 section 12 of Violet Osborne. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by D. Randall. Violet Osborne by Lady Emily Ponsonby, Volume 1, Chapter 12. The wise and active conquer difficulties by daring to attempt them. Roe. Lester went about his business during these days of uncertainty and trial and listened to his sisters once and wishes as usual. But there is a devouring fire within him. The pangs of wounded love tortured him. Violet had become all to him, and he was nothing to her. Nor was this all. The future was in every way a place of uncertainty and dread. He had taken on himself new relations in the confidence that they in no way opposed his duty to his sisters, and now opposition had arisen. Love, if it was to be successful, warred with duty. In vain he walked alone and meditated. In vain he sat alone and meditated. In his uncertainty regarding Violet's feelings for him, he could come to no conclusion. In vain his sister's eyes, some compassionately, some curiously, some anxiously rested upon him. He could not speak, for he had nothing to tell. He was Violet's betrothed husband, but he was shut out like a stranger. It was a want of spirit, some may say. To be thus shut out, a lover of spirit would have forced his way in, in spite of displeasure. But to force his way was not in Lester's nature. He had his pride. It was wounded pride that was torturing him now. But he was too humble, too distrustful of his claims to press a claim that was not acknowledged. On the fourth evening, after the change of circumstances, having dined with his sisters, he left them early, unable to endure the turmoil of his thoughts in their society. I am not very good company just now, he said, smiling kindly. But you will be good natured enough to excuse me. He nodded a good night and closed the door quickly to shut out any reply. This is a very disagreeable state of things, just to be marked with fretfulness. If we knew what it was all about, I should not mind, but it is a dreadful nuisance to have a person looking as John does, and not to know what it means. I am sure I was unhappy enough when I thought John was going to be merry, Margaret said, leaning her head on her hands, and now I would give the world to have that day back again. How one's feelings do change in this world? It is enough to teach one never to fret about thing. I feel like you, Margaret, said Henrietta. I lay awake, then thinking how dull we should be, and now I should be quite glad to have the dullness. However, a marriage is to be managed now, I can't conceive. People cannot live on air, however much in love they may be. It must require very great management, certainly, said Marian. And I should not fancy that Ms. Osborn was fit for that. I hate the Osborns, Margaret said, suddenly, with flashing eyes. They do not treat John as he ought to be treated. That is, Ms. Osborn does not. When a woman has gone and gained a man's whole heart, she ought to feel it a great responsibility, and not treat it like a light thing. I know John has not been considered, for I am sure he would tell us if he knew anything. And I know he has not seen her, because I asked him today. He tried to answer not yet, as if it was natural, but I saw his poor face, how it looked. But, my dear Margaret, Rachel said gently, you should consider Ms. Osborn, too. It would be a dreadful thing if we were ruined. I daresay we hardly know what we should do. But to Ms. Osborn, who has been more like a princess than anything else, it must be far worse. No doubt she is too bewildered to know how she acts. If I was ruined a thousand times over, Margaret replied undauntedly, I should feel for the man who cared for me, and so should I, said Jesse. I should remember that I had got love left to comfort me, and then I should not so much care about money. Margaret looked very fierce at this faint repetition of her sentiment, but being really unhappy about Lester, allowed it to pass without a strife. That night, when all her sisters were gone to their rooms, Rachel softly opened her door and watched for Lester. Henrietta and Jesse had a room on the drawing room floor, preferring to be together. Rachel, Marian, and Margaret had rooms on the second floor, and Lester had a large room on the floor that was not an attic above. When he came home and went up with heavy strides to his room, she crept after him. But it was so unusual a thing to do, that she paused breathlessly outside his closed door, and was still breathless when she timidly and almost noiselessly knocked and entered. He was standing by the fire, leaning his arms on the low chimney piece, already in an attitude of thought, but he turned quickly round and said, Is that you, Rachel? Do you want anything? Yes, she replied, still breathless with the effort of putting herself forward. I am come because I want to speak to you. Then speak, he said kindly. There, and he put her into a chair near the fire. Will that do? What is it, dear Rachel? Do you want my advice or help or what? No, she said, shaking her head and recovering herself at the tone of the kind, friendly voice. I do not want advice. I want to give it. The kind, friendly look vanished, and a grave shadow came in its place. Is it me you wish to advise? He asked. I do not want advice. I do not need it. I am not sure, she replied again, breathless. I think you do. In what way? Speak out, dear Rachel. I am very willing to hear. I do not think you consider us and our wishes enough, she said hurriedly. You like to give up all to us, and you do not consider that we may wish to give up to you. You have lived for us all your life long, and you do not remember that now we should be and are willing to live for you. You do not mean it, dear John. But it is unjust and unkind. My dear Rachel, he said, turning gravely towards her from the fireplace and fixing his eyes on her excited face. What would you have me do? Mary, she exclaimed, the word escaping with strange force from her lips. I think I see what thoughts are troubling you. I know that worldly cares are pressing on you. But let me speak for once. Do not let thoughts for us disturb you. Make a home for her, for them all if you will. It may not be a rich one, but it will be a home. And if that home must make us poor, do not grudge to us for once and for a time. Do what you have been doing all your life. We may have something to give up, but trust us, me and all, that it will be the happiest day of our lives to do it. He stooped and silently kissed her without a word of thanks. You may be right, dear Rachel, was all his reply. And if it should be right, though it might break my heart, I will not forget what you have said. She thanked him and then wishing him good night, stole from the room, and softly crept downstairs. But softly as her visit had been effected, it had not escaped the ears of her sisters. And before she reached her own door, every door was thrown open, and Jesse, in a white dressing gown, was half upstairs to see what the matter was. What has happened, Rachel? asked Marian. Has John anything to communicate? Oh, do tell us, do tell us, cried Jesse, flying up higher, followed by Henrietta in the distance. Is Miss Osborn coming to live with us? Or has she had a legacy? Or is it all come straight? Or has it all gone wrong? And don't John mean to marry? Or there is nothing, Rachel said hurtly. I know nothing. Then what were you doing at this time of night? asked Marian. There is a mystery. I know there is a mystery, cried Jesse. We heard you go up to his room, didn't we, Henrietta? And we know you have been talking together, and we must know what he says. We have a right to know what he says. We are all his sisters, quite as much as you. Now, Jesse, have done, said Margaret, stepping forward. Perhaps in the hope of something being betrayed, she had hitherto stood silent. I will not have Rachel pestered. You have no business to interfere. Has she, Marian? Jesse said. Yes, I have. It is my business to see justice done in this house. Is it not a shame to think that one sister can not speak to her brother without being set upon in this way? We had all much better go to bed. But I know you were watching till Rachel came down, Margaret, because I heard your door open very soon after she went up. After saying this, Henrietta retired to her room. Margaret Culler didn't say it quickly. It is a good thing that I do keep watch, or I believe Rachel would have been eaten up, and now on good night. She stood with the look of defiance at her door, till every sister slowly glided away and disappeared. End of Volume 1, Chapter 12 Section 13 of Violet Osborne This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by D. Randall. Violet Osborne by Lady Emily Ponsonby. Volume 1, Chapter 13 We twain have met like ships upon the sea, who hold an hour's converse so short, so sweet, one little hour and then away they speed, on lonely paths through mist and cloud and foam, to meet no more, the life drama. Lester heard from Mrs. Osborne the next morning. She gave a message from Violet simply begging to see Lester on the afternoon of the following day, and always kind and gentle, added from herself that she was sure he had suffered much anxiety on their account, and that she had felt for him. Unable to bear the torture of his sister's looks during the next 30 hours of uncertainty, Lester wished them good-bye, with an intimation that he should sleep out of town, and having calmed and strengthened himself by those hours of solitary reflection, proceeded at the appointed time to the house in Park Lane. He had thought much on Rachel's words, and was resolved if an