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OR,
THE DANSEUSE.
VIOLET;
OK,
THE DANSEUSE.
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1857.
VIOLET.
CHAPTER I.
" A creature not too bright or good,
For human nature's daily food,
Made up of charms and simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles."
Wordsworth.
" Whebe is Yiolet ?" inquired Mr. Woodville of his wife;
" Lsetitia, my dear, where is Yiolet ?"
" Gone to change her shoes," answered Mrs. Woodville.
" Dupas is coming. By the bye, we must ask him to dine
with us soon, for he really takes great pains with Yiolet."
" Whenever you like, my dear. I have never determined
what I mean to do with little Yiolet, but I am glad she is
growing up so handsome, and she is such a graceful darling !
She ought to marry a lord at least, ought my little Yiolet."
" Well, if she is handsome, Violet may thank her mother
for it," rejoined Mrs. Woodville, " though I didn't marry a
lord, for all that; so Violet may do no better either, and it is
as well not to fill her head with nonsense: no good can come
of it, and she won't mind her studies."
" Now, Mr. Woodville, do you mean to call for me to-night
in your cab, or am I to come home with Mademoiselle Laure ?
and where am I to have supper ?"
" The ballet, you know as well as I do, never was or is
over before one o'clock on Tuesday night: how, then, can I
fetch you home at ten from Covent Garden?"
"Very well; but where do you mean to have supper,
Charles P"
" Why, I have asked Gianini and Madame Clot and the
Norrises to come to us to-night. We must have some cham¬
pagne, and I have desired Very to send us a quart of white
soup, and some cotelettes aux pe\tits pois; then there is the
cold ham, and you can get some of the partridges broiled that
the duke sent us the other day : and do see, Mrs. Woodville,
that for once there is good bread-sauce at ■"
M. Dupas was announced by a very young-looking gentle-
b
2
VIOLET ; OE,
man, wearing an attempt at a livery,—and M. Dupas made
his appearance. He was an old man, wearing a well-made
wig; his clothes fitted him to a nicety, and everything in his
externals even betrayed a justifiable desire to please; his
countenance was lively and shrewd, and his manners aristo¬
cratic. M. Dupas spoke English wonderfully for a foreigner,
and only now and then made use of expressions at variance
with his meaning. He even then avoided much awkwardness
by ne se doutant pas of his correctness, and no one ventured
to amend his " prose."
" I am most happy to see you, Mrs. Woodville ; Mr. Wood-
ville, you are too good," said M. Dupas, as he advanced a
chair; " I am most entirely delighted to see you; how is la
petite'? I hope her slight touch of catarrh is quite at an
end? Ah! la void," continued the old man, while his face
brightened at the entrance of his young pupil, of whom he
was very fond.
"Did you find the shoes, Yiolet, love?" inquired Mrs.
Woodville.
" I hope you have been enabled completely to master the
little difficulty of the grand battement of the left foot," ob¬
served M. Dupas ; " three hours' steady attention every day
would remove so very slight a difficult. JMow let us see,—
very well,—begin with the exercises for the body first,—
aliens, commenqons
Mr. Woodville earned his subsistence by playing on the
violoncello ; luckily for him, he played uncommonly well, and
he was luckier still in having his talent appreciated and well
remunerated. He easily obtained engagements at one or
other of the great theatres, and generally formed one of the
orchestra at the King's Theatre.
In his line of life Woodville would have been rich, but,
like many professional men, he was extravagant and, to his
credit be it said, generous,—so that, though never very poor,
he was only rich sometimes. His chief object, his delight,
was—his only child—Yiolet.
Mrs. Woodville had been a beauty, and was still in toler¬
able preservation. She was very much like most other
women,—having the coquetry, the caprice, the silliness and
acuteness, agreeableness and weak-mindedness, common to
the generality of her sex,—judging, at least, from all those
with whom I happen to have been acquainted.
THE DA'NSEUSE.
3
She was an actress, of rather a first class, and personated
ladies, and confidantes (those that gave advice), and did
speaking queens remarkably well; on the whole, Mrs.
Woodville was much looked up to by the managers, for she
was never vulgar, the thing most difficult to avoid on the
English stage. Her pronunciation and her gestures never
made the nerves of better-bred people quiver with annoyance,
or harrowed up their minds with disgust. She was always
well dressed. In short, on or off the stage, Mrs. Woodviile
was a very tolerable fine lady.
And now to talk of Violet, one of the prettiest creatures
that ever was seen.
It may be as well to say, by way of parenthesis, that her
real name was Violante; at ieast, such was the name by
which her mother had her christened. But her father
thought it much too long, and said it was better to call her
Violet.
With no reason that a special Providence should interfere
—without a governess—an angel that I know of,—or even a
master in Chancery, to look after her education, it should
follow that Violet must needs have her ideas tinged, and
her understanding improved, as it might be, by the class of
people with whom she lived. She was, besides, not a little
spoiled both by her parents and M. Dupas.
In the estimation of these persons, the young lady's educa¬
tion had been immensely attended to, and Violet was really
very accomplished, more thoroughly so perhaps than many
damsels of greater pretensions, because her friends were
fonder and prouder of her in proportion as her progress
flattered their self-love. Violet seemed to know this by in¬
stinct, and the consciousness increased her desire to play, to
sing, to speak Erench and Italian,—and to dance en artiste.
Her early education had been received in a French convent,
and she had at this period returned home for good, about a
year, and was now devoting a large portion of her time to
achieve the ambitious views of M. Dupas, who fully intended
her to become a first-rate opera-dancer. His own early days
had worn away in that profession, but, having somehow grown
wealthy, he now only gave lessons to the rising generation in
a few great families, whose society, he said, he thought it
worth his while to cultivate,—and devoted his leisure hours
con amove to foster the talent of Violet Woodville.
The Woodvilles and Monsieur Dupas were old friends, and,
J3 2
4
VIOLET; OE,
having no child of his own, theirs had become his pet, more or
less, from the day of her birth. Since her return from Franee
he had requested permission to instruct her in an art he
thought sublime. Her parents were quite undetermined
about letting Yiolet do anything; i. e. anything that was to
look like a regular profession. It was more than half vanity
on both their parts, which made them give a sort of tacit
assent to their child's one day or other making her debut on
the boards of the King's Theatre.
Mrs. Woodville, notwithstanding the way she talked sen¬
sible, in the first page of our story, did look forward to this
scheme as to a probable means of Violet's winning the heart
of some rich heir apparent, who would propose to her imme¬
diately ; and Mr. Woodville liked the prospect, especially
when Dupas inflamed him with the glory of being looked up
to, as being the father of the first danseuse at the Opera.
Heirs apparent, too, came floating dow n the stream of his
imagination, with this difference between him and his wife,
that they occupied the back-ground of his mental picture,
whilst with her they stood most glaringly in the foreground.
Of course, Violet should only be permitted to accept some
very particular engagement with the Laporte of the day,
and then only if it did not fatigue her too much, and, more¬
over, only if she liked it; " for," said Mr. Woodville, " my
little Violet shall not dance, or do anything else that does
not please her."
And, in the mean time, nine hours a day were often de¬
voted to practising her steps ; alas !
Violet was one fine spring morning greatly engrossed by
her studies—by her dancing, that is to say, which was at pre¬
sent her great study—when she was interrupted by a tap afc
the door. The blithe voice with which she answered " Come
in ! " announced the expectation of seeing a desired object.
; A young lady threw open the door, who presented a
striking contrast to Violet.
She was an uncommonly handsome brunette, with regular
features, and a round full face, brilliant eyes, and glossy
black hair and eyebrows, united with a very coquettish
expression. As to figure, she had what is called a very fine
one, according to some people's method of expressing them¬
selves, at least; but it is as well, as I have heard these terms
applied to monuments in petticoats, to specify that the young
lady in question had not at all that sort of anatomy. Her
tournure was graceful though somewhat theatrical (habit,
THE DANSEUSE.
5
had become a second nature, perhaps), and her white satin
hat, her light-coloured, beautifully-fitting silk gown, her
ponceau scarf, her lemon-coloured kid gloves, and an exqui¬
site chaussure, finish the sketch I wish to give of Emily
Norris—Miss Emily Norris, to speak with more respect.
