Chapter XII

“Death took away King Herod in his pride,
Death spared not Hercules for all his strength,
Death shooke great Alexander till he dye’d,
Death spared Adam, yet he dye’d at length.
The beggar and the king together lie,
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.”

_From old verses_, 1696.

Several years, upwards of four, of Violet’s life slipped quietly by. The Osbornes remained and took root in their new country. Two visits to friends near London, and one change of thirty miles for the benefit of sea-air for Mrs. Osborne, were the only varieties of those four years. The small way of living, and the cheapness of the country, enabled Mr. Osborne to live in comfort at his tiny home; but there was no elasticity in the income; no secret funds to meet the expensive pleasures of travelling. With equanimity he bore his fate. His wife did not bear, but enjoyed it. The calm quiet country existence was healthful to the nerves of the deaf woman, and she renewed her youth under its influence. For Violet, it is hard to find a word expressive of her state of mind. She was too busy in the present, too absorbed in a single hope to have time for musing or brooding, and though happy, or contented, were not words exactly suitable to her life of restless activity, she was upon the whole content and cheerful. A malady she had--a heart-ache--never entirely cured, and at times assailing her with violence; but youth and hope, and, as years flowed on, the knowledge that Leicester was still unmarried, carried her through, and in her home she was almost as bright and joyous as in the days of her opening youth.

Very few events marked these years. One or two must be mentioned.

The year after Violet’s visit to Ashford Park Lady Ashford died. Possibly there had been a decline step by step to the end, but no news of such decline had got abroad, and her death was a surprise. Her son was far away. Her husband was near at hand, but absent. She slipped out of life unattended as she had lived.

One morning she quietly observed to her maid, “This will be my last day. Is my lord at home?” On receiving a negative she sighed; then added, “Mr. Pope must be sent for,” but before he arrived she had tranquilly closed her eyes on earthly troubles.

The death of this poor lady made a sensation in the parish. She had so hidden herself; in rigid self-denial, had so hidden even her charities from view, that she had been forgotten, and when she died, rich and poor felt qualms of conscience in their forgetfulness. None suffered under this self-reproach more keenly than Mr. Pope. When he looked on the calm and holy face, from which life had just departed, he was touched; though he did not charge himself with neglect, for she had never seemed to court his visits, he did with contempt, and he resolved to do her all the honour remaining in his power by preaching a sermon on her death.

Having thus resolved, he was too heroic to give way under difficulties; but difficulty he certainly felt on the occasion. He could not hold her out as an example, for he had not admired and did not admire her character, or wish it to be imitated. There was a lesson of warning indeed to be drawn from some part of her conduct, but still less could this be dwelt on to the villagers. To preach on death might be easy, but then death was not a new subject, and he wished to distinguish her and himself on the occasion.

The moment of inspiration came at last. It was _Lady_ Ashford who had died; in her beautiful home, and with, had she pleased, all the luxuries of life, she still had died. This was the subject that seized on and approved itself even to his aristocratic mind. Death as the leveller. And whether with the elation of a new thought or that his mind was really touched and kindled by the circumstance of her death, he made a very fine sermon.

That his wife should say, “I don’t know where you get your thoughts,” was not much; but that Mr. Osborne should disrespectfully observe to Violet, “I never expected to feel so little sleepy under Pope’s discourses,” was a tribute more valuable. His triumph, however, was among the poor. They talked it over with rapture for a month at least.

“Ah! Jane,” said an old almshouse woman to her bedridden companion, “we had a terrible sermon from Master Pope,” and then in a few concise words she gave an epitome of the sermon. “When death comes to take us by the clutches, it will never do to say, I be my lord or my lady, or I be a king on my throne. Death must have his wull. He be a terrible grand thing that Death. Nothing on earth be so great as he.”

“But God is greater,” said Jane, somewhat scandalized.

“Ay, ay, but God be in heaven, and death bean’t _there_, thank the Lord.”

Lord Ashford returned in the evening of the day of his wife’s death, and found her dead.