opening was given to act upon them. It did, as he had expressed it to her, break his heart to be the one to cause his sister's poverty or loss. But in his silent reflections, he felt there might be a pride of duty, to be vanquished like all other kinds of pride, and he submitted himself to the necessity laid upon him. He was shown into the drawing room, and very quickly Violet came to him there. At the very first glance, he saw how much she was changed. Some countnesses, especially when the features themselves are finely formed, looked as lovely or even lovelier in dejection and melancholy. But it was not so with Violet. Her features had been so animated by the light and warmth and goodwill within, that they seemed to have lost even the beauty of their form, now that that inner light was darkened. Their softness and smoothness seemed to be heartened into a stern composure, and her dark blue eyes, which once, without metaphor, did shine like stars, were now as dull and heavy as a stormy cloud. Lester saw the change in the very first glance, and unable to argue on its cause, seeing only the change which a few days sorrow had made was about to spring forward, all self-forgotten, all the strife between love and duty to his sisters forgotten. To spring forward lost in one feeling of love and compassion for her when a second gaze arrested him. That second gaze revealed not the change only, but a something in the change that awed and chilled him. He paused, while the spring of love welled slowly backwards into the recesses of his heart. They met calmly, coldly, and silently, and with a slight movement, Violet directed him to a chair. He sat down and said nothing. He saw the expected moment was come. He was nothing to her, and he would not, by one forth word of movement, lay a claim upon her or add to the troubled passions of her mind. It might have been but one minute. It seemed to him ten before she spoke. Her lips parted twice before any sound was heard, and when she did speak, it was hurriedly. There has been such a change, Mr. Lester, as I never contemplated, and in that change everything, all relations and engagements of life are changed. It is well to face the truth at once. It was what he had expected. The engagement between them was dissolved, he knew it. He had known it from the glance of her eye and the touch of her hand, but he could not speak. He heard it in silence, only steadfastly gazing at her to hear all her will. She had expected a word, perhaps in her innermost heart, in the unconscious mysteries of the mind, had expected a denial, and more hurriedly and passionately she went on. It is right to look things in the face. I am no longer what I was. My hopes in life are changed. My duties are changed. I cannot be a wife now. I must be a daughter and a daughter only. Life has become very dark, but I think if I am free, and she drew a deep breath, as if shaking herself from a chain that galled her, I shall be strong enough to bear it. She stopped again, and a second time sighed a sigh of relief rather than of sorrow. Lester spoke at last. All your will shall be done, he said in a low but steady voice. We are free, henceforth we travel on alone. There was a something in the tone of his voice, which made Violet's heart ache and throb and then die. A something that faintly told the love he bore her, the love and sympathy she was rejecting, but though the voice spoke, the words were unimpassioned and cold. She offered freedom, and it was accepted without one effort to bind her. Her proud spirit felt it, and at the bidding of her proud spirit, the fluttering heart was still. He does not want a poor wife, she inwardly said, with a kind of passionate coldness, and she became strong again at the thought. They were free, and they said opposite to each other free, free and cold and silent. You have suffered much, and our much changed, at last Lester gravely said. Proud tears flashed in her eyes, and she said bitterly, We are badly taught. If we were taught in youth that human life is subject to change like this, we should not set our hearts on any earthly thing. I shall do so no more. You are young, he said, to live and have no heart in the world. I shall wish you better things. Her heart ached again. There was no passion in his calm voice, but it touched some corp which for the moment seemed to strain almost to break. She shook her head, but said nothing. There was a pause, and then Lester began in the same tone, and pursuing the same train of thought. When the violence of the shock is over, you will wake up as in a new life, and I know you well enough to be sure that you will give, and therefore find happiness, as you have hitherto done. I shall have no power to give, she interrupted, in the bitter, passionate tone in which she had last spoken. The spring is dry. Oh, Violet, he said, unconsciously calling her by the name which for many months had made a ceaseless strain of music in his heart. Are your thoughts so poor as to think money alone can bless? You have still yourself, and the good heart God has given you. I shall hear of you. He continued after another moment's pause. I know I shall. The friend, the comforter, the help of many. When the eye sees it will bless you, when the ear hears it will leap for joy. Softer tears trembled in Violet's eyes. She shook her head, but it was more gently, and there was a passing away of pride for the moment, at least when she said, Why do you say here? We shall still be friends. No, Violet, he said, with a grave and melancholy dignity. I cannot be a friend. We part. Henceforth we travel on alone. Some men might bear to be friends, to live by the ashes of a fire that has gone out, but I cannot. We are free, and we must part. Violet said paralyzed in heart and soul. Vaguely, dimly, she saw in the far future the blank. If a blank can be seen, she felt the aching void. If a void can be felt, which the loss of his love would make, in the long vista of future years she saw dimly indeed, yet saw it still, the cravings and longings of her heart, for a something which she was willfully casting away. But she saw and felt and was dumb. She had done the deed. She had set him free, and suffer as she might. She would not ask again the love she had rejected. There was another long pause, and then Lester slowly rose. What must be should be quickly done, he said, approaching her. I will not distress you with many words of parting. God bless you, and in his good time make you happy again. Farewell. He took her hand, looked into her startled and troubled eyes, calmly and gently, yet with impulsive movement, pressed his lips on her cheek, and had left the room before she recovered from the amazed and bewildered trance into which his sudden rising had cast her. She could then have shrieked his name to call on him to return. But the iron hand of pride and the stronger hand of a woman's nature bound her to her seat and kept her still. So they parted, and a silent barrier of days and months and years grew up between those who, but an hour before, had been bound for life to each other, a barrier caused not by circumstances of God's sending, not by the chances of human life, but by the pride of two hearts. End of Volume 1, Chapter 13, Section 14 of Violet Osborne. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by DeRando. Violet Osborne by Lady Emily Ponsonby. Volume 1, Chapter 14. Judging of others, we can see too well, their grief is fall, but not how grieved they fail. Crab. Three days after the final scene between Lester and Violet, Albert Ellis came to call in Clarkes Street. He was shown up into the room where the five sisters were sitting together. He was not accustomed to be a visitor, except occasionally when he went in in Lester's company, and at the door he paused, as if scared by the number, but quickly recovering himself, made his way to Margaret, bowing to the others and shaking hands with her. I beg your pardon, he said, drawing a chair to her side, for intruding in this way, but I want to know what has become of your brother, and a note is so unsatisfactory. We are very glad to see you, Margaret said, for we are very dull. Can you tell me where Lester is? His clerk gave me some odd direction. Where is he gone, and what is he doing? We know very little about it. His direction is odd. Grumpelton Thorpe someplace down in Yorkshire. He is gone on business, but we have not seen him since. She paused. Since the end of that affair, Albert said, nodding his head towards Park Lane. Yes. What is it all about, he inquired, leaning forward, and though speaking aloud, speaking confidentially, I am completely in the dark. I go to Lester's chambers, and I find him gone. I go to Park Lane, and my aunt tells me the marriage is broken off. I ask why, and she does not know or will not tell. I ask to see Violet, but Violet does not choose to see me. And it is hard when I have taken such an interest in them all. Will you be more kind, Ms. Lester? I would if I could, Margaret said, with a half smile at his discontent. But I really know as little as you do. My sister Marion had a note, a very short one. Marion? She exclaimed, suddenly rising. Will you let Mr. LSC John's note? Do if you can. Marion made a little bustle in consenting, but took it from her work box and gave it to Margaret. Margaret silently put it into Albert's hands. It was this. The date was the evening of the day on which he had parted from Violet. My dearest Marion, I know you must all be anxious about my future prospects, and I relieve you as soon as I can. The hopes I have lately indulged are at an end forever. Few have known they were