Chapter III

“This dull despair
Is the soul’s laziness. Rouse to the combat,
And thou art sure to conquer.”

ROWE.

There had been several days of bright morning frost, and they were followed by a day of incessant rain. It was such a day as had tried Violet’s temper, even in her old happy home, and beneath its influence her spirits sank to utter despondency. Remembering the conversation of the day before, she struggled hard to employ herself, and to conceal from her parents what she felt. She read, she practised, she rearranged the books and the ornaments of the room; she looked over her clothes, and endeavoured to calculate how much she ought properly to spend in clothing. But still there was no heart in her occupations; the outward man was employed, but the inward was picturing a life made up of rainy days in that small house, and her excited fancy was shivering before the prospect.

All the long day through it rained; no villager passed by; the leafless arms of the trees waved before the wind, and the small drops pattered against the window; and Violet looked out, and looked around, and felt despair. To Mr. and Mrs. Osborne the change was as great as to her, but they bore it cheerfully. Mr. Osborne, like Violet, could not bear inactivity, but, unlike her, a small thing occupied him. He had always had a fancy for carpentering; he now determined to be the carpenter of his establishment, and this rainy day was employed in clearing out the shelves from a large cupboard, and preparing it for a carpenter’s shop; making his arrangements with a care and forethought that occupied him entirely. Violet assisted him during a part of the day, but there was something of scorn in her heart; not for the employment itself, but for the cheerful and absorbed attention which her father gave; and again, as she sat alone at night, bitter tears fell from her eyes, and cold despair settled on her heart. The conviction that she was wrong, shame and disappointment in, and for, her in-submission, added their pangs, and she lay down and rose up, feeling as if the fount of youth and joy was dried up in her heart for ever.

Nor did the face of nature cheer her with its morning greeting. The violence of the rain was over, but a mist that was almost rain gave every prospect of another day of confinement and gloom. But many a cloudy morning turns out a fine day, and so it was on this occasion--morally, not atmospherically speaking.

Towards twelve o’clock Violet opened the window to prove to her mother that the damp mist was _not_ rain. Looking out, she perceived Mr. Pope and a lady approaching the house. Mr. Pope was wrapped in a long cloak, and, as he marched along with rapid, important steps, his lady companion was forced to trot by his side.

“Mr. Pope is coming to call, mamma,” Violet said to her mother, and internally added, with a sigh, “I never thought I should have been reduced to feel so glad.”

Mr. Pope entered pompously, and made his apologies for not having called the previous day. He then introduced his wife.

Mrs. Pope was a plump little woman, with a fair, fresh-coloured face, totally devoid of any expression but good temper. Mr. Pope had not chosen his wife, like Socrates, as a trial to his temper, but much more philosophically, as a solace to it. Mrs. Pope was Mrs. Pope in order that she might admire him in those intervals when the voice of the world was necessarily dumb; and she did it with all her heart. She could not forget that he had chosen her, the seventh penniless daughter of a penniless curate, to make her the comfortable wife of a comfortable rector, and she loved and honoured him with all the soul and all the intellect she possessed.

Leaving his wife to entertain Mrs. Osborne, Mr. Pope drew a chair near to the window where Violet was, and observed:

“My business is with Miss Osborne.”

Violet smiled and sat down; and he then further observed:

“Without any flattery, Miss Osborne, you must allow me to say that you sing and perform on the piano charmingly.”

“I don’t know who has spread such a report,” Violet replied, laughing; “I have been well taught, but I ought to play much better than I do.”

“You have answered a question I was about to ask. I felt convinced you had been well taught, but am glad to be assured of it. Of your performance I can speak from my own knowledge. You look surprised; allow me to explain myself. I was summoned yesterday evening to baptise the young child of a farmer who lives half a mile beyond you. It was, as you know, a most inclement night, and the summons was peculiarly inconvenient to me, as my horse had slightly injured himself the previous day. I unhesitatingly, however, complied with it; for I may say, Miss Osborne, without pride, that duty with me has been at all times a paramount consideration. On my return between nine and ten o’clock, the rain had abated, the moon struggled through the clouds, and I was rewarded for my exertions by a mild and pleasant walk, singularly refreshing after the confinement of the day. I walked leisurely, and as I drew near to this house I was gratified by hearing strains of music; I paused, and drew as near as I could without intrusion, and I must repeat, Miss Osborne, that I consider your performance charming.”