That he should feel grief was impossible; but he, too, felt a qualm of conscience, and would have given much to have been able to murmur “Pardon me” in her dying ear. But the shock passed by--the troubled conscience was stilled, and she was forgotten.

Mr. Pope wrote to Lionel, but though he had returned from the East and was rambling about in Holland and Germany, his movements were so uncertain that it was three weeks before he heard the news. He came home with a speed for which there was now no cause, and shut himself up alone. There was a rumour that at nightfall he stole out to his mother’s grave; but in the daytime he was unseen, and he suffered no intrusion on his solitude.

Mr. Pope, always desirous to do his duty, wrote to offer a visit of condolence, and enclosed his sermon as a peacemaker. But Lionel had resented Mr. Pope’s friendship with his father, and comparative neglect of his mother, and resentment was not forgotten now. With a few words of cold thanks, and scarcely warmer approval, he returned the sermon, and declined the visit, and remained alone and comfortless.

Ida’s tender heart bled, and she implored permission to go to him; but Sir William Hamilton, more discerning than his daughter, had perceived that Lionel resented any forwardness on Ida’s part, and now, as usual, refused to allow her to seek him out.

About ten days after his return she was, however, gratified by the sight of him. She and Violet were returning late from a small hamlet, to the special care of which Violet was directing Ida’s attention, when they saw him on the opposite side of a hedge. _They_ were in one of the meadows of Boscombe; he was in Ashford Park. Ida grasped Violet’s arm and pointed him out; but no sound was made and they walked on for a time in silence, uncertain whether he perceived or intended to notice them. At length a kind of gate at the end of the hedge was reached, and Lionel suddenly and lightly vaulting over it stood before them.

His pale, distressed countenance, and the sight of his deep mourning, overcame Ida, and, springing forward, she threw herself into his arms, sobbing out:

“Oh! my dearest Lionel, I am so sorry for you!”

As she was now a tall girl of thirteen, Lionel’s strictures on this behaviour might have been reasonable, but he was too agitated to think of them now. Far from repelling, he held her hand, crushing it in his own while he endeavoured to master himself.

When he had calmed himself as best he could, he let go her hand, and, advancing slightly, shook hands with Violet.

“Ida has been hoping to see you,” Violet said, speaking to relieve the awkwardness of the moment.

“I wished to see her, too, before I went. I have walked here several evenings. I knew you went often to Little Boscombe, and I thought I should meet you.”

There was a pause, and then Ida looked up sorrowfully.

“Are you going again, Lionel?”

“Yes. I only waited to see you.”

“Are you going for long?”

“Yes, for some years, I think.”

“For some years!” echoed both Violet and Ida.

At Violet’s exclamation he turned towards her, and said fiercely--

“Yes, for years. Why should I not? What tie have I got to keep me at home?”

“I thought you knew your mother wished you to live at home,” Violet said in a low voice.

A hundred times at least she had debated with herself whether the message left with her should be given, and a hundred times her sober judgment had told her that it was not a matter in which she was likely to do good, or in which it was wise for her to interfere. But her impulse was stronger than her judgment, and on the impulse of the moment she spoke.

“How do you know she wished it?” he said eagerly.

“She told me so in that one visit. She left, indeed, a kind of message for you.”

“A message!” he cried excitedly. “Ida, leave us for a moment. I wish to speak to Miss Osborne alone.”

Ida stole back along the hedge idly picking out the wild flowers, and Violet also moved, repenting of the impulse that had led her to speak.

But he stood still and requested, almost commanded, her to repeat what had been said.

She did so as nearly as possible in the very words that had been used, giving to them all the force and pathos in her power.

His agitation frightened her. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he clenched and unclenched his hands several times, as if in a vain effort to restrain himself. But it was not the agitation of tenderness. When he spoke his words were fiery and resentful.

“You do not know what you ask. If you did know--if you could but guess the course of conduct which has driven my poor angel mother into an early grave--you would not ask, you would not dare to ask of her son to forgive.”

“I ask nothing,” Violet said gently. “I have told you the words that were said to me; but you know your duty far too well for me to wish to influence you, even had I the right to do so.”