indulged, and by those few they must be forgotten as if they had never been. It is probably best as it is. Thank you all for your sympathy with my hopes and with my fears, and assist me now by your silence in overcoming vain regrets. An offer was made me this day to undertake some business for a gentleman in Yorkshire. It was not unwelcome to me, and I accepted it. I shall be absent about ten days. My direction is grumbled and throbbed. I took my bag and must beg you to send my portmanteau by tonight's mail. I am sorry to leave you alone in this dismal weather, but you will understand, I hope my motives. And on my return we will begin a new life again. My love to all, your affectionate brother, John Lester. Albert read the note twice over before he returned it to Margaret and then sat in meditation. What do you think of it? She asked. He shook his head. May I tell you what I think? She said a moment afterwards. I think your cousin has behaved to him shamefully, and her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled as she spoke. My dear Margaret, Rachel exclaimed. Don't stop her. Albert said placently. I quite agree with her. Do you? said Margaret. Then I am sorry I said it. I feel only that John is unhappy. No one, not one of us, ever can or ever will know how unhappy and that she has done it. True, Albert replied. But I pity Violet too. So do I, said Rachel eagerly. I think she has been wrong. But I think we cannot understand or do justice to her motives. We cannot feel what she is now feeling. No, Albert said. They brought her up to reign over us all. And she cannot understand a fall. Poor thing. You can hardly guess how changed she is. I am sure I have felt for her, Margaret said gravely, but I cannot forget that she drew John on and almost against his will forced him to love her. She has done a mischief greater than we can any of us know. It is not a question of a young man's foolish love. It is something very different, and I cannot forgive her. Why is a young man's love foolish? asked Albert in his downright tone. I don't care for young men or what they feel, she said quickly. What I care for is John. Young men are very much obliged to you, he said in the same tone. Margaret always speaks in that odd way. Jesse here put in her word, thinking the conversation was taking a turn of great interest. But Henrietta kicked her foot and disconcerted her and the subject drop. Well, I am very much obliged to you for showing me your brother's letter, Albert said, slowly rising. I think I shall write to him, but I suppose the less I say about it all, the better. I am very sorry it is all over. Very sorry, he repeated. And what a change has come over the world in the last ten days. I don't feel as if London was the same place. The streets look as black and blank to me as if they had the plague. So they do to me, said Margaret. I did not know that men had those odd feelings. I am very sorry too that we are not to be relations, he continued. I had thought it would be a very comfortable thing. I hope you are sorry too. Very, she replied cordially. He then shook hands with her and Marian, bowed to the others, and went away. Do you know, Margaret? Jesse said, after sitting for about five minutes in profound thought. It came into my head just now that perhaps Mr. Ellis is in love with you. And do you know, Jesse? Margaret cried with one of her most ferocious looks that if ever you make such a remark again, I will beat you into twenty thousand pieces. I only said perhaps, said Jesse submissibly. I like Mr. Ellis, Margaret boldly observed, turning to Rachel. He does seem so very sorry for John. I wish he had told us about Mr. Osborne's affairs, said Marian. I was longing to ask, but he addressed himself so entirely to Margaret, I was afraid of being considered impertinent. I saw just now in the times in advertisement for the sale of the house in Park Lane, observed Henrietta. I was longing to ask about it too, but I was not sure if it would be discreet. The house sold, exclaimed Jesse. Oh, however, will they bear to live in the street after looking out into the park all their lives. People in Mr. Osborne's situation cannot choose, said Marian wisely. They will be fortunate if they have any house of their own. You don't mean they are going to the workhouse, asked Jesse in consternation. Nonsense, said Henrietta, but I do wish we knew something. I cannot think of Ms. Osborne poor. Their surmises regarding Mr. Osborne's future plans were not confined to the house in Clarkes Street. All the world who knew him longed to know what he would do, and many excellent plans were laid out for him by his friends and acquaintance. He was not left by any meaning's destitute. When the affairs of the bank were round up, so little loss was sustained by the creditors that every partner retired with an unspotted reputation and might with a clear conscience enjoy what was left to him in life. To Mr. Osborne, five hundred pounds a year, the property of his wife, settled upon herself and her children, remained. It necessitated a change great and strange for the affluent and luxurious banker, but it was not destitution. When this became known, many excellent schemes were, as has been said, laid out for Mr. Osborne's future. An honest man of business habits is, it was argued, at all times, a desirable thing. And the fancy of his friends very shortly settled him in a smaller but comfortable house, with some remunerative employment, bringing in at least a thousand a year. With fifteen hundred pounds a year, they argued, the imaginary one thousand soon growing into a reality, his small family could be supplied with every luxury, and Miss Osborne would shortly appear again, as cheerful and lovely as ever. The kind feeling inspired by the misfortunes of the Osborn's and the popularity they had enjoyed, gave great zest to these speculations on their behalf, and this pleasant settlement of their affairs was a real repose to many compassionate minds. When therefore the announcement of Mr. Osborne's real plans broke upon the world, it caused not a surprise only, but a shock. The announcement consisted in the news that Mr. Osborne and his family intended to retire to some remote village, and their live in obscurity upon the small income that remained to them. The speculations had caused much conversation. Disapprobation and astonishment caused still more. It was the most ill-judged step. It withdrew Mr. Osborne from the sphere of usefulness. It was hard upon Mrs. Osborne. It was tyranny to his daughter. The latter grew at lift to be the prevalent complaint. Few could picture the lovely and brilliant violet, the frequenter and favorite of society, buried in an obscure village, and Mr. Osborne, the kindness of men, the fondness of fathers, and well known in those characters bore for many weeks the stigma of most unfatherly selfishness. But meanwhile, the plan was violet's own. Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness. This was her sole desire, a spot where she might hide her humbled head. After her parting with Lester, after one paroxysism of despair, indulged in solitude and concealed from all observation, she fell into an apathy, a kind of mechanical life, from which no caresses of her father, no soft words from her mother, could rouse her. Her life spread out before her under so black a cloud, the future seemed so utterly stripped of all that could give it beauty, that she had not power to rouse herself even to think. She had lived like a good and happy child in a bright present, and now she was forced into a future which there was not one star to gild. The first thing that roused her from this apathy was the question about a future abode. The mere question would not have been enough, but when she found that a small house in or near London was contemplated, and chiefly for her sake, she was startled into her own old eager self at once. Her opinion was given with vehement words, her persuasion enforced with passionate arguments, and too happy to rouse her, too happy to please her, and himself acquiescent and interested because she was so. Mr. Osborn put himself into her hands to be guided at her will. There are few minds to whom action is not a restorative. To violate it was as the very breath of life, roused by the appeal, excited by the responsibility, eager to choose well and happily for her parents' sake, and drawn out of herself by her interest for them. She went forth with animation into new life, and sank back into apathy no more. It is not uncommon, especially among women, to cherish a sorrow, to indulge in melancholy, and if there sorrow be of a sentimental cast, to feed it with something of pleasurable emotion. But this can only be the case where the sorrow or regret, though great, is not keen. Melancholy may have pleasurable sensations, but those whose feelings are sharp and keen suffer too much in their sorrow to wish to indulge in it. They escape when they can, and are thankful to escape. This was Violet's case. Her regret for Lester, now that she had cast his love away, was so sharp important that, far from indulging it, her desire was to put it aside. It was over. With the rest of the past it was over, and like the past must be thought of no more. Thus she argued, and she acted on her argument. With violent effort regrets were banished, and she began her new life with the vigor of a new being. You look quite like your old self today, Alba said to her one afternoon. When he found her vigorously packing, my dear Violet, I am so glad. Let us blot the word old out of our dictionary, she replied playfully. I am like my new self today, and not my old one. Do you mean to think of old times no more, he asked gravely. No, no more. I am sorry for that, Violet. She made no remark, except to ask him to fetch a parcel she pointed out. He brought it, and sat down on one of the boxes that stood near. You are a very odd woman, he said at last. Am I? She spoke with a slight laugh. A week ago, ten days ago at least, I almost thought you would not live. You had such a look on your face, Violet. I really did begin to think that you would die in now. There is nothing odd in the case, she said. Then I had not blotted the word old out of my dictionary. Now I have. Then I think you are a very odd woman and an unfilling one. A look came over her face that contracted it for half an instant, but the emotion was violently withstood, and she said calmly, that is not a kind speech, Albert. I suppose we are all odd to each other, because no one knows why another acts as he does. You should be more charitable in the use of the word. Odd or not, she then added resolutely. I mean, to think of old times no more. With me, everything shall be known, and oh, how I wish. And she sighed a deep sigh, that the new things, so far as regards my own conduct at least, could be better than the old. You are a good girl, Violet, though an odd one, Albert said kindly. I am sorry I have worried you. End of Volume 1, Chapter 14, Section 15 of Violet Osborn. