Chapter VII: “No good heart is happy alone.”

BISHOP HALL.

Leicester said no more at the time, but he had not spoken without reason. He feared lest his sisters, especially Marian, Henrietta, and Jessie, should too eagerly avail themselves of Violet’s good-nature, and his sense of dignity could not bear that they should be patronised. The very feelings with which Violet inspired him, made him the more reluctant to place them in such a position.

Violet, however, interpreted his words as a reproof for her excitable and fickle propensities; and became but the more desirous, by unceasing thought and kindness, to prove to him that he had been mistaken. Too happy to find recipients for her bounty, whose varied tastes and many wishes permitted its free exercise, she yielded to every kindly impulse that assailed her; and there was so much forethought, and--to use an ugly but expressive word--delicacy in her attentions, that it seemed to the Miss Leicesters only natural to take what was so naturally tendered.

“I say, Violet,” said Albert one evening, when he dined alone at his uncle’s, “I don’t think Leicester is best pleased with you.”

Violet coloured, but asked, lightly:

“What now?”

“I happened to go with him to see his sisters yesterday--I rather like that girl they call Margaret--and while we were there, a box of jewels came in; a present from you, it appears.”

“Jewels!” said Violet, angrily; “my dear Albert--little twopenny things, not worth talking about.”

“I don’t know how that may be. I saw a real gold bracelet, not very heavy or precious, I dare say, but such as I should be very thankful to get for twopence. And I tell you I don’t think Leicester was pleased.”

“Then people are very hard to please, and I can’t help it,” she replied, quickly.

“I am not so sure of that. To tell you the truth, Violet, I do think you make yourself rather a fool about those girls.”

“As to those trinkets, Albert, I really could not help giving them. Jessie Leicester stood in mute admiration over some sham things we saw in a shop. They were pretty, but I told her I could not bear to wear sham trinkets; she said her brother felt the same; and though she did not mind, she never dared to do it. In the course of conversation, I discovered that they, poor girls, have hardly any trinkets at all. But I was very discreet. This happened a fortnight ago, and I let a whole fortnight pass before I sent my presents. They are really little twopenny things; but whatever they are, they are true and not sham.”

“How very correctly you speak, Violet!” said Albert, dryly; “real gold for twopence. However, whatever the case may be, I do not speak only of the jewels. It is all very well to be attentive, but things may be overdone.”

“What are you and Albert fighting about?” said Mr. Osborne, rousing himself from a doze.

“Can kindnesses be overdone, papa?” said Violet, eagerly, “that is the question.”

“It is not a very common fault, dear, as the world goes,” he said, sleepily, “and so I would bear it when it is found.” And he dozed again.

“But I say they _can_ be overdone, Violet,” persisted Albert, “and I am quite sure I am right. Just change places, and ask yourself whether _you_ would like the Miss Leicesters to smother you with presents. That is the proper way of considering things. Do as you would be done by.”

“I cannot put myself in their place, and therefore I cannot consider it in that light; but I suppose riches are not given us to keep to ourselves? Would you and Mr. Leicester have been better pleased with me if I had bought the trinkets for myself?”

“I believe it to be an absolute impossibility to argue with a woman,” observed Albert, rising; “however clever they may be, and I allow you are clever, Violet, they have no more perception of the matter that lies before them than an infant in arms. You fly off to some abstract question which has nothing to do with our discussion, and which an idiot could answer. Good night, for I am going; only remember that I am right and you are wrong, and so you will find.”

“Well, good night,” she said smiling, “you have made me uncomfortable, though I cannot see why, and that ought to be triumph enough for you.”

“My dear Violet,” he said with a kind of parental dignity, “I assure you I want no triumph of that kind. My wish is to see you act properly. I am always sorry when I cannot approve of what you do.”

She laughed, and he left her; and Violet, though she could not see why, remained uncomfortable. She was not long left in discomfort; for Leicester, who was always welcomed, and was now a constant visitor at the house, called late in the afternoon of the following day. With Violet, and even with her father and mother, his shyness had passed away, and with something of a thoughtless thankfulness, he yielded himself to the charm that was enthralling him.

Violet saw in his face that he had something to say; but she did not intend to stand on the defensive, and therefore talked on common subjects, leaving it to him to attack her if he thought proper.

At a pause he did so.