“There are cases when duty is at war with duty. I have a duty to my dear lost mother, and that dissolves the common duty of a son to his father. In my mind he is little better than her murderer; he shall not be a father to me, nor will I live with him as his son.”

Violet was shocked and alarmed at the violence of his language and countenance; but though shocked she was interested. It was the revelation of a character, some ingredients of which she had suspected lay under his formal manners, but the full development of which astonished her.

She made one more effort.

“Your mother spoke of faults on her part, faults of judgment which had been committed, which partly excused ... which at least explained.... I hardly know how to express myself, but you should not forget what she said. She in her quietness was a better judge of what duty is than you can be in your excitement. But I can say no more. It is for you to think over her words and decide. Ida,” and she slightly raised her voice and beckoned with her hand.

Ida returned, slowly gazing at Lionel, to see if she had permission to return.

“I have shocked you,” he said. “Forgive me. You can hardly guess what my feelings are on that subject. I wish I could be guided by you, but I cannot.”

Violet made no answer, but when Ida reached them, held out her hand and said--

“We must wish you good-bye, then.”

He shook her hand silently, and drawing Ida a little apart, whispered to her for two or three seconds; when he released her, with a condescension never before exhibited, and probably in his agitated state unconsciously shewn, he kissed her cheek. He then vaulted over the gate and disappeared.

Ida walked along for a short distance, crying silently. Violet’s mind during that short time was more occupied with curiosity than with any other subject. She was by nature curious, and she did feel desirous to know the subject of that private communication. No excess of curiosity would, however, have allowed her to ask a question on the subject, and she was unexpectedly relieved by Ida’s remark.

“Do you know what Lionel said to me, Violet?” drying her eyes, and looking up, ready for conversation.

“No, indeed. How could I guess?”

“I thought perhaps he told you. He asked me to go and see Uncle Ashford very often, and to be a kind of a daughter to him, as he cannot be his son.”

Violet saw in this request the endeavour to stifle a prompting of conscience.

“Well, Ida, you must try and do as he wishes,” she replied. “It cannot be the same thing, but you may be of a little use.”

“I wish Lionel liked Uncle Ashford better,” Ida next said sadly. “And Uncle Ashford, too, I wish he liked Lionel.”

“I wish so, too. But we will not talk about such things. It seems so shocking for a son not to love his father.”

“I think Lionel would if he could, and I think Uncle Ashford would if he could,” was Ida’s charitable comment.

“Ah! but, Ida, real goodness is to do more than we can. I am afraid saying ‘we can’t’ is no good excuse;” and having instilled her moral lesson, Violet changed the subject, and endeavoured to divert Ida’s mind.

Another event, or more properly circumstance, for it could not be dignified with the name of an event, occurred about two years afterwards. This was a disappointment which came to Violet in the person of Amy White. As her conduct on the occasion gave rise to some further circumstances, it must not be passed over.

No one could have toiled more unceasingly than Violet had to prevent Amy from sinking in the scale of society by the occupation she followed. No one could have toiled more earnestly, by society, advice, and guidance, to elevate and refine her mind, that she might thereby prevent herself from sinking. But some minds will not be elevated, and some persons cannot rise above the level in which their daily duty lies. It was thus with Amy. She worshipped Violet, and for her sake did strive to maintain a position above her occupation; but it was wearying to her, and the effort was not strong enough to withstand a temptation.

Violet one day accompanied Ida to the neighbouring town for a visit to a dentist. Ida suffered a good deal, and their return was late. About two miles from Holywell, Violet observed on the footpath a young man and a young woman walking arm-in-arm, and though, as they passed, the young woman was closely veiled, she had no difficulty in recognising Amy White. The young man, she thought, was a grocer in the town from whence she was returning, but of this she could not be sure. Ida was reclining backwards in great pain, and saw neither the sight, nor the more remarkable sight of Violet’s crimson, indignant, astonished, ashamed countenance.

Nothing was said of what she had seen, but the following morning she hastened to Amy for an explanation.