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dee Randall. Violet Osborn by Lady Emily Ponsonby, Volume 1, Chapter 15. How gave the habitations that bedecked this fertile valley not a house but seems to give assurance of content within as if the sunshine of the day were met, by answering brightness in the hearts of all. The excursion. The choice of the Osborn's future place of abode was decided by a mere fancy of Violet when about 17 she had been on a visit into Devonshire with her father and mother. And in their journey homeward, they had passed through a village so prettily situated that Violet had laughingly said, When I retire from the world, this shall be the scene of my retirement. The circumstance had long been forgotten. The pretty scene apparently obliterated from her memory, but from the depths of memory at this time it suddenly came forth again. One restless night as she lay half dreaming, half thinking, endeavoring to fix on someone English county for which she had a fancy greater than for others, this forgotten scene flashed vividly before her eyes. She saw again the nests of cottages with their picturesque shapes, the beautiful old church, the almshouses close to the church, and the portraits of which ancient men and women said idle or at work. She saw little dwelling places, like so many pretty personages embozzled in shrubs, damp perhaps to the possessors, but suggesting small appetites expressive of comfort and beauty, and longing to every passerby. She saw the country green and wooden and sunny, made up of hill and dale, broken banks and fertile fields. The scene flashed before her with the suddenness and vividness of lightning, and it brought light and hope and pleasure to her sad heart. There in that spot she felt a power to begin and enjoy life again. There she saw visions of days of usefulness and activity, where she, although poor, might once again pour out her kind heart and kindness. She could scarcely lie still till morning, and when she greeted her parents with her thought, Albert might well have said, you look like your old self, so radiant with hope was her countenance. Too happy to see his daughter interested, Mr. Osborn caught eagerly at her suggestion, and that very day, an old servant in whom he had confidence, was dispatched to the village of hollywell, on the borders of Dorsetshire and Devonshire, to make inquiries if a house suitable to Mr. Osborn's means, and to the necessary comforts of the family, could be procured. From this time the cloud hung no more on Violet's countenance, when the old servant returned successful, her heart bounded with old joyful feelings, and she felt that she was Violet Osborn once more. Thus sangren and hopeful she bore herself, and with her devoted love, assisted her father and mother to bear the painful parting with their old home that ensued. None who saw her noun could have guessed that it was the same being who had abandoned herself to selfish sorrow, and she herself forgot, in the blameless present, that there had been art that was blamable in the past. In the interval between leaving Park Lane and taking possession of their new abode, Mr. Osborn passed a few weeks at a villa lent him by a friend. Nothing could be more sequestered in the spot, or more secluded than their life, but the house and grounds were furnished and decorated with every beauty and comfort that art and money can give, and both Mr. Osborn and his daughter, fond of art and fond of literature, felt the time too short to examine all that might be examined and master all that could be seen. It was a time of excitement to the intellect, and in endeavoring to bear away with her some faint records of the beauty spread before her, Violet had hardly time to sigh that such luxury of taste must be resigned forever. It was at the close of a day in the early part of February that the Osborns entered their new home. There was a bustle of excitement in the first arrival. There was interest, curiosity, hope, and fear all alive and eager. There was excitement and also gratification. The outside, even in the fading light was picturesque, and what fresh, clean home, lighted with blazing fires, could look otherwise then attractive after a journey which, for Mrs. Osborn's sake, had occupied two days and had been performed in the cramp and cold and stuffiness of a pirate's chaise. But the arrival was over. The whole of the small house had been seen, and Violet was at liberty to think. It was no pleasant liberty, an unspeakable jewellery that stole over her. She was in her new home. She was in that spot, the fancy of which had beckoned her so hopefully onward. She was at home again, and at rest. She was to live and enjoy, but the rest and enjoyment would not come at her call. A depression, new in its kind, a depression of eyes, limbs, senses, and faculties stole over her. The small, low rooms seemed to take away her breath. The narrow dimensions of the house to paralyze her limbs. It seemed as if fancy could never stray, bounded by such a limit, or she herself, in such an atmosphere ever exercise her powers again. She had begged her mother to rest and said she would assist in unpacking and in looking to the arrangements of the house. She had hoped for, she had gone with zest to the occupation, but there was little to be done. Two old servants, a housemaid and a kitchenmaid, had from attachment to Violet insisted on accompanying her into retirement, and by their care everything was already well settled. Every effort on Violet's part was forbidden. Every endeavor to make herself useful was resisted. They did not understand how undesired was their care. They robbed her of all that could have cheered her thoughts, and she had nothing to do but to submit. Weary of her own room, she went down to the drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Osborn, more indolent than Violet, and at an age when a tedious journey fatigues the body as well as the mind, were lying back in calm repulse on each side of the fire. Candles were not yet brought in, nor the shutters should, and Violet sat down in the window and endeavored to peer out. The morning had been bright and frosty, but a mist had lately been gathering, and a small ring was now pattering against the windows. In the west there was a misty streak of red still lingering, and by its light she endeavored to realize the features of the scene on which she was to look. A grass plot about ten yards broad was enclosed by palings and a gate. The palings were twined with evergreens, and tall dark shrubs ornamented the grass. Beyond the palings some large trees waved their leafless branches, and beyond was the dull gray sky. As she'll never breathe here, I must have been mad to come, was her thought. One of the maids brought in candles and begged her to move while she closed the shutters. She obeyed mechanically and then resumed her place, almost unconscious at the prospect on which she had been gazing was shut out. By the light of the candle she looked round to examine the faces of her parents, but they both slept, or rested in a repulse as deep as sleep, and the countnesses of both were placid and content. The rain patted on, and deeper and deeper grew her despondency, and almost with scorn she contemplated the tranquil faces of her parents. At last her father roused himself. Violet, darling, are you there? he said. Yes, papa, and she slowly rose. Will you play us a tune, dear? It will cheer us a little this dull evening. With tears in her eyes Violet kissed his brow and passed on to the piano fort. Tears of self-reproach. He was dulled then as well as she, and she had been thinking only of herself. They were wholesome tears, while she played they dropped fast, and in falling cleared the atmosphere of her mind from the bad spirit of discontent. That night, as she sat alone and meditated in her room, struggling against the depression that still assailed her, she prayed, as she never before had prayed for help against herself, for help not to be weary in the well-doing she has set before her eyes, not to be weary in the steadfast performance of her filial duty. Her heart was sad, and for the time being she felt weak and afraid, and feeling weak, her prayers were earnest