Violet recovered some
portion of her ardour, and the fact of Ida’s affection--the clinging
tenderness, and soft caresses, the admiration for herself, and
the desire to be improved--was, without other causes, a help and
consolation to her sore and disappointed heart.
Another motive was shortly afterwards presented to spur and reanimate
the flickering but not exhausted fire of zeal.
About three months after Leicester’s departure, Lionel Vane returned
from a tour, and paid one of his short visits to Ashford Park.
Lord Ashford was absent, and finding his mother alone, he remained with
her. In the day time he strolled to Boscombe, and while he sat and read
in the shade, Ida detailed to him all the good designs which Violet
had, and how much she hoped to help her. It was not Lionel’s plan to
show any deference to Ida, and as her talk was childish and insipid,
he, while he allowed her to speak, allowed himself to abstract his
attention. A difference, however, in the tone of her conversation on
this visit, caught his ear, and without bestowing any greater show of
deference, he did hear a considerable part of what she said. Her talk
was childish still, full of irrelevant particulars and tedious details;
but he was struck with the change of subject, and the higher flight
even of the trifles that occupied her.
On one occasion he and Angel suddenly bounded into the schoolroom, and
found Violet and Ida busily occupied in ruling large sheets of paper.
He apologized for his intrusion with his formal, manly manner, and then
approaching the table, asked if he might inquire into their occupations.
Violet had lately heard of the now well-known institution called
a “Penny Club;” had, through Ida, brought it before Sir William’s
attention, and receiving his sanction to introduce it among his
cottagers, was preparing the necessary papers for the working of the
plan. With some eagerness she explained it to Lionel, and with great
eagerness he listened, and begged that the scheme might be extended to
his father’s property, undertaking in his own and his mother’s name to
supply the money required.
Violet neither acceded nor declined. She said he had better talk to Mr.
Pope, and if her help was required, she would do what she could.
Her manner was not very gracious. Having settled in her mind that
Lionel was not only a prig, but that he hated his father, she could
not be cordial to him; and though unwilling to damp his desires of
usefulness, she had no intention of placing herself at his orders.
He did not appear to notice her backwardness, and relaxing into his
formal manner, asked a few questions and departed.
But in his lonely evenings with his mother he spoke much of Violet and
her good works; the words he said agitated and excited the heart of the
invalid; and one day she suddenly asked him whether he thought Miss
Osborne could be prevailed on to visit her.
His eyes brightened. He loved his mother, and the thought of Violet’s
influence in cheering her solitude, was very grateful to him.
He promised to ask, and for the purpose called on her the following
morning.
She gave a ready and gratified assent; it was settled that Lady Ashford
should let her know when the visit should take place, and that Ida
should accompany her to the house.
“I hope you will like my poor mother,” he said, as he shook Violet’s
hand, and the tone was one of such singular softness, that again her
heart melted towards him.
Two days afterwards Ida brought her a note from Lionel, saying his
mother would be ready to receive her at three on the day following, and
at the appointed time they proceeded to Ashford Park.
The hall door was open. Ida went in without ringing the bell, and took
Violet into the drawing-room, the door of which was also open.
It was not empty. Lord Ashford was looking out of the window. He turned
round at their entrance, and stared at Violet.
He was as unlike Lionel as it was possible for father and son to
be; a tall, broad, handsome, well-made man; not naturally coarse,
but with some such effect in his air and countenance from the life
of dissipation he led. It was, however, a good-natured, jovial
countenance, not without charm, and seemed properly to belong to “the
jolly old lord.”
Ida flew across the room when she caught sight of him.
“Oh! Uncle Ashford, are you come back?”
“Yes, my precious,” he said, embracing her with warmth. “I came back
last night. And how goes the world with you, and whom have we got
here?” lowering his voice, yet making the whisper audible.
“This is Miss Osborne, Uncle Ashford, who is _so_ kind to me.”
“Is she? I hope she will be kind to me too. Good morning, Miss Osborne.”