Violet was standing in the midst of her apartment, a little
out of breath ; her costume at that moment consisted of a
white dimity petticoat, skirt rather short, short sleeves, and a
handkerchief round her neck. Her back hair was twisted
info'as small a compass as it well could be, and a pair of white
satin slippers (not so very white) completed her attire.
At this period Violet Woodville was about seventeen, and
uncommonly beautiful. Her face was of an oval contour, her
complexion clear, and with a rich colour, exactly the pink of
the peach—which is no exaggerated description of many an
English complexion.
Her features were regular and full of expression, in which
I am apt to think regular features are often deficient. Her
eyes were very large, bright and lovely as the gazelle's. It
was not easy to define their colour, but a light hazel would be
the shade they were nearest to. She had a profusion of light
brown hair, to ornament at will a little Grecian-formed head
that would have served a goddess.
The impression she gave at first sight was that of a beau¬
tiful Hebe, with a soul full of mirth and malice; while the
extreme quickness of her eye denoted a discernment of intel¬
lect, which the finely-cut contour of her mouth confirmed;
and when Violet Woodville laughed, the joyous intelli¬
gence that lit up her countenance rendered it inconceivably
handsome.
Her figure was tall, but slight, though rather inclined to em¬
bonpoint. She was formed with perfect symmetry : her limbs
and her little feet were particularly striking from their beauty.
Graceful by nature as well as art, it was not easy to dream
of anything fairer among womankind than Violet Woodville,
—even there as she stood in her dimity petticoat, to receive
her friend.
Miss Norris looked nineteen or twenty, and twenty she
was. Great was the friendship between her and Violet.
They had been together at the French convent, and similar
connections and pursuits had since kept up their intimacy;
only superior years, and superior knowledge (as Violet
thought), made her look up to Emily Norris with considerable
deference.
6
Violet; ob,
" My dear Emily," and " my dear Violet, bow glad I am to
see you," were the sort of greetings that flowed profusely
for five minutes, and then the young ladies drew chairs and
sat down.
" So, you are still going on with old Dupas,' said Miss
Horris.
" Oh yes ; but papa and mamma have determined nothing
about me yet."
""Well, Violet, I wonder you allow that to go on. What's
the use of your eternal practising of these steps, and wearing
yourself to a thread-paper, with no one but old Dupas to have
the pleasure of it? What's the use of all you have learnt, if
it is to be done no good with ? or how are you ever to have
any luck, if you are not to be seen ? Why, you ought to
have been out these two years, I declare. You should have
beheld me the other night in the new ballet! I had thunders
of applause. Did I describe my dress to you? I believe I
did. My parts, you know, are mere acting, a sort of dumb
show, which I do not find too fatiguing, and that is the line I
advise you to adopt. Many people think me quite equal to
Brocard.—I am not engaged on Saturday : mamma has made
Laporte give her one of the boxes on the fourth tier, but we
have asked him to supper afterwards, as well as the new
singer, Madame , I forget her name : you will all come, I
hope. I expect it to be pleasant; mamma will sing one or
two songs out of the new opera, and we have asked a good
many people."
" Oh, I shall like it of all things," replied Violet. " But do
tell me, Emily, when did you see Mr. Harcourt last?—•
yesterday, as you hoped ? "
"Yes, I saw him yesterday."
"Well?"
" Why I don't know what to say. He is undoubtedly very
much struck with me, and is quite aware he must marry me,
or give me up. I do not know what to think. Oh, dear
Violet! what I would give to marry a gentleman! and I cer¬
tainly think I ought, with my pretensions, after all—and lam
sure other people often think so, who see me, that is. At all
events, I hope you will do well, Violet," added Miss Emily,
with much sentiment.
Violet coloured.
" But tell me, Emily, what is poor Mr. Larray doing ? Is
he not very unhappy ? "
" Most wretched, I do believe; and so am I too, when I
THE DANSEUSE.
7
think of him : but of course, if I can get Mr. Harcourt to
propose, I must not think any more about Henri. After all,
with the education mamma has given me, and with the sort
of succes I now have at the opera, he cannot wonder I should
make—I mean, he cannot wonder that I should feel, and
mamma too, that, though Mr. Harcourt is a gentleman, and all
that, that still he may propose to me, and that then mamma
of course intends I should accept him. But is it not awk¬
ward—Henri, as well as Harcourt, is asked to supper on
Saturday ?"
" Indeed !—then what will you do ? "
" Oh," replied the young lady, with a laugh, " leave that
to me ; I can make Larray believe anything; and then, as to
Mr. Harcourt, he is immensely conceited; I know he thinks
all this time I am dying for him."
" Good heavens, Emily! but how lightly you do talk of a
person you wish to marry ! "
" And who would not wish it in my situation ? A nice
difference it will be to me all my life, whether I am to be
a lady, or whether I have to dance for bread; besides, the
not being able to get all the things I should like—whether
I have a carriage or go without—or get all my hats from
Madame Carson's, or go on with Cerise, whom, as it is, I
mean to leave off.—Of course I wish to marry Harcourt."
" But you do not care for him, I believe, at all ? "
" Oh, I care for him quite enough ; besides, that is nothing
—why, I would marry Henri to-morrow, if he were theprimo
tenore; but as it is, the thing would be a folly, mamma says,
though I think him charming ; and I only wish he was
Harcourt : but he—Mr. Harcourt, I mean—is such an un¬
certain person—sometimes he is so cold, and at times so
capricious—so different from Henri, who is all love, gaiety,
and devotion. Ah ! "
Emily Norris paused, and for a brief moment looked almost
softened. " Ah ! " she continued, " and then he is so hand¬
some !—Well, well, there is one thing I shall have if Mr. Har¬
court marries me ; I shall triumph over that audacious little
Celeste, who dared to insult me by walking before me to the
dressing-room the other night at the opera, as if I had not
the right to walk before a second-rate thing (for that is what
she is) like her! She is handsome, that little Celeste, and
can't endure me or mamma; because, you know, mamma is
very particular with whom we associate, and Celeste has no
longer the best of characters."
8
VIOLET; OE,
" Indeed ! what a pity ; she has such pretty manners.
" Those French girls always have, and they are great
hypocrites."
"Mrs. Horris says she is waiting below, miss, for you to
go to rehearsal, she says, miss," interrupted a maid, thrusting
in her head at the hali'-opened door.
" For heaven's sake, dearest Violet," said Miss Emily, as
she rose to depart, "do make that girl leave off-saying' miss';
it is so horrid vulgar."
" Oh, certainly ; but I did not know it was," answered
Violet, innocently.
CHAPTEE II.
" What is the spring of human actions—say
Why do we love, hate, govern, or obey ?
Whence do our noblest efforts take their aim ?
For what do wc incur risk, guilt, and shame ?
'Tis vanity—'neath more or less control,
The strong and ruling impulse of the soul."
Mb. Woodville and Mrs. Woodville, and Miss Woodville
did as they had been requested, and went, after the opera, to
Mrs. Norm's supper.
It is necessary to say a word or two about Mrs. Norris.
She had been a singer of some eminence ; and between her
professional talents and, we may add, ses beaux yeux, very
discreetly applied, had realized an income sufficient for her
wants and those of her daughter, and which permitted her
to indulge in some few luxuries besides, exclusively of the
little suppers to one of which we are about to introduce the
gentle reader.
Mrs. Norris was quite a person of good character—not
such, perhaps, as would be personified in the beau ideal of
Mrs. Chapone, or of Mrs. Hannah More, but still, as has
been said, she had made use of ses beaux yeux with such
uncommon discretion, that the most censorious persons could
find nothing worse to say of her than that, during ten years
of her life passed in Italy for the improvement of her singing
and for her health, she was very much admired, very gay,
and delightfully amiable. Some, indeed, thought she was
more particularly appreciated by a nobleman of large for¬
tune, devoted to the fine arts, but nothing certain was ever
known on this score.
The said nobleman married precisely at the same period
THE DANSEUSE.
9
that Mrs. Noma's husband returned from America, where
he had been acting Othello and King John, George Barn¬
well and Scrub.
Mr. Norris, however, was a wretch of whom we will not
speak, for all agreed that he behaved scandalously to his
wife, and, in fact, he wa3 said to have abandoned her. As
to Emily, who was born during the ten years—Mrs. Norris's
ten years in Italy, I mean—he seemed to have no affection
for the poor child whatever.