as they had never been. She fell asleep with tears on her lashes, but something of a newborn peace in her heart. End of the first volume. End of volume 1, chapter 15. End of Violet Osborn, volume 16 of Violet Osborn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Janu Violet Osborn by Lady Emily Ponsonby, volume 2, chapter 1. He praised his lucky stars that in his place he never found neglect nor felt disgrace. To do his duty was his soul's delight. This is inferior's wood to their's excite. This is superior's notice and requite. To either class he gave the praises due, and still more grateful as more favored grew. Crab. The next morning dawned in brightness. It was again a frost, not a hard, but a brilliant frost. The sky was blue and clear. The sun shone on the frosty trees and sparkled on the rhymy grass. And again Violet peered out of the windows to see what could be seen. Across the grass plot, the cottage, for it was but a cottage, though a large one, looked out on the high road. On each side of which stood clumps of trees. But between the clumps a good view of the distant country was to be seen. The hill and dale. Broken banks and fertile fields that Violet remembered. And far away, fading into the sky, were soft, rounded blue hills, making a background to the scene. Violet's soul, which on the evening before had felt so cabinned, cribbed, confined, swelled and expanded as she gazed. Oh Papa, this is lovely is it not? She said in ecstasy. Didn't I say truly? Didn't I remember well? Shall we not be happy here? Yes, darling, he said cordially, looking into her dark blue eyes and feeling that, while they shone, as at that moment they did, he must be happy. She occupied an hour or two of the morning in disarranging the furniture, in setting out such of her own and her mother's pretty things as had escaped from the spoil, and in giving a look of home and comfort to the house. It was quite fresh and clean, and while the country without looked so tempting, Violet could close her eyes to the fact that the rooms were small and low, and the windows few and far between. Before this occupation was well concluded, her father called her to walk with him, and, hopeful and happy, she obeyed. They strolled forth, and certainly Violet's vivid fancy had hardly beautified the beauties of the neighbourhood. Duties tranquil, home-like, and thoroughly English, yet with just that degree of market-ness in the features, which gives picturesque and even poetic colouring to a spot. There were the nests of cottages, which looked so bright and peaceful that a thought of sin or sorrow connected with them was out of place. There was the Old Church, a very beautiful specimen of early Gothic, and close beside the Old Brick arms houses, the ancient inhabitants of which, in address the perfection of neatness, sat at their doors. A feature which she did not remember was a new school house, very tastefully though simply built, and this feature, speaking as it did, of care and thought exercised over the place, and the intrusion of modern notions and maxims was not unwelcome to her. She nodded to the old men and women, turning her bright, beautiful face toward them as she passed, and received in return bows and curtsy so respectful that she walked on happier and happier, picturing all the kind smiles she might give and thoughtful deeds she might do. Though brought up in London, Violet was a great walker, and Mr. Osborne, who never went on a horse or in a carriage when his own legs could bear him, was a perfect companion for her vigorous youth. They wandered on, in and up, groping through lanes and groping out of them again, and without leaving the sphere of the village, found beauty sufficient to satisfy the most fastidious mind. Now, for a quick walk along the high road and home again, said Mr. Osborne, and passing their own cottage, they climbed this steep hill on the opposite side. This hill enlarged the field of their observation. It took them by surprise. Though in fact a part of the same veil, it was presented under features so new and so interesting that they stood still to gaze. One large white house was distinctly seen, not a mile off, and from the columns and smoke that arose from a bank of trees in another spot, it was to be surmised that there were more. Here, boy, whose house is that? inquired Mr. Osborne of a big boy in a smock frock, who passed whistling down the road. Asked me no questions, and I was telling no lies, he said surly in his broad dialect and walked on. Mr. Osborne was nettle, the boy looked prickly back, and Violet smiled and shook her head at him. As if mollified by that kindly smile, he paused and said, I bees in a hurry, mom, but there comes the parson and he'll speak, I'll be bound. With his thumb, he pointed to a portly gentleman who was slowly approaching on the other side, and with the same outstretched thumb pointing to his cap, by way of a bow, he set off again, not so hardly however, but that he paused more than once to see what took place. Violet looked curiously toward the approaching rector. In the course of their walk, she had expressed to her father her great desire to know a really good clergyman. Such a one as one reads of, she said, and as she looked at the beautiful church and pretty parsonage, she felt as if here it would be to be found. He was a portly man of about 50, and Violet, who had set her heart on a spare and thin one, was disappointed, but she had hardly had time to feel her disappointment before the beaming benevolence of his countenance took her heart by storm. In vivid fancy, she was already looking up to him as her wise friend and kind advisor. He came up to them very courteously, paused, took off his hat, and said, Strangers, I believe. Strangers now, but not to be so long, said Mr. Osborne as courteously. I am Mr. Osborne who arrived last night, and this is my daughter. The rector took off his hat again, bowed to Violet, and then said, It may be agreeable to you to know the person you are addressing. My name is Pope. I am the rector of this parish. I have lived for many years and trust to live many more in this spot, which I have no doubt you will agree with me in denominating a paradise on earth. Yes, it is lovely, said Violet warmly. My lot is an enviable one, no doubt, he continued. I have good reason to say I am content. The beaming expression of content again chummed Violet. What a good and happy man, she thought, and sighed. I just now inquired of one of your parishioners the name of the owner of that house, said Mr. Osborne pointing, eager to satisfy his curiosity to the large white building in the veil. He somewhat pertly declined to answer, but referred us to you. Can you give me the information I want? Indeed, said Mr. Pope. Country manners, Mr. Osborne, are not those of the metropolis, but I am thankful to say the manners of our people on the whole are good. We are most fortunately placed here, something of modern refinement mingling with the simplicity of more primitive times. I did not mean to complain of them, Mr. Osborne said smiling. I only wish to refer my question to you if you will kindly answer it. Whose house is that? As the morning is chilly, perhaps you will allow me to walk on with you, though I agree with you in thinking our view over these hills and dales and attraction more than compensating for a slight degree of cold. He raised his hands over his brows, looked with a smile of broad satisfaction on the attractive scene, and then put his portly frame in motion. Bless the man, said Mr. Osborne, not very respectfully to himself, will he never give up? Will he never give me an answer? You will not answer Papa's question, Violet said smiling. Is there any mystery about that house? Oh, by no means, Ms. Osborne, I was about to answer you, and you could address your inquiries regarding the neighborhood to no better person than myself. I am, I am thankful to say, on good terms with all, such I believe to be the duty of a good pastor, and I have endeavored to act up to my duty in this point as in others. Violet looked at her father. He made an answering sign of despair, but the communication which could not be obtained as a reply came, at last, in the form of a narration. Walking slowly on, Mr. Pope observed, the proprietor of a large part of our village is Lord Ashford. He is also the owner of that house and the country on the eastern side, the ground on which you tread at this moment and a smaller property line to the west belongs to Sir William Hamilton. You can observe the smoke of his chimneys among the trees yonder. Yes, and a good deal of it, said Mr. Osborne, smiling, are they cooking a dinner for a dozen children? Only one, Mr. Osborne, a young daughter of 11 or 12 years old, but there is a large establishment and a wasteful one. No Lady Hamilton to order and control a household. Sir William Hamilton is a peculiar character. I may certainly say so. A handsome man, a talented man, a lover of art, a fine ear for music, but still a peculiar character. He is, in short, rarely seen. We are on the best of terms. My sense of duty would never allow it to be otherwise, but he lives to himself alone. And Lord Ashford has he a large family? And cried Mr. Osborne. Not so. A sickly lady, never seen by the world in general, and a son of 17 or 18 years old, who is scarcely ever at home. The fact is, Mr. Vane is supposed to resent the neglect with which his mother is treated, and to condemn altogether his father's line of conduct. I say such is supposed to be the case, but Mr. Vane is a reserved and silent youth. And I may say of him, as I did of Sir William Hamilton, he