“Do you remember, Miss Osborne, a remark connected with your kindness to my sisters which I made about three weeks ago?”

“You told me not to spoil them,” she replied demurely. “I am sure I hope I have done no serious harm.”

“I trust not, and yet I am anxious once again to repeat my words.”

“It is no use, Mr. Leicester,” she said wilfully, “if you choose to forbid me the house you can; but if I am allowed to see them, I must take my pleasure.”

He said nothing, but looked dissatisfied.

“I am sure I am very sorry,” she continued, a little hurt by his manner, “that I should give pain or discomfort to anybody; but I really think it is without reason.”

“It does give me pain, I confess,” he replied, “to see this lavish waste and profusion of gifts. I cannot but think of numbers whose bitter sorrows would be alleviated, if half was bestowed on their necessity.”

“Is that all?” said Violet quickly. “Then I do not mind. I thought it was that you were too proud to let _me_ give, or _them_ receive.”

He smiled, not quite easily, and said,

“I am never sure of what my motives are; and I may be actuated by low ones. But be that as it may, I am sure it is right to wish that one in your position should learn that there may be extravagance in giving as well as in other things. I speak plainly,” he added, colouring; “I scarcely know why I so presume, except that I think I know what some of life’s trials are better than you do.”

“And if you could know,” she said warmly, “how I long to be told of those trials, you would not apologise for speaking. But I must say a word in my defence. We are not, I hope, uncharitable in this house. There is hardly a society in London to which we do not subscribe; and we give soup twice a week, and a good many things besides. But I am afraid I think life would be very dry if we were only kind to the poor.”

“There is a medium in all things, though some persons refuse to see it,” he replied smiling. “Perhaps I should not persist in arguing this matter with you, if it were not that I know at this moment of a case of sorrow beyond my powers to relieve, on which a portion of what you have given my sisters would be wisely bestowed, and would be received as a blessing from heaven.”

“Oh! Mr. Leicester, and why have you not told me of it before? Do you not know that my life, my hope, my whole pleasure in life, is to do good?”

And all the warmth and kindliness of her nature sparkled in her eyes, and animated her face.

“I do know,” he replied with earnestness, “and it was for that reason I came to you. I had seen this case of sorrow but a short time before your last gifts to my sisters, and I resolved I would point out to you wiser and better objects for your generosity. Do not think I or they are ungrateful, for such is far from being the case.”

“Do not speak any more about gratitude,” she said quickly, “I hate the word; and now tell me what is this case of sorrow?”

“An officer’s wife and daughter left utterly destitute. There is the small widow’s pension, but the sickness and death of a child have swallowed it up, and much more than that, I fear. At this moment they are without the common necessaries of life, and the widow herself is ill. Their destitute state was pointed out to me, and I went to them; but, as I said, their necessity is beyond my powers to relieve, and their case is more suited to a woman’s kindness than a man’s.”

“I will go to them,” said Violet. “Mamma,” and she went across and kissed her mother, “you will take me to see a poor woman, will you not?”

“Yes, dear, certainly. Where does she live?” and Mrs. Osborne roused herself eagerly.

“It is in a part of London,” Leicester said, smiling, “to which I would not willingly send you. You must be prepared for real misery and its many accompaniments; but I suppose such sights are good for us all. I will write the direction.”

It was to one of the small streets near Soho Square.

“I will go to-morrow,” Violet said, “and I wish to-morrow was come. Could we meet you there, Mr. Leicester, and we might consider what could be done?”

“I will come here, if you will allow me,” he replied. “The mother is too ill, and the daughter too young and pretty to be a fit charge for me. I am thankful to resign them into your hands. I believe you are making out a romance,” he added smiling, as he saw a peculiar look in Violet’s face, “but I assure you I am far too prosaic a person for such kind of romances. Do not waste your imagination upon me.”

“Is the girl so very pretty?” Violet asked with curiosity.

“Not by any means dangerously beautiful,” he said, smiling again, “but certainly pretty, and so fair and young and helpless looking, that I shall be glad to think of her as having a kind adviser and friend. Any assistance I and my sisters can give, you may depend on our giving, but if you will accept the charge I resign it gratefully to you.”

“And I take it gratefully,” Violet said with warmth; “and I hope I shall acquit myself to your satisfaction.”