These deserted creatures prospered, nevertheless, wonder¬
fully. Mrs. Norris never sang, save and excepting when she
felt in the humour. She had no debts, and, in her present
position, besides the tolerably untarnished reputation which
had stood so much wear and tear, she contrived, as has been
observed, to have her little luxuries as well as comforts about
her, and her petits soupers were sought after and ambitioned
in the sphere in which she moved.
There were about twenty persons assembled when the
Woodvilles entered Mrs. Norris's salon.
The society consisted of singers of celebrity, of about half
a dozen young men of good family, coming under the deno¬
minations of roues, gamblers, or otherwise imperfect as to
character, but still vastly entertaining, and very fashionable
young men especially. Then there was a young architect, a
remarkably conceited painter, a literary man who had written
a book entitled " Songs of the Druids " (not generally known),
a translator of French vaudevilles, who thought himself better
than Scribe; two or three principal comedians, with a wife
or two—women of entire respectability, though of no consi¬
deration ; the Pasta, the Sontag, the Taglioni, and the De
Beriot of the day;—these, with two or three attaches of
foreign missions, and a few more such "small deer," were
the component parts of Mrs. Norris's party.
On the whole, it is well to let the reader at once into the
secret, that it was chiefly given to induce Mr. Harcourt to
propose to Miss Norris.
As yet he had not arrived, but there were plenty of lights
and ices, occasional singing, and desperate flirtations, chiefly
between the young men of imperfect character and some
charming women, who were there, with their husbands be
it understood, for Miss Emily's sake. Indeed, on her ac¬
count, and to impress Mr. Harcourt with a favourable
opinion of the society she kept, Mrs. Norris had been
particularly fastidious in her invitations on this occasion.
10
VIOLET ; OR.
Miss Norris (whose maid I would rather not have been
that evening) was dressed with the most studied attention, to
give a good display to her beauty, to enhance it, if that were
possible, and to be in the latest fashion; combining all this
with many more items, that a person like myself, not versed
in all the minutiae of female attire, is incompetent duly to
expatiate upon. But all these niceties of art were intended
to give relief to an air of infinite simplicity, and a laisser
aller demeanour of exceeding abnegation of every idea con¬
nected with her personal appearance.
This acme of perfection Emily conceived she had achieved,
and she was greeted by her mother's triumphant approval.
It was undeniably no small advantage to Emily, the being
under the guidance of such a mother as Mrs. Norris. She
was a woman such as there are but few to be met with. She
possessed the supreme art of good arrangement: nothing in
her establishment was ever displaced. She had a horror of
outward and visible errors, and a keen perception of the
fitness of things. Everything connected with herself she
shielded from the minutest obloquy, and it was her creed
that none, if possible, should ever have occasion to descant
upon the externals of life. She had the good taste to avoid
pretension where it would have been laughable; yet her
Erench ehina„her chintz, her wines, her ecarte tables, her
music, her very flowers and ices were better than, or, at any
rate, might stand competition with, those of any other house
in London.
Emily was seated on an ottoman, and near her stood a
handsome young man, well dressed, and of unassuming
manners, so good-looking, and with so good an air, that, if
he were not what is called' a gentleman, there was no out¬
ward just cause or impediment to his being one.
His countenance expressed anything but happiness, and
Miss Emily was evidently embarrassed in his presence; a
feeling which, from whatever cause arising, she hardly cared
in her spoiltness to conceal.
" Why do you turn your head so often to the door?" asked
the young man, rather impatiently.
Miss Norris coloured, and replied, "Mamma has desired
me particularly to assist her in receiving these people.
You forget that at home it is absolutely necessary to be
civil."
" Oh! if that i3 the only reason, I have nothing more to
say."
THE DANSEUSE.
11
A little put out of temper, Emily rejoined,—■
" What did you suppose was my reason, Monsieur Larray,
as the one I have given never occurred to you?"
" I have no wish to say anything disagreeable, or to offend
you just at this moment, but I should like to know whether
you expect Mr. Harcourt this evening?"
" Mamma asked him—that is, I think she did."
"Are you really uncertain whether he is asked or not?"
"Ask mamma,—there she is,—if you are so anxious to
know, she can tell you,"—and to avoid saying more, Emily
flew to meet the Woodvilles.
"How beautiful Yiolet looks to-night," she exclaimed to
Mr. Woodville ; " on the stage she would far furore."
At this moment two young men entered the room. The
one who first advanced had good features, but a disagreeable
expression ; he was tall in person, with a nonchalant, indolent,
and rather impertinent air; altogether, however, he was
handsome. He glanced with an assured look round the
room, and it was a great relief to his countenance when it
kindled with some pleasure on beholding Emily Norris.
Nothing could be better than the reception Mr. Harcourt
met ■with (for Mr. Harcourt it was) from both the mother
and daughter of the house.
" You will allow me," he said, " to introduce a friend of
mine, I am sure; I knew, Mrs. Norris, I might venture to
bring him;" and Mr. Harcourt presented the gentleman who
had accompanied hiin. " Mr. d'Arcy, Mrs. Norris,—Mrs.
Norris, Mr. d'Arcy."
Mr. Harcourt himself seemed actually forgotten in the em-
pressement manifested to receive his friend ; it appeared, in
fact, as if the latter had occasioned a general sensation in the
society.
The women—those at least who knew Mr. d'Arcy—evi¬
dently wished to attract his attention : those who did not
know him did their best to induce him to seek their acquaint¬
ance. All the young men appeared glad to see and to wel¬
come him amongst them.
To Mrs. Norris he was now the first object, for, with an
intuitive perception she beheld in Mr. d'Arcy the possible
arbiter of her daughter's fate. Mrs. Norris had taken some
trouble to analyze Mr. Hareourt's character, and she thought
he was just the person to be decided by the opinion of another,
as to whether or no it would be possible for him to marry
Emily. She had before heard of his intimacy with Mr
12
VIOLET; OR,
d'Arcy, who was not unknown to her by name or character,
and she feared him immensely.
It was perhaps lucky that Emily was not so much au fait
at all this as her mother. She wished to please Mr. d'Arcy
as Harcourt's friend, but without foreseeing all the import¬
ance of so doing.
Violet, in the mean time, knowing few people, modest by
nature, and considering herself not yet come out, had dis¬
covered a corner, into which she retreated as much as she
could, and where she found leisure to observe all that was
passing, until her attention became strongly riveted by one
person only. The one person who thus arrested her regards
was Mr. d'Arcy; and had Violet herself been interrogated
as to the wherefore, she would have been much at a loss to
account for the sort of fascination under which she laboured.
It was not that Mr. d'Arcy struck her as handsomer or
more pleasing than many others whom she had seen, or that
he possessed any single charm -to strike her forcibly and at
once. But his presence filled up some imperfect and un¬
defined feeling, if I may so express it. A strange sort of
contentment stole over her as she gradually sank into reverie,
while yet noticing every change of bearing in the new comer.
It seemed to Violet a pleasant event in her existence to have
met this person, and she dwelt upon his presence with a secret
pleasure that she was herself hardly aware of; her mind,
however, became impressed with one object, and her observa¬
tion centred upon it.
Mr. Harcourt soon took a seat by Emily, and a very ani¬
mated conversation was carried on between them.
She was really uncommonly handsome, and the sort of
person to make a vast impression on most men, and this
evening she looked more than usually charming. On Mr.
Harcourt's seating himself by Emily, Mr. Larray disappeared
unseen by her, perhaps at that moment uncared for.
When Mr. d'Arcy was introduced to Miss Norris, he con¬
versed with her for a short time, and the melodious voice and
discreet words of Emily could not fail to produce an impres¬
sion favourable to her; but at this moment it was that some¬
thing struck Violet as unpleasing in Mr. d'Arcy,—his smile
was cold, and his regard expressed penetration, but indif¬
ference.
At supper Emily sat between Harcourt and his friend. To
Violet's surprise, as she was following her father to the
supper-room, Mr. Larray re-appeared, and offered her his arm.
THE DA.NSEUSE.
13
" I almost thought you were gone," exclaimed Violet.
"I did go, Miss Woodville, but I am returned; I con¬
ceived I was wrong, and that reflection causes me to be here
now."