lives to himself. You do not seem very fortunate in your neighbors, Violet remarked, with disappointment in her tone. We are so peculiarly blessed. I am so singularly fortunate in every other point, that I do not allow myself to make such an observation. No doubt human nature is not absolutely perfect. And I believe, even in the brightest lot some cloud may be seen. Even Hammond in his glory, as we know, had his mordecai. Far be it from me, however, to suggest that such is my case. An answer to your observation, Ms. Osborne, I merely reply that if there is a cloud in my sky, it proceeds from the absence of companionable qualities in my neighbors, and those at least of rank and name. Lord Ashford is a peculiar character, and so was Lady Ashford, decidedly so. Lady Ashford is a saint. Perhaps it proceeds from circumstances, but she is, without doubt, a saint. Being so, she is decidedly unfit to be Lord Ashford's wife. Lord Ashford is an amiable man, cheerful and temperate and generous to wastefulness. But, considered in a moral and religious light, he may be denominated a peculiar character. Without meaning to be censorious, I speak the common language of the world when I say so. If there be, however, objections to the human character of this region, there is none to the divine character of the landscape, from east to west, and he waved his hand, no spot or blemish. Surely, Miss Osborne, you must agree with me that mine is an enviable lot. I am sure I do, Violet said, smiling. Situated in this sweet, secluded spot, at once adorned by the hands of God and man, my occupation and life, a sacred one, my aim to do good, my taste to give happiness, surrounded by a peasantry attached to me by the ties of gratitude and respect. My lot is indeed an enviable one, and as few men can say, I am content. As they walk through the village, Mr. Pope pauses incessantly to call their attention to the beauties and advantages of the place, to the new schoolhouse, built by Lady Ashford and Mr. Vane, at his suggestion, to the restorations in the old church, made by Sir William Hamilton at his request, to the gardens neatly kept because he encouraged a taste for flowers, etc., etc. Though her first admiration for his benevolent smile was somewhat damp, the courteous manners and kindly expressions of the rector emboldened Violet to make some requests to him. She was longing to be of use in her new world, and before they parted, she told himself, If there is anything I could do, she said with warmth, You have only to employ me, and I shall be thankful. Thank you, Ms. Osborne," he replied with his broad, beaming smile, but we are so highly blessed in this spot that I should find it hard to say in what manner our condition could be improved. When you have lived a few weeks amongst us, you will agree with me in saying that you have found a paradise on earth. I did not mean any great thing, Violet said eagerly. I meant only such things as must always be useful. If you ever wanted any help in the school, or if you have any poor old men and women, or sick people, I should be so glad to visit them and read to them. You are very good, Ms. Osborne, but I am thankful to say that in this happy spot, our wants are all supplied. I have been fortunate enough to find the first-rate schoolmistress, and lest any should be neglected, I, in conjunction with the neighbouring clergymen, have made arrangements with a respectable person who visits the sick in the manner you mentioned. You are very good, but I believe you will find that here you may rest on your oars. Violet said no more. Mr. Pope accompanied her and Mr. Osborne to the door, expressed his intention of shortly calling on Mrs. Osborne, and putting himself and Mrs. Pope at her service, then with a smile of unfaithful benevolence with true. Mr. Osborne laughed as they entered the house, and merrily repeated to Mrs. Osborne the chief part of the conversation. Violet laughed too, but her heart was sad. End of Volume 2, Chapter 1, Recording by Janu. Section 17 of Violet, Osborne This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chad Horner from Ballyclair, Northern Ireland. Violet, Osborne by Lady Emily on Zombie Volume 2, Chapter 2 To each his suffering, Gray. After luncheon, Mr. Osborne set off on a five miles walk to the nearest town. It was too far for Violet. Had she been willing to leave her mother alone? She remained therefore at home. For Mrs. Osborne was still tired with her journey. She wrote a promised letter to Albert, and endeavored to give a cheerful description of all around her, but there was no cheerfulness in her feelings. The letter was finished, and she wandered up the small stairs and over the small house, and again felt oppressed with its dimensions. She returned to the drawing room, took a bit of work in her hand, and sat down in the window. But the morning's beauty had faded, and admiration in her soul was dead. The sun had disappeared, the sky was colourless, and a raw mist, promising an evening of rain, was hiding all but the clumps of leafless trees and the broad grass plot from her view. A damp hand had been laid upon her heart, and all its spirit had evaporated. She saw herself condemned to a life of inaction in this small house and strange place, with no excitement or change, but the society of Mr. Pope. She thought of all he had told her, the want of interest in all the characters he had mentioned, men bad or disagreeable, a priggish boy and a child. Though unhappy, no fancy had power, like violets to colour brightly, she could discolour to the same extent in her despondency, and thus it was she pictured the characters described by Mr. Pope. The only person who excited an interest in her mind was the saintly lady, Ashford, and she, he had said, was sickly and never to be seen. She thought and thought upon her future, till its gloom became unbearable, and then she reverted to the past. And it rose before her at her call. She lived over it, over the past year, with its unspeakable happiness, but fancy travels swiftly, and a few seconds brought her to its close, to that forbidden thought, that passionately, forbidden recollection, her parting with the leg gesture, to that which she had cast away, a hand was laid upon her shoulder, a violet, darling, softly breathed in her ear by her mother's gentle voice, but, though soft, so unexpected was the touch that she started violently, and the two large tears were shaken by the start from her eyes. The quick movement which reverted her head showed Mrs. Osborne that the tears were not to be observed, and she only continued quietly. I startled you, dear, I did not mean to do that. But why so idle, darling? It is not good for you. I have nothing to do, mama, and she sighed. At broad stairs, Violet, you longed for time to read. Why not read a little now? Violet rose and went to the bookcase, already arranged, with the selection of the very best books, whilst she cast her eyes over it, Mrs. Osborne sat down again by the fire. These books are all so old, mama, and Violet sighed again. I know I ought to read them all, but I cannot fancy them now. I dare say, dear, we ought to have brought a new novel for these first few days, but it is bad for us to be idle. Why not study your German? You know, you always meant to get it up again this winter. Do you remember how you and Albert talked of it at broad stairs? Yes, mama, but I fancy things then, and now I don't. Tears again gathered in her eyes, and sitting down near her mother, but shedding her face from the light she went on, I know you must think me very wrong, mama, but I don't think you can know what I feel. I am so disheartened, so disappointed with myself. I know I don't think rightly or do rightly, and it makes me miserable, and yet I cannot do better. I am so early sick of life, and it seems such a long, weary thing before me. There is a weight upon me, which I cannot, can not shake off. I think, dear, I do understand what you feel. No, mama, you can't, because you are good and resigned and patient, and you don't ever think of yourself. And besides, mama, you are quiet, and you can't guess what it is to have an unquiet heart that used to be satisfied, and now is not gnawing within you. That is the very word she added with lackrity. As if she pleased to find it, it is a dull gnawing pain, something in my mind, like a very great hunger, that cannot be satisfied. I know, dear, I cannot fail as you do now, said her gentle and compassionate mother, for at my age, the feelings are not so quick as at yours, and it would be grievous indeed, if I did, when I have been taught for so many years, but I was going to tell you, darling, that I think I can understand, because once, I fancy, I felt just as you do now. Oh, mama, when, cried her daughter with interest, I thought you had always been happy, always had many more blessings than I deserve, dearest, but I have had a great trial. It was when I began to know that I was deaf, violent, and deaf forever. You were only three years old then, and you cannot remember me different from what I am, but I was different. I was almost as lively once as you are violent. Oh, mama, and was it such a dreadful blow? It was, darling. I always think, even in heaven, I shall remember the feelings of the day when I looked at my doctor's face and asked him if it was hopeless. It was from a cold I foolishly caught, when I had an earache, and I tried many, many things, and many physicians, and at last my own doctor advised me to be patient and to try no more. And then I looked in his face, quite quietly, and I said that if he told me it was no use to try, I