He moved a few steps towards her, examining her air and countenance
with no great respect.
Violet bowed, but remained silent.
“Come here, Ida,” he said playfully, “I have got something to say.” He
put his mouth to her ear and whispered aloud, “Your kind friend is very
handsome, but we must not let her hear what we say.” Violet coloured,
on which he added, “Mind you never tell, my precious, because you know
we must not make young ladies blush.”
Violet had been for a moment disconcerted, but she quickly recovered
herself and said,
“I came here by Lady Ashford’s invitation. I believe she expects me.
May I ring the bell, and send to tell her I am here?”
“By all means. Let me do it. Here, Thomas, go to my lady’s maid, and
tell her Miss Osborne is here. So you did not bring your friend to see
me, Miss Ida?”
“Oh! no, Uncle Ashford,” Ida said, imploringly, reading Violet’s
annoyed expression of countenance.
“Then you behave very ill to me. Pray sit down, Miss Osborne. My lady
is fanciful, and may keep you waiting. Come, Miss Ida, let us sit down
together.”
He placed her like a little child on his knee, and fondly put his arm
round her.
Violet was not kept waiting. Thomas returned in an instant with a
request that she would go up-stairs, and she sprang up thankfully and
followed him.
“Oh! Uncle Ashford!” Ida then said softly.
“Well, what now?”
“You shouldn’t,” with a gentle shake of her head.
“I tell you what, Miss Ida, your friend is very handsome, but I don’t
like her. She’s one of your prim, set up saints. I can see that.”
“She is not. If she did not speak, it was because you stared, and you
shouldn’t stare. It is not right.”
“Not right?” he cried, laughing heartily. “Why, what are our eyes made
for?”
“To look with, not to stare,” Ida replied with one of her simple
truisms.
“Well, I shan’t stare at her again. I don’t like her. She shall be my
lady’s friend, and you shall be mine.”
Violet, meanwhile, was met on the stairs by an elderly maid, who led
her at once, and without speaking, into Lady Ashford’s room.
Years of illness had banished from this room every trace of beauty or
comfort. The chairs and tables were stiffly set against the wall or
pushed into corners. All was clean and orderly, but there were not even
the luxuries of illness. At one end of the room, on a white sofa, in
a white shawl, and covered over with a thin white counterpane, lay
a white lady. A cap dazzlingly white, but simple almost as a nun’s,
confined her silver hair, and set as in a frame her sharp, colourless,
tranquil features. It was Lionel’s face, released from flesh and blood,
and purified from every trace of passion or earthliness.
Violet stood still, awed by the sight before her, and it was not till
a soft low voice said, “Will you not come near?” and a thin white hand
was stretched out, that she ventured to approach.
The hand did not shake hands; when Violet drew near, it pointed to a
chair at the foot of the sofa, and was concealed again.
“Thank you for coming; it is very good of you,” she then said, in the
same low voice.
“I am glad to come,” Violet replied. “I have so long wished to see you.”
“And I to see you; but I feared it was wrong.”
“How can it be wrong?” Violet forgot her awe in her surprise.
“I must not let earthly wishes rise again,” and she crossed her arms on
her breast and looked for a moment like a marble figure on an old tomb.
“But you are come,” she added, “and I have much to say.”
Violet silently, but with curiosity, waited for her to speak. After a
considerable pause of reflection she said--
“I have heard much of you, Miss Osborne, of all that in this short time
you have done, and all you intend to do among us. You are blessed;
blessed in the good desires God has given you; and blessed that He also
gives you the power to let them bear such fruit.”
Violet’s cheek glowed with pleasure and humility.
“You must not say such things to me,” she said with great earnestness.
“I do but little, and the little I do is very poorly done.”
“It may seem so to you, it is not so in truth. God has made you
good, and wise, and strong. Take warning by me,” she continued with
agitation, “and do not deny or waste the precious gifts He has poured
on your head.”
And unable from awe to answer this speech, Violet sat silent, and
denied no more.