" But what made you discover all at once that you were
wi'ong p"
"My better judgment, I believe, as I walked down the
street. Where will you sit, Miss Woodville?"
During the supper Mr. Harcourt rather kept in the back¬
ground, that his friend might engross Emily; and at one
time Mr. d'Arcy's animated countenance and eager conver¬
sation gave him the air of making love upon his own account.
Emily was in the highest spirits : she thought she had won
a new admirer. She laughed and talked—her complexion
glowed, she shook her ambrosial curls, and her eyes were
dazzling with the consciousness of success.
Mr. d'Arcy bent over her, and once Violet thought he
looked as if he admired her very much. Mr. Harcourt
seemed forgotten: at that moment he appeared to thjnk so,
too, for he suddenly reinstated himself in his share of the
conversation with Emify.
Some one asked Mr. d'Arcy to drink wine: he turned to
answer, and Violet was again struck with the cold indifference
of his expressive countenance. From his great attention to
her friend, and the effect it had produced upon her, it was
reasonable to suppose that some trace of the feelings of the
previous instant would have lived for a moment's space; but
no, it was the same regard, almost contemptuous in its calm¬
ness, and no trace of emotion was perceivable.
" What is that gentleman's name?" inquired Mr. Larrav.
" He is called Mr. d'Arcy. What do you think of him ? "
" He is very good-looking."
" Oh, I did not mean his looks."
" Well, I am also struck by his being different from most
other people. His air is good, but it is peculiar. He is
bored here, or perhaps he is bored everywhere."
" How do you know he is bored?"
"Look at his countenance."
" Ah, now ; but it was animated enough an instant ago."
"What, when he was talking to Emily? Yes: he was
endeavouring to understand her."
"To understand her?"
" Yes; I mean the sort of person she is; he was en¬
deavouring to penetrate her mind."
14
VIOLET; OK,
" Oh! well, I hope he has succeeded."
" He thinks he has, I dare say. Now I do not much like
this Mr. d'Arcy; there is something about him that wounds
the amour propre of other people. But yet I could much
rather forgive Emily for behaving ill to me for that man's
sake, than I can for Mr. Har "
" Hush—he will hear you. But why this distinction ? "
" The one she might prefer to the other she cannot—•
she does not I know."
" But yet you say you don't like Mr. d'Arcy," the
rising from supper interrupted Yiolet.
It was by this time Sunday morning; one of the ladies,
whose face was rather the worse for wear, poor thing! pro¬
posed sacred music. She had never heard any, and was very
curious to hear some, she said, and Mrs. Norris, she knew,
sang that sort of thing so well. Being uncommon, the pro¬
posal succeeded vastly, and the roues and the charming women
were in ecstasy.
Harcoilrt and d'Arcy approached each other, and took
seats, without noticing, apparently, that a large vase, filled
with roses and mignionette, and an alabaster Venus embracing
Adonis rising from the midst of the flowers, concealed an
occupant of the chair behind the tripod table on which stood
the vase; or else, under cover of " O Absalom, my son!"
they conceived their words would fall unheeded.
Or, perhaps, between his desire to talk to his friend, his
passion, and. the champagne he had drunk, Mr. Harcourt
might have let matters of greater moment than this pass
without scrutiny. Violet, therefore, overheard their confer¬
ence ; and, thanks to the scanty drapery of the Venus, could
partially observe the countenance of one of the speakers.
" What do you think of her P" inquired Mr. Harcourt, in
an agitated tone of voice.
" As to looks ?—that she is beautiful."
"D'Arcy, I am desperately in love with that girl."
" Yes-—it is a pity she thinks she can marry you."
" Oh, but she has no reason for thinking so, and I doubt if
she does ; in fact, I have to-night been playing a desperate
game with her.—I talked of going abroad, and dropped a few
words as if I meant to cut her."
" Have you ever thought of appealing to her affection ?
it does answer occasionally, you know. Have you flattered
her sufficiently? have you adored her sufficiently ?"
" Oh, everything! She is proof against every attack."
THE DANSEUSE.
15
" Then she must think you a marrying man : how very
unlucky you are, my poor fellow ! it is the worst notion she
could have taken into her head. I do not know how to
advise you."
" I am passionately in love—there is nothing I have not
done."
" Why, I am not so sure of that—you are so d—d indo¬
lent,—have you sworn oaths enough ? Good heavens! I
would feign Catholic, and bring to the hammer every saint in
the calendar."
" Oh, don't be a fool, D'Arcy, when I am distracted."
" Seriously, then.—Have you tried suicide?"
" Ho. I have not yet."
" Well, then—go on that tack to-night,—blowing your
brains out, mind—poisoning, or drowning does not much
touch a woman now-a-days; but they don't like fire-arms."
" But if that fail ?"
" In that case, I cannot help you. With those eyes, the girl
has no business to be coy; and I am much mistaken if her
mother ought not to be put in the pillory for her very virtue."
" But my Emily!" exclaimed Harcourt, in a love-sick
voice, " give me your candid opinion of her, D'Arcy. I can
bear to hear anything from you."
" Well, I think her very handsome : magnificent eyes, and
the figure of a goddess. I should like her myself."
" But would you marry her?"
" Marry her ! I marry her?—No !—my ideas on that point
may be uncommon, but they are unalterable !"
" Then, what would you say, if I told you I had serious
thoughts of it?"
It was a faint, but bitterly-sneering laugh with which
D'Arcy replied to this appeal.
" Simply," he answered in words at last, " that if you ever
found reason to repent your choice, you would deserve no
pity. The world would despise your weakness,—I should,
for one, and you would live to curse the most irretrievable
folly you couid possibly commit. Eor heaven's sake, Har¬
court, do not be such a fool," continued Mr. d'Arcy, with
hushed vehemence,—"marry that girl! an opera-dancer!
and the daughter of that woman, whose very outside better-
seeming is a greater abomination than the undisguised profli¬
gacy of that little French devil I showed you last night!
Never—never! I beseech you, Harcourt—think twice of such
perdition as this act of madness would be!"
16
VIOLET ; OE,
" Ah! you have no heart, and are incapable of comprehend¬
ing me."
" Possibly, in your acceptation of the term ; but you asked
me for the truth—I have given it you in all its nakedness,
and would tell it you, again and again, to save you from such
a fate as this, a fate in which it amazes me that you can even
dream of involving yourself."
" But you make no allowance for circumstances: she is
virtuous ; and would not such a creature as that make venial
any error I might commit ?"
" No; there are some things that not any number, or any
quality, of such creatures can palliate."
" You are a brute, D'Arcy."
" Thank you," replied Mr. d'Arcy, calmly: " you requested
my advice, and I bestowed it generously : if the truth offend,
I am blameless; so now let us go and hear ' Jephthah's
Daughter.' "
D'Arcy rose, and moved towards, the piano ; whilst his
friend, with inherent spoiltness, devoted himself, for the rest
of the evening, still more assiduously to Emily Norris.
It was a great relief to Violet, when this conversation
ended. Well aware that it had not been meant for her ears,
she would have moved from her ambush at its very commence¬
ment, had not excessive timidity absolutely fixed her to the
spot, and the additional awkwardness of betraying her pre¬
sence as the supposed tete-a-tete proceeded, continued to rivet
her to her seat.
Her father was attending to the music; and her mother
was absorbed in self-complacent admiration opposite a mirror,
and in listening to the whispered remarks of some of her
neighbours. Mr. Larray was standing in a door-way some¬
what apart from the society, and seemed occupied with no
very agreeable train of thoughthe at last espied Violet
alone, and approached her.
" I shall not see Miss Norris again for some time, Miss
Woodville," said Mr. Lai-ray, "and perhaps you would be
kind enough to tell her, that I avoided bidding her good bye,
because I feel wretched; and I doubt if such a parting as
ours would too likely be could make me less so ; but tell her
I shall be rejoiced to know that she is happy, and that I do
not persevere in pressing my attachment upon her, lest I
should interfere with results much more splendid than any
my alliance could offer her" (Mr. Larray sighed) ; " and,
on the whole, more—that is to say, better for her—I begin
THE DANSEUSE.
17
to think so now ; and it would be better to die each day
than to marry Emily, if she thought it a sacrifice. Adieu.
Miss Woodville !—you deserve a better lot than to be one of
these people : you are not even a coquette, and I hardly think
you will ever become one."