would be patient, but that if there was a hope, I did not mind what I suffered. I thought it my duty to suffer for my husband's sake and yours, darling, and he said he thought my duty was now to be patient. So I repeated more vehemently, was there no hope? And he looked grave and kind and said, there is but little, and you may ruin your health. I thanked him and said, then I would take his advice. He did not know, no one ever knew, what I felt then, and for months and years after, it left such a scar upon my heart I always fancy I must wear it in heaven. The excitement in Mrs. Osborn's usually placid face was so strange that Violet's eyes were riveted upon it. Dear Mama, and I never knew, never thought, and Violet rose and kissed her bright and sat down again. No, darling, you never would, only I thought it might help you to know it. It is long past now, she resumed in her usual, quiet way, and I think only of my blessings and the wonderful way in which God has made me happy through those very years I dread it to think of. Though he cast me off from a world I liked perhaps too well, he gave me a far better, a more beautiful self, darling, in you, and I have my own calm happiness, and yours also. Twice blessed I am, as I can truly say, that I am happier now than in my youth, not so madly joyful, darling, but happier. And how did you become happy, Mama? And Violet looked eagerly in her mother's face, at first, dear, by trying not to brood over my loss, and that is what I want you to do. I was not very good at first, not near so religiously taught as you, and I did not do nearly so much as I might, or trust God as I ought, but I did wish to do right, to be as good a wife as I could, and to bear it all as well as I could, and that was the first thing I tried. I tried not to feel that I was neglected, not to see how changed it was, since people were glad to speak to me, not to present it, and mope over it. I tried to occupy myself, and make myself as pleasant as ever I could, and it did me great good, and gradually, as she said, and her voice lowered, higher thoughts were put into my head, and I learned to be thankful that God had afflicted me. Tears fell down Violet's cheeks, not from any less than her mother taught her, but as she thought how little she had ever thought of her mother's trials, how rapt she had always been in herself. There, dear, don't, said Mrs. Osborne, rising and stroking her head, we must not be melancholy. I only wish to show you that it is not good to be idle. I won't, Mama, Violet said with resolution, brushing her tears away, and looking up with a smile. What shall I do? Will you give me something to do? Yes, dear, and Mrs. Osborne smiled also. Will you become a milliner, and make me a cap? Mine are growing old. And I was afraid to buy new ones, for we must be careful, darling, about our dress. Yes, I suppose so, and I shall not mind that, I hope. Oh, yes, Mama, I will try, and I am so thankful to have it to do. I must try and rival Madame Celestine, for all the world has always said that there are no caps like yours, and if I succeed, I must have Albert down to sea. She added playfully, and with the spirit which she put into all her occupations, she went to her new employment and was cheered by it. End of Volume 2, Chapter 2, Recording by Chod Horner from Ballet Claire, Northern Ireland. This dull despair is the soul's laziness. Rouse to the combat, and thou art sure to conquer, row. 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 spirit sank to utter despondency. Remembering the compensation of the day before, she struggled hard to employ herself, and to conceal from her parents what she felt. She read, she practiced, she rearranged the books and the ornaments of the room, she looked over her clothes, and endeavored 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 padded against the window, and Violet looked out, and looked around, and felt despair. To Mr. and Mrs. Osborn, the change was as great as to her, but they bore it cheerfully. Mr. Osborn, like Violet, could not bear an activity, 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 absorb attention which her father gave, and again, as she sat alone at night, bitter tears fell from her eyes, and cold despair settled upon her heart. The conviction that she was wrong, shame and disappointment in, and for her in submission, added their pains, and she lay down and rose up, feeling as if the fount of youth and joy was dried up in her heart forever. 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 mama, Violet said to her mother, and internally at it 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-colored 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 soulless 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 honored 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 Ms. Osborne. Violet smiled and sat down, and he then further observed, without any flattery, Ms. 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 I'm glad to be assured of it. Of your performance, I can speak for my own knowledge. You look surprised. Allow me to explain myself. I was summoned yesterday evening to baptize 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, Ms. Osborne, without pride, that duty with me has been at all times a paramount consideration. On my return between 9 and 10 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 strings of music. I paused, and drew as near as I could without intrusion, and I must repeat, Ms. 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, Ms. Osborne, but indeed, in my position, I might not have said so much on the subject, had I not aferred the 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, Ms. Osborne. We are in this favorite spot so singularly blessed, 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 neighborhood to bear me out in this observation, but perfection, Ms. Osborne, is difficult to attain, and as it is my wish and practice always to own a failure, if it so happened that one exists, I confess to you that our samadhi 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, Ms. 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, Ms. Osborne, and bold as 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 summity 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 the bow at the bright coloring 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 sang, Mr. Pope will tell you, mama, 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, and 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 it has been proved today. End of Volume 2, Chapter 3 Section 19 of Violet Osborne This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Raquel Olea Violet Osborne by Lady Emily Ponsonby Volume 2, Chapter 4 Life's morning radiance hath not left the hills. Her dew is on the flowers. The prelude. Violet returned ready for her walk and set forth with Mr. and Mrs. Pope. The dense fog that was almost rain still continued, and for a great part of the way Mr. Pope apologized for the occurrence of bad weather in his parish, assuring her that she would find it a rare misfortune. Rainy seasons did not occasionally prevail. He by no means pretended to an exemption from the usual uncertainties of an English climate. Frost, snows, fogs even, did an interval occur. But she would, after a short experience, discover bad weather was the exception, and that she had truly made her home in a pleasant place. In passing along the village, he touched again on the information given during their first meeting. His suggestions for the schoolhouse and the cottage gardens, etc., and so conversing they reached the church. It was a beautiful old parish church and had been repaired on the outside with good taste. Within, taste had not penetrated. Circular pews filled the whole body of the nave and aisles, and three pews of an enormous size, one of which stood half in and half below the step into the chancel, were not only shut in by high palings, but also by brass rails and dull thick red curtains. A gallery, also curtailed off, held the organ and organ and gallery together hid the west window, which had great beauty in its shape. Of want of beauty, however, Mr. Pope did not think. He took off his hat as he entered the church and then began to converse very frilly, naming the owners of the different pews and describing every alteration that had been made under his auspices. Violet made an inquiry as to the pew to be allotted to her father. Mr. Pope chewed her seat which had been occupied by the last owner of their cottage, but as it was near the door offered it instead of a place in his own roomy pew, one of the three fortunate possessors of palings, railings, and curtains. This pew is occupied by Mrs. Pope and any friend who comes to us for the enjoyment of our delightful neighborhood, but I assure you, we are seldom pressed for room and I shall be most happy to accommodate Mr. and Mrs. Osborne. You, Ms. Osborne, will naturally have your seat in the gallery. Is your congregation large? Is the church crowded? Violet asked. With two exceptions, Ms. Osborne, all is as it should be. My parishioners are duly sensible of the importance of public worship and were they not so would be reluctant to be wanting in attention to me. Nor should I perhaps say two exceptions. Sir William Hamilton is an occasional attendant with his daughter. After our new arrangements, I anticipate also decided change in that quarter. That seat, pointing to Lord Ashford's, half of which was in the chancel, is, I regret to say, always empty. Does not Mr. Vane go to church? Violet asked in surprise. Mr. Vane is seldom at