“I am very glad you think so,” Violet said, not ill-pleased to receive again the sweet incense of admiration, “and I ought to thank you for your compliment.”

“No compliment, Miss Osborne; but indeed in my position I might not have said so much on the subject, had I not a further object in view. You were kind enough to offer me your services on the first occasion we met....”

“Yes, indeed,” Violet interrupted, eagerly, “I should be so glad to be of use.”

“Permit me to proceed, Miss Osborne. We are in this favoured spot so singularly blest, that at the moment in which you spoke to me I was unable to call to mind one single point in which your services--the services of any person--were needful; and indeed it was not until I returned home last night and was revolving in my mind, as is my custom, my many responsibilities, that a suggestion offered itself, and, after some consideration, was adopted. You are no doubt aware that it is the duty of those in my situation to see that the Church service is decently performed. A duty not always respected, but one which I, among my many other duties, have made it my study to respect. I believe I might appeal to the whole neighbourhood to bear me out in this observation. But perfection, Miss Osborne, is difficult to attain; and as it is my wish and practice always to own a failure, if it so happen that one exists, I confess to you that our psalmody is not so perfect as might be desired; and I regret this the more as Sir William Hamilton has a fine ear for music, and that ear may possibly be occasionally offended. When I returned home last night, Miss Osborne, the tones of your voice haunted me, and an idea was suggested to me that you might--having kindly made an offer of your services--undertake the office of musical teacher to my school-children. I say no more, but lay my request before you for your consideration.”

Violet’s eyes sparkled. It was indeed a new employment; but she was not one to be daunted by difficulties, and the joy of being relieved from the burden of herself made her hear the proposal with rapture.

“I shall be too happy to agree to it, if I can,” she said cordially. “I must tell you that I have never thought about teaching at all, and it may be more difficult than I suppose; but I can but try, and I shall do my best to succeed. I am so much obliged to you for taking me at my word and coming to me.”

Mr. Pope was extremely gratified. Instead of being obliged, he found he was the obliger, and it was the position he preferred. He thanked her with great condescension, and then added,

“Your kindness, Miss Osborne, emboldens me to request that you will allow me to install you in your office this day. The fact is, Sir William Hamilton is at present absent, and it would be highly gratifying to me could I surprise him by a more perfect psalmody on his return. The weather is not very propitious, but if you are not delicate, which you must allow me to observe that I cannot suppose possible” (glancing with a bow at the bright colouring of her cheeks), “I would ask you to accompany me and Mrs. Pope to the church and to the school. I will then introduce you to your pupils, and you can make such arrangements as you think proper.”

Violet readily acquiesced, and left the room, kissing her mother’s brow as she passed and saying,

“Mr. Pope will tell you, mamma, what I am going to do.”

Mr. Pope came forward accordingly, and, standing with his back to the fire, made a narration to Mrs. Osborne of all he had thought, said, and planned, more shortly expressing his gratification in Violet’s acquiescence. Of the plan itself Mrs. Osborne heard nothing, for though Mr. Pope’s voice was loud, a narrative always made her deaf; but she had read her daughter’s pleasure in her speaking face, and she said a few gratified and grateful words.

Mr. Pope stroked his chest, and looked more broadly benevolent than ever.

“I am sure I don’t know where you get your thoughts,” said his admiring wife; “they always are so good.”

“I am not aware,” he replied, “that I am indebted to anything but my own reflection. I by no means pretend to inspirations, nor am I much in the habit of seeking suggestions from others. I own that I am singularly fortunate in the success of my ideas, as has been proved to-day.”