Poor Amy, with many tears, confessed that the young man _was_ her lover, _was_ the grocer, and that she had given him considerable encouragement.

“Then you mean to marry him,” Violet said, in stern astonishment.

Amy was silent. Somewhat imperiously she repeated the question.

“I hardly know,” Amy said hesitatingly. “Sometimes I think I won’t; and then I think it will be a happy thing for my mother and me to be provided for all our days.”

“But that is so low a view of marriage,” Violet said warmly. “Have you considered all the case? Do you, can you love him?”

“I think he loves me,” was the evasive reply, “for he is rich, rich compared to us, and I am poor, and yet he is willing to have me.”

“Willing to have you,” Violet repeated, in ill-suppressed contempt. “My dear Amy, do you consider what you say and what you are doing? Give yourself to a grocer because he is willing to have you though you are poor. My dear Amy, is it possible you can reason in such a way.”

Amy looked ashamed, but made no defence. Violet went on after a moment more calmly.

“Do not suppose I would say a word against a young man because he is a grocer. It is a most useful and respectable business, and if he chooses a fitting wife, I daresay she will be a very happy woman. But I cannot fancy you, Amy, behind a counter....”

“He says he will never ask it,” Amy burst in eagerly.

“Then I think him very nonsensical,” was Violet’s decided reply. “Husbands and wives ought to help each other, and if a grocer has a fine wife who will not exert herself, or show herself, they will both be miserable. Depend upon it, Amy, I am right and you are wrong. You were born a lady, and though you have suffered much, you have never yet lowered yourself; you do not know what you will feel when you have taken a step which condemns you for _life_ to different society. Depend upon it you will repent, and bitterly.”

Amy worshipped Violet, and these and many other arguments, poured out during an hour’s conversation, induced her to give up the proposed connection.

But when the deed was done, she repented, and bitterly. The pleasant excitement of the courtship was no more. Her mother, though she had grumbled at the idea of such a marriage, grumbled still more when she found it was not to be, and made her home for some weeks a torment. Could it have been possible she would have lured the lover back. But he was not to be allured. He had behaved, as he justly thought, handsomely, and he had been treated, as he justly thought, unjustly. He was stung and piqued, and after a few weeks transferred his attentions to a handsome bustling young woman, the very opposite to Amy, and exactly fitted to be a rising grocer’s wife.

Violet’s arguments had been true, and her advice sound. With many characters her interference might have been useful. But Amy was helplessly weak; her sentiments on love and marriage were not high, and from this time Violet began to perceive that her cares had been thrown away, and sometimes to grieve that she had not allowed Amy’s affairs to take their own natural course, unbiassed by her arguments and wishes.

A third event was the coming of age of Lionel Vane. He came home on the occasion to sign some papers; but a disagreement sprang up with his father; excited words were spoken, and in two or three days he had again betaken himself to his wandering life.

The disagreement was not with regard to money arrangements. Lionel was willing to do all his father wished in that respect. It regarded a bequest of Lady Ashford’s to a specified religious society. The bequest was left in humble words, “Should my husband and my son, when he comes of age, approve.” Now Lord Ashford did not approve, and had this argument on his side, that since Lady Ashford’s death the society in question had been brought somewhat conspicuously before the public, owing to fraudulent practices in one of the managers. But with Lionel his mother’s wish was sacred, and perhaps all the more sacred from his father’s opposition. Neither would yield, and they parted in displeasure.

It was unfortunate. Lord Ashford, since his wife’s death, had been sobering and improving. There was no show or talk of improvement, perhaps no consciousness of it, but he was becoming quieter, and was beginning to look forward with hope and pleasure to the time when Ida, as Lionel’s wife, would make him a comfortable and peaceful home. Lionel could not know this fact. There was no one to tell him of any change; and his visit was too short to allow of any such observation from his own eyes. But some ignorances are in themselves faults, and some eyes are blindfolded by their own hands.

He paid a short visit to Ida on this occasion, and though angry with his father, he still encouraged _her_ to be with him, and make herself as a daughter. An injunction scrupulously fulfilled, as far as Sir William Hamilton permitted it.