Violet began an answer; but Mr. Larray left her ere she
had uttered three words.
There was now more talking than singing, and more of
laughing than of either. The flirtations were getting despe¬
rate. The middle of the room was an absolute desert, while
the boudoirs and door-ways were filled by tender couples.
Arm-chairs and bookcases, cabinets and commodes—anything,
in short, that could make an angle with anything, was dexter¬
ously put in requisition.
A groupe still remained round the pianoforte; but it con¬
sisted only of ladies with jealous husbands extant in the
room, and of men, like Woodville, honester than the others,
and with incumbrances.
Harcourt's countenance, as he leant over the back of
Emily's arm-chair, still bore the shade of displeasure, which
his friend's remarks had called up. It is true " II ne faut
pas toujours avoir raison pour plaire," says the prince de
Eigne; but it is no less true, " II faut souvent plaire pour
avoir raison."
D'Arcy himself occupied a place near the music, and, from
time to time, was assiduous to Mrs. bTorris. Some people
might have fancied he liked that discreet lady, and Violet
would have been of that opinion, had she not overheard his
abuse of her. I rather think, too, Mrs. ETorris herself
thought that Mr. d'Arcy liked her; and she was a very good
judge. He was however, one of the first to withdraw.
' Then Violet began to yawn, and, taking courage, advanced
to her father.
"Are you not going home, papa?" she inquired; " it is
very late, I think."
c
18
VIOLET ; OR;
CHAPTER III.
" Pardon this digression ;
But, whatsoe'er may be a man's profession,
Whether the trade be noble, or ignoble,
Whether he steer a frigate, or a coble.
He finds some vast importance in the calling,
And deems the universe is kept from falling,
And all the interests of man affected,
By that to which his talents are directed."
Anon.
The evening passed at Mrs. Norris's had given Yiolet much
to think of. It was the first time she had found herself in so
mixed a circle. Her mother had hitherto taken her very-
little into society, and this evening's events had given her
much to reflect upon. She had gained experience, hut her
reflections thereupon were not all agreeable ones.
Accustomed, during her short life, to one class only, she
had had no means of forming a judgment as to its compara¬
tive merits, and with Emily Norris as her most intimate
friend, Yiolet was not likely to be led to much abstract rea¬
soning that could prove correct. Her knowledge acquired
from books was not of a very serviceable kind. Her father
possessed a collection of Erench dramatic authors, and some
odd volumes of Pope, of Milton, and of Shakspeare ; a few
plays of Otway, Congreve, and Rowe; the works of Sheridan
and Mrs. Inchbald; a good many magazines, volumes of
farces, &c. &c. Such was the composition of Mr. Wood-
ville's library. How and then he brought home a new novel,
lent him by a friend, which was often returned unread; but,
generally, the most modern prose that entered his house was
an evening paper or the "Age," varied occasionally by a
French vaudeville, or the new play as then performing at the
theatres royal Covent Garden, or Drury Lane.
Miss Woodville's education, i. e., her external accomplish¬
ments, had been so much attended to, that she had not had
time to acquire a love of reading, and no one in her, whole
life had ever inculcated it upon her as necessary, or even
desirable. Yiolet, then, had, as may be imagined, but scanty
means of appreciating her own condition, and was not aware
that players, singers, and dancers were the light weight, and
not the heavy ballast in the scale of social opinion; nor that
THE DANSEUSE.
19
disagreeable people of a muck lower grade ranked above
tbem in the statistics of respectability.
She did not know how seldom in the minds of most people
morality and an opera-dancer were in approximation. Still
less was she aware that the sentiments of her parents, and
even her own, were influenced by their mode of existence,
and that no purity of mind, no principles, however well regu¬
lated, no stoicism of virtue, however well guarded, can utterly
withstand the force of example.
Either the virtuous become repulsive and austere from
excess of precaution, or sin doubly by exclaiming too eagerly
against " the mote that is in their brother's eye," or chime in
with the small vices and gentler frailties of the corrupt; not
doubting, while baser crimes are kept at an immeasurable
distance, that so wide apart are their present practice and
real excellence.
No models of right and wrong had been set before Violet,
but such as (if I may use the expression) she had found
ready to her hand. Her native impulses were all good, but
example had done nothing to strengthen them. Good incli¬
nations are like raw materials, and must have much trouble
taken with them before they can be made serviceable.
Mr. d'Arcy's contemptuous observations upon Mrs. Norris,
and his frivolous praise of her daughter, placed them in a
light in which Violet had never seen them before. She then
passed in review Emily's calculating encouragement of Mr.
Harcourt, and her ungenerous treatment of Mr. Larray. She
compared her friend and her mother with many others that
she knew of, and was compelled to own that they did not
lose by the comparison.
When once we begin to reason, the process is a rapid one,
and it was a sickening moment to Violet when she drew the
conclusion that she herself was one of the despised class,
whose degradation a thousand D'Arcys would be ready to
infer; and that no virtue could be a shield against the oppro¬
brium of marrying an opera-dancer.
But why was D'Arcy's opinion to weigh so greatly with
her? Whatever was the reason, it did—it might be his
voice, his manner, his air, that thus impressed her. But why
not say at once he pleased,—and leave the how to be defined
by others, who in like manner have been charmed, while the
days, the months, and the years have flown by, yet have they
never paused and asked, " Wherefore ? "
During the latter part, however, of this, to her, eventful
c 2
20
VlOliET; OB,
evening, the charm had been somewhat broken : Violet half
feared that he who had so excited her interest wanted kind¬
ness of heart; she likewise felt a little terror at the harshness
of his remarks; but even these considerations could not
change the nature of her predilection ; a feeling, by the bye,
which neither by word nor look had Mr. d'Arcy upheld for
himself,—for, beautiful as Violet Woodville was, he had never
noticed, most probably, had never seen her.
"La destinee que Dieu nous a fait, n'est jamais celle que
nous faisons a nous-memes."*
Violet suddenly determined she would not be an opera-
dancer, but she was quite at a loss how to convey this reso¬
lution to her parents. She rarely now gave the same atten¬
tion to assist the unwearied zeal of M. Dupas, who was at
fault in discovering the cause of his pupil's diminished ardour,
and urged upon her family, with more than his usual serious¬
ness, the importance of seeking an engagement with the
manager of the King's Theatre.
About this time there was a new ballet in preparation, but
the heroine was not to be the chief dancer. This character
was given to Miss Norris, whose forte was in the pantomimic
parts. The ballet was intended by the manager to be a
chef-d'ceuvre: there were in it a good many first-rate, promi¬
nent parts, so that he wrould be enabled with less squabbling
than usual to content the ambitious views of the whole corps
de ballet. The dresses were to be such as had never yet
been seen. The scenery, the decorations,—but we will not
write the whole of a newspaper paragraph.
In the course of the ballet a Venus was to appear, and Miss
Norris was to be the Venus. There was very considerable
trouble in determining in what attire (perhaps if any) the god¬
dess ought to appear.
It was, in fact, a very difficult point to decide. Her earthly
representative was inclined to a blaze of silver and jewels,
while there was a strong party in favour of a little plain
gauze, and much tricot.
There being no original costume to refer to was the cause
of so much indecision. Upon the whole, the predominating
opinion maintained it to be quite indecorous to adorn a Venus
with earthly embellishments, and that the object to be aimed
at was to give as ethereal an appearance as could be attained,
without too great a risk of a remonstrance from the Bishops.
* Massillon,
THE DANSEUSE.
21
Miss Harris again had a great idea of precious stones be¬
coming her exceedingly; and during the dispute a mock
tiara of diamonds and rubies was always in her mind's eye,
encircling her radiant brow. She remembered once before
producing a great sensation in some head-gear of this kind,
and matters were getting to look unpleasant, for Miss Norris
was not a little spoilt, and had a very good opinion of her
own merits and judgment; when, lo! a fortnight before the
ballet was to1 be brought forward, in getting out of a dirty
hackney-coach at one of the rehearsals, her foot slipped on
the muddy step, and Emily screamed.
It was true she had only violently sprained her ancle, but
all hopes of being able to glide down from the scenic heaven
upon a cloud, on that day fortnight, were put out of the
question by this unlucky accident.