home. When at home, he certainly attends public worship, but he does not occupy that seat. Mr. Vane has peculiar opinions and expresses a decided objection to occupy his father's pew. When present at our service, he sits in his pew, commonly called the stranger's seat. Violet felt considerable curiosity regarding this priggish boy, whose opinions dissent from the opinions of his father, were thus publicly expressed, but she asked no more questions and followed Mr. Pope to his organ gallery. The organ was a good one, but had been disused for many years. A small grinding organ having been thought both preferable by Mr. Pope and his congregation. It had, however, been occasionally used by private persons, and had lately been set in order at Mr. Vane's expense. Mr. Pope began to blow, and while he blew, Violet had nothing to do but to play and to admire. As the organ was in his parish, Mr. Pope admired also, and then having made a few arrangements for her comfort during the hours of instruction, begged to be allowed to introduce her to her pupils. She could, afterwards, he said, appoint for instruction such hours as she pleased. Violet and Mrs. Pope followed him to the school. The children rose noisily as they entered, and curtsied low, and it was not till the noise had subsided and Mr. Pope had called, Sit down, children, that through the maze of curly heads Violet's eyes fell on an old acquaintance. Ms. White, Ms. Osborne is kind enough to call and see our school, said Mr. Pope, and blushing and smiling, Amy White came forward to meet her benefactress. The unexpected sight carried Violet far from the present, and it was with a shock that she was transported to an old time. She became very pale, and said with great effort, You are here, Amy! How is this? Did you not know? Did not Mr. Lichester tell you? No, Violet replied faintly. The pang of the sudden mention of his name was more than she could bear unmoved. I will tell you another time, Amy said quickly, reading in her speaking countenance the emotion her words had produced, though referring that emotion to a different cause. And turning to Mr. Pope, she asked, What class should she call up? He declined the hearing of a class and proceeded to inform her wherefore they were come, begging her to desire the children to sing the national anthem. Your experience ear will no doubt be able to select such voices as you will have most pleasure in training, he observed to Violet. Ashamed of her agitation, Violet had already recovered herself. But she had not done so. The discordant twang of the voices as they performed God Save the King must have driven every lingering spark of feeling from her breast. Not bad, said Mr. Pope, when they had finished. I have had a special pains bestowed on the national anthem. I am loyal, and I wish to make my parishioners loyal also. Would you be good enough, Miss Osborne, to make your selection at once? Violet, however boldly declined to summary a proceeding and begging to be left with Miss White, she said she would make a selection after further trial. He demurred. Violet saw that now or never she must emancipate herself from thralldom and good humorably persisted. Her persuasive powers none could resist and she at length succeeded in doing as she chose. He and Mrs. Pope departed. As he went he promised to send her the two boys who had hitherto accompanying the grinding organ with their voices. The style of music admired in Hollywood Church was this. Two boys endeavored with their singing to drown the grinding organ and the performer on the grinding organ was equally desirous to throw their singing into the shade. Their materials from which her choir was to be formed were not at first sight promising. But Violet had the gift of the good fairy. Order! And she felt no despair in her task. One girl she discovered whose voice was sweet and clear and the boys' loud voices when softened might she thought become invaluable. A selection of four girls were made with which added to the two boys she resolved to be content. And having appointed an hour on the following morning which was Saturday and a holiday for the first lesson and having completely won the hearts of all by her sweet smiles kind words and cordial manners she dismissed them interested and happy. When her business was completed Amy begged her to visit her mother and conducted her through a neat little kitchen to a neat little parlor. Though small and low it looked so clean and bright and contrasted so strongly with even the best of the London lodgings they had occupied. That Violet could hardly restrain some words of congratulations but Mrs. White was a grumbler and her face was sour as she said. Good morning Mrs. Osborne. We had expected a visit before now. We began to think you did not choose to answer so humble and abode. I never knew you were here Mrs. White. Violet said quickly. I never was so surprised as when I saw Amy. How was it Amy? How came you to leave Silcombe? It was time to leave when my life was in danger. Mrs. White began. But Amy took her explanation into her own hands. The air in Silcombe was so relaxing that it was feared Mama would never be able to bear it. Mr. Vivian wrote to Mr. Leachester to tell him the doctor's opinion. And it so happened that Mr. Leachester's friend had had an application for a school mistress for Mr. Pope on the very day he wrote. It was all quickly settled. I had then to write to Mr. Leachester. Amy continued with a deep blush. To tell him that we had no power to bear the expense of our removal. I wrote to ask his advice. To ask if I might dare to ask if I might dare to trouble you. Why did you not write to me? Violet said with some asperity. Why was Mr. Leachester to be a better friend than me? I only wrote to him to advise, Amy said meekly. I must have asked you for help. And what did Mr. Leachester advise? Violet asked, her curiosity considerably aroused. He never mentioned you to me. Do you choose to read his letter? Amy said, hesitatedly. He speaks of something. But you will not mind. Of our change of fortune, she replied with calmness. No, Amy, I shall not mind. He answered to Mama, there is the letter. And Violet, as she took it, could scarcely restrain a smile at the characteristic discretion displayed by Leachester in addressing an answer to the daughter's letter to his mother. Dear Mrs. White In reply to your daughter's question, I regret to say that I cannot advise on application to Ms. Osborne at this moment. Some family circumstances have caused her much distress. And I should fear she would not be able to give to your request the attention she would wish. I enclosed ten pounds, five of which remained in my hands from Mrs. Osborne's last donation. Should this be insufficient, I beg you, I beg you to let me know. When I have opportunity, I will communicate to Ms. Osborne your challenge of plans. And you may be assured she will never cease to take interest in your welfare and happiness. I remain, sincerely yours, John Leachester. Clarge's Street, December. Violet stood thoughtfully considering the letter for some minutes. Little as was in it, it pleased her, for she was the soul of the letter. She had been in all his thoughts as he wrote, and how dear that conviction was to her she even yet was not aware. When she roused herself, it was to say. And was it enough, Amy? Yes, with a little care quite enough, she replied. That is to say, observed Mrs. White, that the chief part of the way we performed our journey in a wagon, a conveyance to which I confess, I am not accustomed. Oh, Amy, why did you not write to me? said Violet. I could not, Amy said. The rich, said Mrs. White, sourly. Think the poor have nothing to do but to ask. But to be always asking is one of the childs of the poor, particularly of those who have known better days. Yes, I am sure of that, Violet said gently. But when the poor know what it is the happiness of the rich to give, they should not grudge them that happiness. You are very kind, Miss Osborn, said Amy. And will you forgive me if I say how we have felt for you, and how I admire the way in which you bear? Violet winced. She could not accustom herself to receive consolation from those she had not consoled. Don't say that, Amy. She interrupted her quickly. I have not borne our change of fortune well. And yet, when I see the troubles of others, I know I have very little to bear. We have been rich, and now we are not rich. But I hope still rich enough to be of use to others. And you must never refuse to come to me if you are in want of anything I can give. Goodbye for today. I will soon come again. She walked home with a buoyant step and a bounding heart. Though the mist spread over the landscape, there was sunshine within, which no outward influence could obscure. She thought she was happy because she had found her work, and found objects for her care. And, undoubtedly, this alone would have elated her. But there was a serene gladness in her eyes which spoke of another source of happiness. Through the vista of the fortune she saw the link of interest that might unite again her life with that of Leuchester. The mere sound of his name and sight of his handwriting seemed to bring her once more into his presence. And to carry her daily work into the sphere of his knowledge. Not that this hope was consciously pictured by her fancy. She loosened, in no degree, to the rain which bridled that portion of her dreamings. But there are unconscious, as well as conscious imaginations, and the unpermitted fancy was enough to guilt her life and invest every object with beauty. End of Volume 2, Chapter 4 Recorded by Raquel Olea