“Go on and prosper in the works you have undertaken in the world
without; but that world has flitted from _me_; I know little of it now.
I have other works for you to do. Will you undertake them?”
And her eyes gleamed like stars in her pale face.
“I will do what good I can in the world; it is my wish, it is my hope,”
Violet cried.
She felt her heart strangely stirred. The forgotten zeal and fire had
stolen back, and she was ready for any work, however hard.
“Then come nearer and let me give you my charge.”
Violet obeyed; and then fell from that quiet face, and those thin lips,
excited words, while she detailed the scheme of her son’s marriage
with Ida, asking Violet to consent to help it forward by all the means
that might be put in her power.
It was not the work Violet had expected. It was not what she approved
or desired, and when the excited words ceased, she sat silent.
“Do you refuse me?” Lady Ashford said in piteous accents.
“I do not refuse,” Violet said gently, “but what can I do?”
“You can make her like yourself. You can make her good. Listen to me.”
She slightly raised herself in her eagerness, and her low voice took a
higher key and a tone of passion.
“There is a work for Ida to do in this house; it is hers, hers only.
She has soft, loving, gentle ways, such as steal into men’s hearts,
and she will do what I, alas! alas!” and a tear shot from her eye,
“have left undone. There are other reasons too. She is _her_ child.”
Here she paused and sank back; a faint flush stole over her cheek,
and a something, it might be the last expiring pang of a jealous and
wounded heart, contracted her features.
“I will do what I can,” Violet murmured; speaking that she might not
seem to be gazing on the agonies of a bruised or broken spirit.
But Lady Ashford did not heed the interruption or appear conscious
of the revelation she had made. After a short pause she again raised
herself, and with a like eagerness continued--
“But there are dangers. Ida is not all Lionel’s wife should be. He is
too like me. He cannot bear with the frailty of human nature, or have
sympathy with those who are unlike him. He loves goodness--he has given
his heart to it; and if Ida is weak and frail he never will love her.
He strives, but he _cannot_. Will you teach her? Will you make her like
yourself, holy and strong, not tossed with the wild whirls of passion?
I say will _you_ do it? I should rather say, will you pray for God’s
grace to add this good work to your other works? Will you promise?” and
those gleaming eyes shone again like sparks of pale fire.
To be praised above our deserts, above the deserts which in
self-complacency we have not rated cheaply, is a humbling thing, and
never had Violet felt so truly and sincerely lowly-minded as at this
moment.
“I will do as you say,” she replied at last, in hesitating accents.
“I will pray that God will help me to do good to Ida while we are
together. She must not be like me, for I am not what you think, but I
will try to show her what is good, as I try to learn it myself.”
“It is all I ask,” and Lady Ashford sank back, and closed her eyes in
exhaustion.
Violet waited; then becoming alarmed at the deadly paleness and long
silence, rose and moved.
At the movement Lady Ashford languidly re-opened her eyes, and put out
her hand.
“My spirit is anxious still, but my flesh is weak. I can say no more.
God bless you!”
Violet took the hand stretched out and said:
“I will come again if I may. May I come again?”
“No, Miss Osborne. This earthly heart, these earthborn cares, must not
weigh me down again. I have yielded to my wild longing to speak. I pray
God it was not sinful; but I am too earthly yet. If I rest my wing once
more on the world’s waters I shall never get free. Fare you well, and
God be with you!”
But Violet had scarcely released the hand she kissed, when Lady Ashford
sprang up again, again seized her, and again with shining eyes spoke.
“I had forgotten; if ever you have the opportunity, whether I am alive
or whether I am dead, will you persuade my son to be more at home? He,
too, has his work, and it is not safe to separate ourselves from it.
I may have done it, alas! alas! Let him take warning, and be wise in
time.”
“Will he not mind his mother’s words more than mine?” Violet said very
gently, annoyed at the request.
“Tell him they are mine. Tell him so when I am dead. Tell him then,
once, twice, thrice, if you can. It is for _me_ he acts as he does,
and I have no power to persuade; but _you_ will do it. I leave my last
request with you.”