The manager, the dancers, the figurantes, the scene-
painters, and even the very scene-shifters were in consterna¬
tion ; nobody, of course, pitied the only person who really
suffered.
The season was already far advanced ; and if the ballet
were not produced now, it would not be worth the manager's
while to let it appear at all. At the same time he did not see
what Venus there was that he could depend upon. He
reviewed, in his mind's eye, every demoiselle of the green¬
room (by the bye, there is no green-room at the Opera), but
not one of them was sufficiently handsome: there was one
who might do very well as to face, but was somewhat too
bulky in person. In vain the manager depicted to himself
this young lady, laced in to the uttermost power of the
strongest stay-lace—there would still exist a preponderance
in her form which would not exactly do for a Venus; and
where to turn for a better, he knew not.
At this critical juncture M. Dupas, as an old intimate of
the manager, was consulted by him on the momentous topic.
Visions of glory at once flitted before the intellectual optics
of the dancing-master; he hastened to have them realized.
Yes, he knew a young lady, of the most distinguished beauty,
full of grace and talent for the profession—in a word, a pupil
of his own. Could she be persuaded to undertake the engage¬
ment, and did it suit the views of Monsieur to give her one,
he (Dupas) could not but view it as a compact mutally advan¬
tageous and desirable.
All this sounded well; but the manager, who was a cautious
man, evinced hesitation. He said he must see the young
22
VIOLET; OB,
lady ; lie would go the length of believing all that M. Dupas
said of her accomplishments, but still he must see her before
he in the slightest degree compromised himself.
The manager, in accordance with a previous arrangement
with M. Dupas made at the termination of their conference,
called on the following day on Mr. Woodville, with whom he
was previously acquainted, and had an opportunity of satisfy¬
ing himself of the correctness of Dupas's report.
Violet was in the room with her father when the manager
entered: she was introduced to him, and, all unconscious of
the object of his visit, she bore his scrutinizing looks with
modest assurance, and having staid long enough in the room
to complete the excellent impression the first coup-d'ceil had
conveyed to him, made the earliest excuse for retiring, and
left her father and this important personage to their delibera¬
tions. M. Dupas shortly after knocked at the door, and was
added to the council of three—for a council it soon became.
Mr. Woodville was dazzled by the brilliant chance it offered
for his daughter's debut; but Mrs. Woodville, he said, must
be consulted—their mutual intentions respecting their daugh¬
ter had hitherto been so undetermined, &c. &c.; he would, in
a day or two, inform the manager whether Miss Woodville
could avail herself of his very obliging proposal; and after a
little more conversation of the same sort, the manager took
his leave, thinking that Mr. Woodville only held out in order
to obtain the offer of a higher salary, and which he fully
resolved to augment on the morrow.
" Do you hesitate, Mr. Woodville ? " exclaimed M. Dupas,
the moment they were alone.
" You forget my wife, my dear Dupas."
" Your wife! Her own mother can never imagine any
opposement to the future glory of la petite: can anything be
more ravishing than the prospect of the debut she will make ?
The new ballet, for which the whole of the town are mad
with knowing of! To be at once lancee, as the object of
enthusiasm and admiration and extasiement! What is there
that she may not expect? I am all breathless with the
anxiety of my feelings; that the whole desire of my life
should be so sublimement realise,—and est-il possible that
you are not penetrated, in and out, with your good fortune!
This it is to be an Englishman !—(the porter that you drink,
and your bad climate, I suppose)—so that you have no fine
sentiments—no conception of the really great; you are in¬
capable of things elevated; and Miss Woodville, my Violet
THE DANSETX8E.
23
—my little child—my pupil—my bijou ! your own daughter
>—will be abandoned by you—3he is to be sacrificed, the
pauvre enfant! Helas ! on a de grands malheurs dans ce
monde."
M. Dupas ceased speaking, but he sighed profoundly. The
poor man's anguish was not feigned. Woodville, who was
used to his tirades, said a few pacifying words, and then went
really to consult Mrs. Woodville.
The manager, in the mean time, as he left the house, walked
up the street, muttering and thinking to himself—" Beautiful
creature, certainly! and will do—but she must be rouged
with care: I can take an opportunity of seeing to that my¬
self. While they are at their first engagements, these
hussies are tractable: yes, if I am not mistaken, I have
made a find; the ballet will attract, if it is only by means of
the Venus; and I am not sure whether the beauty of this
young houri will not look much more ethereal than that of
the black-eyed Norris girl. This one is the most uncommon
style of the two. I only foresee one difficulty—she is too
respectable. The effect would be perfect, and my fortune
would be made, if I could only have her properly dressed;
gossamer robe, fastened by a zone, neck and shoulders quite
bare, or a mere loop, that she might not be called Eve in the
newspapers, and, to save appearances with the saints
We shall see; I am sure it will answer, and the price of
opera-glasses will rise."
Violet was taken by surprise, and found she had not courage
to make her parents an avowal of the dislike she felt to the
career they now in good earnest desired she should embrace.
They considered it an opportunity not to be lost.
Violet felt ashamed of her own feelings—perhaps of not
having sooner discovered them ; besides, after the pains that
had been taken with her, how was she to find the heart to
declare that it had all been time thrown away ?
She thought of poor M. Dupas and his despair at such a
result to his many lessons. She then reflected on the money
expended upon her education, and the bad return it would be
to refuse the only pecuniary means she knew she could ever
have in her power of aiding her parents.
The finale was, that between shame and shyness, and the
innate sweetness of her disposition, Violet's resolution gave
way. But the sad feeling of self-degradation that accom¬
panied her compliance made her in secret shed bitter tears,
and often did she wish that her lot had been differently cast,
24
VIOLET J OE,
while she almost lost the hope of rising above the level on
which she mentally conceived herself to be placed.
Still she bestowed attention on her profession, more even
than she had devoted to it for months past. She desired, at
least, to excel in her new career.
She attended rehearsals as little as possible, for these she
hated ; but at home, and with the unremitting painstaking of
M. Dupas, she lost no opportunity of studying her part. It
was not a very difficult one, and had it been more so, Violet's
extreme beauty, and an exquisite costume, would have coun¬
terbalanced many defects in the performance.
In the mean time the renown of the new ballet had gone
abroad, and when the night for its first performance arrived,
not a box was vacant, and there was not standing-room in the
pit. The most interesting conversations were momentarily
suspended as the curtain, drawing up, discovered the first
scene to the expectant audience.
" They say there is to be a new dancer to-night, the most
beautiful girl that was ever beheld," said Lord John to his
pendant.
"An Englishwoman, by the name, though," said a lady,
"so she will be awkward, I am afraid; all Englishwomen
are."
" That's true.—but there's that Miss ISTorris did it uncom¬
monly well. Horace," whispered the speaker, "did not she
break her leg, or something, jumping out of Harcourt's
cab ?"
"Either her leg, or her rib, or something. They swear
Harcourt means to marry her."
" Does he P—then I will tell Crocky to give him good
advice and desire him not."
" Hush,—here is the new girl. By Jupiter! if I have not
dropped my opera-glass ! "
It was in the middle of one of the most enchanting scenes
of the ballet that Violet Woodville, personifying the goddess
of love and beautjr, made her first public appearance on a
stage.
Nervous to the last degree, Violet almost fainted under the
violence of her emotions. The stage-lamps restored her
courage a little, as they always do, and the imperious neces¬
sity of not giving way did still more to sustain her. She
profited by the advice of M. Dupas,—to take no heed of the
audience, and to think of her part only, not of her judges.
Suddenly a loud rush of applause rang on her ears, and the
THE DANSEUSE.
25
young girl was again on the point of being overcome. These
were not the whispered tones of admiration, falling like music
on the ear of the unprotected novice, but the loud and un¬
expected shout of the admiring multitude that first greeted
the Violet as incense to her beauty. Some minutes passed
ere she could quite regain her self-possession.
The scene was at length over, and then she threw herself
into her father's arms and shed tears. M. Dupas, in his en¬
thusiasm, quite felt as if she were his own child as he pressed
her to his heart. Tears streamed down his cheeks without
his knowing it, wrhile Mr. Woodville, as a younger man, felt
quite ashamed of his own emotion, and tried to smile and
listen to the congratulations of friends and by-standers.
Woodville himself was engaged as one of the orchestra, but
for this night he had requested his congS.—" I could not
play," he said, " whilst my daughter danced."
