Chapter V

“Sir,
Your falsehood and your face are loathsome to me.
I trample on your offers and on you.
Begone!”

_The Princess._

It was about this moment that the shower mentioned in a previous chapter suddenly fell. Ida and Miss White were under shelter. The other schoolmistress and a servant and maid from Ashford Park ran into their tent, and Violet, as has been related, flew into the one that was nearest to her. Lionel followed her.

She was breathless from the moment’s quick pace, and he said, “I am almost glad of this rain, because it will force you to rest. You have overtired yourself.”

“Tired!” she cried with disdain. “There has been nothing yet to tire. And yet I do believe _you_ are tired,” she added, remarking that his face was flushed.

“Oh! no, I am not tired.”

“After all, it would not be very odd if we both were tired,” she said, thinking he did not like to own it. “Shall we sit down? We may as well,” and she sat down accordingly; but he did not follow her example.

“Flowers!” she cried, stretching out her fingers to a heap of cut flowers that lay on the table. “What is to be done with these?”

“They are to go on the tables in flower-pots. It was Ida’s thought; she sent them. Unfortunately the flower-pots are in one of the other tents.”

“Never mind. We will make them into bunches, and that will save time. What a pretty thought of Ida’s!” she added.

“Yes.”

She thought his “yes” cold, and her determination to force him to a proposal came to her mind. Thought in her brain was rapid; too rapid sometimes for a proper degree of reflection to accompany it; and the determination had no sooner recurred to her remembrance than she said playfully,

“By-the-bye, Mr. Vane, you have never yet thanked me for the way in which I have carried out your wishes. Do you remember a conversation we had long, long ago?”

“I am not sure that I do, thank you,” he said in a low voice.

She looked up surprised. “Do you not think Ida improved?”

“Improved! Oh! yes. How could it be otherwise?”

“Then what do you mean? Perhaps you think I take to myself undue honour? I assure you I only spoke in jest. I wondered if you did remember that talk we had. I know Ida is her own good self, and would have been so without any hands of mine.”

“I did not mean that,” he said agitatedly. “You force me to speak. Do you know what I did mean? I mean that by what you have done you have taken away my excuse--in part at least--for not loving Ida; which I do not--which I cannot do.”

“You do not love Ida!” And Violet turned pale with dismay. Not that she had any suspicion of further ill, but dismayed for Ida’s sake.

“No. Ida may be good, but you are better. I love the best.” He spoke with a strange abruptness, as if hardly daring to say the words he did say, as if they were spoken against his will, without his will.

“Mr. Vane, are you mad!” Violet said, a look of terror on her face.

“Mad! no, or only mad with struggling with my rebellious heart. I love you. Oh! Miss Osborne, do not look at me with anger. You should pity my misery.”

“Pity you! How dare you speak to me as you have done?” As her terror, her first dismay, passed off, anger, and mortification, and contempt, and divers other moods and passions, swept through her mind, and agitated her breast.

“Do not speak of dare to me. It has burst from me against my will, but I care not. I have struggled long--if you could but know how I have struggled _not_ to love; but it was vain. I love you!”

Violet started up, but Leicester, who might have seen the movement, was now on his way homewards. The rain had abated, but large drops were still falling; and while others thought shelter needful, she was afraid of seeming bold. After looking out, she turned back into the tent. Lionel was leaning on the table, the picture of despair.

“Mr. Vane,” she said coldly, “this is not a day, and this is not a place, to make a scene. I will try and bear your presence for this day without showing the contempt I feel. After to-day....”

“Your contempt!” he said, writhing, as if she had stung him. “Oh! not contempt!”

“Contempt and scorn!” she said, with vehemence. “That to _me_--to me who have associated with you as your friend, unsuspicious, trusting; to _me_, to whose care you entrusted your future wife; that to me you should dare to address such words!” her voice faltered, and tears fell from her eyes. “Oh! what must you think of me?”

He seemed beside himself.

“Forget it!--forget it!” he cried, passionately. “I will try--I will do all you wish.”

“Forget what? Forget that you have confessed your utter unworthiness of Ida; forget your falsehood to her and to me? Such things are not forgotten.”

“You are right,” he said, passing his hand over his heated brow.

“Here they come. Mr. Vane,” she said, with dignity and command, “whatever must be known privately, do not let us be a show to the world. Recover yourself, and for this day, at least, show yourself to be a man. Help me. Take up those flowers.”

“Here, Ida,” she cried, as she entered the tent, “we have been saving time, that is, I have, and have put these flowers in order. Have you the vases to put them in?”

“I sent some up,” Ida said, and she turned to Lionel.

“They are in the tent. I will run and fetch them,” he murmured, and he hurried away.

“You look so tired, dear Violet,” Ida said, affectionately. “Mr. Osborne said you had been doing too much.”

“It is not that,” Violet said after a moment’s thought. “I have been rather annoyed about something. Never mind now, we have too much to do. Here come the flower-pots.”

Amy White brought them. Ida looked out to see what had become of Lionel. She had noticed, also, that he looked flushed. But she was unsuspicious, and too unselfish to worry with questions, and she helped Violet in silence.

When the vases were filled, they carried them to the various tables. Lionel joined Ida as she put down two on the table spread for the old alms-women.

“I chose these bright roses for them,” she said, smiling; “the commoner ones will do for the children.”

“How wet the grass is!” he remarked, looking down.

“_Ma bonne_ made me put on thick boots; she said it would rain. I wonder if Violet has!” and Ida looked round. Lionel did not stir; Ida set down the flower-pots, and flew to ask her.