She did not wait for an answer, and Violet was thankful. Nothing
further passed. Lady Ashford lay back as one dead, and she softly left
the room.
She went down to the drawing-room, and finding it empty, sat still and
thoughtful, reflecting on all that had passed.
Very shortly Ida and Lord Ashford returned hand in hand, talking
lovingly as they walked, Ida laden with a Dresden bird, the gift of the
hour. It was plain that Lady Ashford was right. Ida had the gift of
stealing into one man’s heart.
Though Violet rose on their entrance, her thoughtful attitude, and the
soft pensiveness of her countenance, did not escape Lord Ashford. It
caught an eye quick to see, and it struck on a conscience, not quick,
but not dead. He was nettled, and cried with freedom yet bitterness--
“Well, Miss Osborne, what plot has my lady been hatching against me? I
own I wonder she could trust _you_ to execute it.”
Violet’s heart was very full of the forlorn wife, the forlorn, wounded,
neglected being from whom she had just parted, and his levity revolted
her feelings as well as offended her taste. She took no notice of his
speech, but said to Ida--
“If you are ready, Ida, it is full time for me to go home.”
“Then go, my precious,” Lord Ashford said, kissing her, and moving her
towards Violet. “Don’t let us detain Miss Osborne,” he continued, “for
you see though kind to you, she won’t be kind to me. Good morning, Miss
Osborne.” He bowed coldly, but the next instant relented, held out his
hand, and with a smile kindly and repentant, though his words were not
without bitterness, added, “I beg pardon for all offences, and if you
are not too much a saint to forgive, let us in all Christian charity
shake hands.”
Violet gave her hand readily, though coldly, and then, followed by Ida,
hastened away.
She walked along thoughtfully still. Not Lord Ashford, nor yet Lionel,
was in her thoughts; she was occupied with the question, “How was it
that one whose aims were so high, whose wishes so strong and so holy,
had been doomed to disappointment and failure, having scarcely the
power, as it seemed, to influence even the son who adored her?”
It was only when, as they passed the gates of Ashford Park, and Lionel
appeared, that her thoughts reverted to him, and she became conscious,
partly conscious, of a change in her feelings towards him. She had
taken an antipathy to Lord Ashford, and therefore--not a logical
therefore, but a therefore common to human nature--she had gone over to
Lionel’s side. She was become more or less a partisan.
He came towards her with eagerness.
“You have been very good, Miss Osborne. Thank you in my own, and my
poor mother’s name, a thousand times.”
“I will not be thanked for what gives me pleasure,” she said playfully;
then seriously, “It is I who have to thank Lady Ashford. I shall not
soon forget her.”
“I hope not. I hope you will visit her soon again, and often.”
“I would with joy; but she will not allow it.”
“Ah!” he said sadly, but with vexation, “my poor mother! I had hoped to
think of you near her while I am away.”
“Are you going?” said both Violet and Ida; Violet with quiet, Ida with
eager regret. Violet was thinking of his mother’s wish.
“Yes, for a year. I am going to Egypt and the Holy Land. I met you to
wish you good-bye. I intend to set off to-morrow morning. Good-bye,
Ida.”
“Good-bye, Lionel,” she said sadly and softly, and raised her face and
stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.
“My dear Ida,” he cried, drawing back disdainfully, “do learn to give
up such babyish ways, here in the high road, too!”
Violet could scarcely help laughing at his annoyed air, but she stood
demurely by while Ida justified herself.
“When you are going for a _whole_ year I thought I might. I am very
sorry. Good-bye, dear Lionel.”
“Well, never mind this time, but do remember you are growing old.
Good-bye, Miss Osborne. I hope prosperity will attend all your
exertions.”
This was said with the old formal manner, and on other occasions would
have impelled Violet to “set him down,” but she was now on his side,
and she bore with his ways calmly.
They parted, and she and Ida hurried to the cottage, where a maid was
waiting to take Ida home.