Nothing could exceed the entire success that attended
Miss Woodville. Her beauty and her extreme gracefulness
left nothing to desire,—but above all, her uncommon beauty.
Her figure was so finished by nature, and set off by art, that
it alone represented perfectly the beau ideal of a Venus.
Still, lovely as she looked on the stage, it was considered
necessary to have a closer inspection, ere a decided opinion
could be pronounced by the cognoscenti, ready as they were
to acknowledge that, at the distance from which they had
seen her, it was no exaggerated praise to declare she looked
divine.
Deafening plaudits hailed the finale, and even the ladies
lingered in their boxes to see the last of " the new opera-
dancer."
Her parents' joy, and her own most natural vanity, gave
some consolation to Violet in the first steps of the path on
which she had so reluctantly entered. In one week a new
existence opened to her.
She never went to the theatre without the protection either
of her father or her mother, and in this respect it is due to
her parents to say that they did their duty.
The young men rushed behind the scenes to make love,
and settlements too, if they might; but Violet's modest
manner, and her father's watchfulness, shielded her from the
lightest word of offence. By turns, surprised, excited, flat¬
tered, pleased, and rarely mortified, Violet gained courage,
and earned her distinction. She made new acquaintances,
she mingled in a larger circle, and acquired some of that
26
VIOLET; OK,
worldly knowledge in wliicli slie had hitherto been so
deficient.
She was gay, if not happy besides, for she had little time
for reflection, and nothing positive to regret. Often, too, the
real or seeming brilliancy of her position would shed its
enchantment over the visions that rose to her imagination,
as they will do to that of every young person who has the
world before them still.
Delightful moments, when all the disagreeable realities of
life are obliterated by the brief joys of an hour ! and when,
in a paradise of fiction, it is possible to forget that, if we are
not to be single among our fellow-creatures, as happiness is
not theirs, neither will it exist without alloy for ourselves!
Dream on, I would fain say; for after-life may have its
pleasures and its sanguine hopes, but never again can we
derive, as we have done, from the resources of a bright, un-
bruised spirit that poetry of thought that can create a
heaven on earth to the very young. The scene is sure to
change, and the clouds of sorrow are ever gathering, though
unseen by us, ready to burst and dim the sunshine of our
happiest moments. Though again and again the elastic mind
rises above the storm, yet we see that mind crushed by de¬
grees, and faintly growing to mistrust present happiness,
while futurity is only seen through the medium of the worst
despondency. Alas! to change it thus, how much sorrow
must have lingered o'er the now subdued and doubting
spirit, that once knew but the certainty of every scheme it
cared to realize !
Miss bTorris was still confined to the house with her
sprained ancle, for, having walked about when she was told
to keep on her sofa, it suddenly became worse, and she was
now obliged to be careful from fear of another relapse.
Emily thought she was very glad of Violet's awreole de
gloire, but in her heart she was a little jealous, which, how¬
ever, it was very natural she could not conceive herself
capable of being in the least possible degree.
Miss INorris amused herself every day during her illness,
by putting on the most becoming dressing-gowns she could
find, and with listening for Mr. Harcourt's cab, either driving
to her door for him toinquirevery particularly how she was,
or oftener still to make those inquiries himself in person.
Still he did not propose, and the season was drawing to an
end.
Emily, however, grew more virluous every day, and Mrs,
THE DANSEUSE.
27
Horris was beginning to think whether it would not be a
good thing for her to do, as she had read in fashionable
novels that managing mammas sometimes did; i.e. declare
that her daughter's affections were irreparably engaged, and
her happiness destroyed ; and that, therefore, Mr. Harcourt
must either discontinue his visits or he must propose.
Mrs. Norris discussed these measures with Emily, but did
not find her daughter so docile as she was wont to be; and
Miss !N orris one day flatly told her mother that she begged
the affair with Mr. Harcourt should be left to her own caring
for, lest he should be worried away from her altogether by
the manoeuvring of other people, which, Emily averred,
always spoiled these affairs.
Miss Norris was agreeably roused one morning from a fit
of low spirits by the rapid wheels of Mr. Harcourt's cabriolet
driving to her door much earlier than usual.
"He must be come to propose, "thought Emily. "Mamma,"
exclaimed the young lady at the top of her voice, for mamma
was in the other room,—"Mamma, am I becoming? Mam¬
ma, where's mamma ?—mamma, don't you hear ?—am I
becoming?" Mrs. Norris now rushed in, and the sight of
Emily rolling her curls round her fingers, united to her im¬
portant question, and the most imploringly interrogative eyes,
told her, at once, of the arrival she had not sooner learnt.
" Here, my dear—here's a little,—there's yet a moment,—
I will detain him—make haste—not too much, mind." These
broken sentences were spoken with reference to an old bit of
rouge which the provident parent drew from her pocket, and
which, with the last injunction of " not too much, mind," she
thrust into her daughter's hand.
" Thank you, mamma," said the young lady in a sweetly-
grateful voice, and the right shade being cleverly applied,
Emily was happy in her mind, and felt she had all her smiles
at command to enable her to overcome this hitherto obdurate,
but not hopelessly unproposing man.
" My dear Emily," said Mr. Harcourt, " I am anxious to
know how soon you will be well enough to join a water-party
down to Greenwich ?—we are to make it quite a fete. Stan-
more is to manage it all, and it is to be the pleasantest thing
in the world; but as I can have no pleasure without you, it
is quite necessary for me to know when you can be one of
us."
Though this was not a proposal, Emily foresaw a very
ggreeable day, and she brightened considerably, while, with
28
VIOLET; OE,
the aid of Mrs. Norris, she named the time about which the
apothecary might consider it good for her, and pretty good
for himself, that she should be emancipated from the sofa.
The point was arranged at last; and long after Mr. Har-
court left her, Emily was still building castles in the air on
a new foundation derived from the expected day of pleasure.
Violet was now taken up in so many different ways that
she had not so much leisure as formerly; and Emily being
obliged to remain at home, they had not met very lately.
Miss Norris wrote her a note, requesting her to come and
see her that evening, if she could, with the intention of
learning whether Yiolet Woodville had beeen invited earlier
than herself to Lord Stanmore's Greenwich party. That she
was, or would be, invited, was certain ; for Emily had already
heard of the open admiration Lord Stanmore professed for
her beautiful friend; and she was also anxious to obtain
some authentic information upon this subject.
It was very true that, amongst the many who were struck
with the uncommon loveliness of our heroine, there was one
very young man, of a somewhat peculiar character, unde¬
veloped, but perhaps not the less pleasing.
Lord Stanmore was among the first to make acquaintance
with the new opera-dancer; but he was surprised and an¬
noyed when he found how difficult it would be for him to
obtain her affections—that is, her affections as he meant to
obtain tbem ; and he soon perceived that, if seducing her
was not hopeless, it could only be by means of winning her
attachment, and by the bad principles he could not but sus¬
pect were only dormant in her bosom. " I can win her
hardly by her vanity," thought he, " and still less by her
avarice, for she has none."
Slowly her admirer became impressed with the virtue of
Yiolet Woodville's character, and her good conduct was
undoubted.
Lord Stanmore was now really unhappy : he could not
think of marrying her, yet he was very much in love. He
was twenty-two, and his own master. He would not fly
from the object of his passion ; there was always a latent
trust in his breast that example and great temptation might
prove foes to Yiolet and friends to him. He was encouraged
also by thinking that he had made some impression on a
heart as yet untried—he at least hoped so.
It was certain that Yiolet was flattered by the respectful
preference of her admirer,—doubly respectful Lord Stanmore
THE DANSEUSE.
29
made it appear, because be was well aware tbat it was tbe
most profound, as well as the most delicate flattery he could
offer to one in her situation.
Her parents, and even M. Dupas, already dreamt of her
as the bride of the rich young peer. Violet dreamt no such
dream ; but she did not the less encourage, after a gentle
fashion, Lord Stanmore's admiration. He was good-looking,
and a charming person—besides, he was her earliest admirer.
He speedily made acquaintance with all the jprime donne
and ballerine, through whose means he found he could share
the society of Violet. At concerts and practisings, at re¬
hearsals, at suppers, and reunions after the ballet; at the
house of one or other of the operatic corps, he found the
opportunities he sought, and was mOst assiduous in availing
himself of them. It was always something to be making
love, and even if nothing more came of it, he felt a sort of
malicious pleasure in the hope that he might cause himself
to be regretted.