“She has,” she said, coming back; “you ought to have saved me that run, Lionel!” She thought he looked dull, and spoke smilingly to rouse him.

“I beg your pardon,” he replied, laughing constrainedly. Then, as if his laugh grated on his ears, asked quickly if the cake was all cut.

“Oh, yes, come and see,” Ida said, and he followed her like a man in a dream.

The festivities then began, and for some time all who had hands to help were busy in attending to the wants of those who sat down to eat; but when men and women, young and old, girls and boys, had ate as much and perhaps more than they could, Mr. Osborne approached Violet.

“You look tired, darling. Surely they can do without you now, and we may go home and rest ourselves.”

He did not expect an acquiescence, and was surprised at receiving it.

“Yes, papa,” Violet replied, wearily, “I will come. Wait for me here, and I will run and tell Ida that we are going home.”

Ida was comforting a poor little child, who was crying from the probably new discomfort of an indigestion. When Violet called, she left him.

“If you can do without me, Ida, I shall go. Papa is tired of staying, and I think I had rather go.”

“I don’t know if we _can_ do without you, Violet.” Ida looked round for Lionel, who had been near, but had withdrawn at Violet’s approach; “but we _will_, for you look tired, as I told you before.”

“It is not tire exactly, but good-bye now. I hope you will get on well, and that the poor children will have a merry evening.”

She spoke so dejectedly that Ida again looked at her with curiosity, but meeting no further answer to her inquiring glance, went back to the crying child, and Violet looked about her till she espied Lionel. She then went towards him.

“I am going home, Mr. Vane,” she said, as she met him; “I suppose it will be some time before I see you again, and I do not like to part with anyone in anger. Good-bye.” She held out her hand.

Though her words were kind, the tone was cuttingly cold. He looked at her imploringly and piteously, as if to beg one gentler glance; and, angry as she was, his look of misery touched her. She could not help it.

“You have a hard duty before you,” she said, more gently; “you must tell Ida. I feel for you.”

“Thank you for feeling for me, but that is nothing,” he replied.

“I am sorry to hear you say so,” and her tone resumed its coldness. “Then, good-bye.”

“Not so unkindly!” he cried, with the same look of despair.

“How can I help it? Was it nothing to have taught Ida to look to you, not for happiness only, but for guidance? Is it nothing to have to destroy such trust as hers?”

His lip quivered.

“It would be torture if I could feel anything but your contempt, but I cannot.”

“Good-bye; I cannot stay to speak more. Tell Ida to let me know when she will see me. I _must_ see her soon.” And she left him and followed her father from the spot.

As they walked home in silence, Mr. Osborne observed that tears were fast falling down his daughter’s face, and as soon as they entered the cottage she flew upstairs to her own room.

“There’s something wrong,” he observed to his wife; “there’s been something wrong nearly all the day. She was gay enough when we started, but there’s been some _contretemps_ or other, and I think it has to do with Mr. Vane, for he looks as if he was ready to hang himself. You must go up in a short time, and see what the matter is.”

Mrs. Osborne went up and found Violet lying on her bed in one of her excitements of grief. The insult to herself was deeply felt; but it was the injury to Ida--it was the thought of the misery, the general disappointment which _she_, she who had so worked for the accomplishment of this hope, had been the means of producing, which nearly broke her heart, which made her weep as if she could not be comforted.

“My child, my dear, dear child, my darling!” cried Mrs. Osborne, terrified at the state in which she found her daughter.

Violet endeavoured to compose herself.

“Sit down, mamma,” she said, signing to a chair by her bed; “I will tell you all in a minute.” And very shortly she did recover herself sufficiently to pour into her mother’s ears the tale in all its bearings. “And oh! mamma, I am afraid I have been wrong to you and papa; I seem to do nothing but what is wrong, and only to cause misery,” and she sobbed passionately.

“Now, darling,” said her mother, soothingly, “don’t agitate yourself and blame yourself needlessly. We all make mistakes, and it would be very strange if you never did. I think you made a mistake here, but it was nothing wrong, dear. I know you meant to do the best.”

“It _was_ wrong, was it?”

“I think you were over-young to be made the confidant in this affair. You know, dear, you are a young lady, and it does not do for a young lady to be independent.”

“But oh! mamma, I do so hate to be considered a young lady. I like to be a sensible woman.”

“But is it not childish, darling, to hate to be thought what you really are?”

“If you had known, what would you have done?”

“Perhaps nothing, dear. It is easy to say afterwards what we might have done. I think, however, that I should have warned you about Mr. Vane. I have often thought that he seemed inclined to like you.”

“Oh! mamma, why did you not speak? I think I should have listened to _you_.”

“I saw no reason, dearest. You never did anything indiscreet, and, as you all seemed happy together, I thought it a pity to disturb you with fancies that might be idle ones. I knew no reason, darling, you know, why he should not like you, and marry you, too, if you and he please.”

“Impossible!” and Violet’s cheeks glowed with suppressed indignant jealous love.

But the change of thought did her good. It made her feel that the world was not at an end, as it had seemed for the last few hours. She remembered all she had gone through, and felt that if _she_ had borne the pangs of disappointed love with the weight of remorse for her own conduct besides, Ida, guiltless, might bear them also. They were not cheerful thoughts that arose; they were, on the contrary, despondent thoughts, regarding herself and Ida, and the world and all the world contained; but they were calming though sad, and the excitement of her misery passed by.