It was chiefly for the sake of Violet Woodville that Lord
Stanmore proposed the Greenwich water-party; and he gave
her carte blanche to ask all her friends, whilst he invited a
number of men to add to their number. They were all to
meet at Whitehall, and go down to Greenwich by water.
Violet was naturally delighted at the pleasant day she ex¬
pected to pass, and much pleased also by the manner in
which Lord Stanmore made her the queen of thefete.
Violet Woodville went to see Emily as she requested, and
gladly availed herself of her permission to ask her friends,
by hoping Emily and her mother would be among them.
"O, I did not know, Violet, that this party was all for
you! Mr. Harcourt has asked me already," said Emily, a
little" piqued at finding she was not the first personage on
this occassion. " But tell me, is it true that Lord Stanmore
is very much in love? How do you manage him, Violet?—
do you think he is at all a sort of man to marry you ? Has
he any mother, or any tiresome old guardian, to meddle with
what they have no business ? "
"I do not know," answered Violet, colouring; "but as
for marrying me, I am not so ambitious. Lord Stanmore's
relations would hate me if he did marry me, and I could not
bear to be despised by any one."
" What great nonsense is that you ai'e talking, child ! why,
I could fancy you were come out of a wood all at once."
" Oh, you know, Emily, people look upon things differently.
30
VIOLET; OE,
After all, it would be very wrong for a person like Lord
Stanmore to marry me, who am not his equal in any way."
Miss Norris burst into a loud laugh.
" Heaven help your understanding ! If I did not know you
better, I should think you were the greatest fool alive. Who
has put these crotchets into your head? "
" Hot a being, believe me; but we may all make our own
reflections."
" You had better make no more such as these ; in our con¬
dition of life, that sort of thing will not do at all. I never
heard Lord Stanmore was a saint,—is it to please him you
have learnt so much wisdom ? "
"Come, don't laugh too much at me, Emily. You know
there is truth in what I have said, at all events."
" I dare say; you may tell me as much of the Proverbs of
King Solomon, but I am not going to quote them, for all that.
Well, I will talk no more nonsense,—but tell me, what do
you hear about me and Harcourt ?—what is said about it, do
you hear ?—and is it thought he will propose for me?" ,
" Indeed, Emily, people are very ill-natured in what they
say of you sometimes, and I wish Mr. Harcourt would pro¬
pose to you, as you desire it so much, and then nothing more
could be said."
" What do they say of me ? I suppose it is that little
spiteful Celeste, who never has forgiven me for taking
Harcourt away from her; what does she say of me, Yiolet? "
" Oh, it is not little Celeste only, but other people; they
declare he never will marry you, and that you must know it."
"Well, I think differently,—and if Mr. Harcourt does
propose, I own I shall glory in it, on account of that imperti¬
nent Celeste. She is so jealous, there is nothing she will not
say of me. Pray, dear Yiolet, is she asked to be of the party
to Greenwich ? "
" I fear so, but you need not care for that."
" Oh dear no, I shall so like it! Harcourt will treat her
with the utmost contempt, and, after her behaviour to me, I
shall certainly not be sorry for her mortification. And then,
Yiolet, if I do marry Mr. Harcourt," continued Emily in
exuberant gaiety,—" how I shall like to have you constantly
with me, and what amusement we shall have! You will
always be my best friend, and Mr. Harcourt likes you
already, and I am sure he will be so kind afterwards; and
then he is the most generous person I know, and will give me
everything in the world I desire. How curious it will be for
THE DANSETJSE.
31
us to go to the opera together in. our own box, will it not ?
And there I shall see Celeste all that way off,—ha, ha, ha !—
dancing as she always does, with one foot more turned in than
the other, and seeing me where she cannot get at me with
all her ill-nature—how nice it will be for us to go in that way
together! "
" Dearest Emily, you are very kind to think of me so ; I do
wish it was all settled with Mr. Harcourt; but you have
never told me if you have heard any more of M. Larray; I
am afraid he thought you behaved unkindly to him."
Emily Norris made no reply, but her expression changed.
" He is gone to Paris, is he not ? "
"Do not name him now," exclaimed Emily, bursting into a
violent fit of tears, and evincing grief as violent as her gaiety
had been the very instant previous ; and leaning on the table,
she hid her face with her hands.
" Good heavens ! do you care so much for him ? " said
Yiolet Woodville in astonishment.
" Indeed I do,—he is the only person in the whole world I
ever really preferred,—and—perhaps I shall never see him
again."
" Then why, Emily, have you behaved to him in the way
you have ? you knew him to be devoted to you."
" Ah! if I could recall the past, it should all be different. I
thought if I could only marry Mr. Harcourt, that was every¬
thing, and that I should be a lady, and then that odious
Celeste could affront me no more. I was not always in the
same mind. There were times that I would sooner have been
Henri's wife than the king of England's; but then we
quarrelled, and he was jealous ; and mamma, too, the moment
she thought it possible Mr. Harcourt would marry me, never
talked of anything else ; and of Henri being poor, and of how
rich I should be, and that was the great thing. And I could
not help liking to flirt with Mr. Harcourt, because of that
French girl, who has always been interfering with me all my
life ; and then I quarrelled dreadfully with M. Larray,
because he said he heard that Mr. Harcourt would not marry
me, and that I should lose my character, and he threatened to
give me up for ever if I would not promise not to see Mr. Har¬
court any more; and I was very angry, and declared that all
should be at an end then with Henri, for, that since he said
this, I would not ever marry him, and that I would not be
governed by anybody.
" I was certainly very angry. I think I told Henri I won-
32
VIOLET; OH,
dered how he could expect that I should not prefer Mr.
Harcourt to him, and that I had a right to do as well for
myself as I could.—I do not know how it was, he was in
a passion with me at first, but at last he softened entirely;
and, when I least thought of his doing so, he held out his
hand and took mine, and said, " Let us part friends,—dear
Emily, may God bles3 you !—I have loved you very much—I
will not ask you ever to think of me again, but, for your own
sake, have prudence—and before I had time to answer, he
left me, and next day went to Paris.
" This was the first idea I had of his leaving England,
except on that one evening at our house when he bade me a
sort of farewell through you; but we had been friends after
that, and I never thought he was serious in meaning to go
abroad.
" So now it is all over, and I shall never " Tears choked
her utterance, and Emily gave way to a burst of grief she
never reckoned upon undergoing, or her own selfishness
would have saved her from the infliction.
CHAPTER IV.
" Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
As, proudly sailing o'er the azure realm,
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes,
Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm."
" Mamma, it is such a lovely day! " exclaimed Violet Wood-
ville, her face radiant with pleasure ; " how delightful!—
nothing could be more perfect! "
It was the day fixed for the water-party to Greenwich;
exquisite, in truth, it was—-just one of those days which we can
have, even in this country—just such a day as it is worth
while to exist in, and to possess no other blessing.
Should the reader be capable of appreciating the actual
charm there is in a very fine day, he will understand the force
of Violet Woodville's exclamation of " How delightful! " and
when, added to the weather, we can combine the gayest spirits
and the most smiling joy of a young mind—confess with me,
my reader, say what we may, there are some heavenly hours
in this world of ours, and that sometimes it is worth while to
have been born, and to have incurred the chance of all the
weal or woe that may fall to the lot of man.
THE DANSETTSE.
33
Ifc was about one o'clock ; the Woodvilles were ready to
set forth. It had been agreed that the whole party should
meet at Whitehall-stairs, and proceed thence in boats to
Greenwich; the Woodvilles and the Norrises were going
together. At this moment a note was brought to Mr. Wood-
ville, from Lord Stanmore.
" This is most provoking," said he, handing the note to
Mrs. Woodville. "Indeed it is," replied that lady, with an
expression of consternation. " Indeed it is ; so Violet's new,
beautiful pink hat goes for nothing, and she might as well not
have had a new one."
" Nay, indeed, that I don't see at all; little Yiolet ought
to have all the hats in the kingdom, such a good, pretty little
daughter as she is to me;" and the fond father kissed his
child with proud affection.
" Oh, I did not mean that Yiolet should not have as many
new bonnets as she wants, only that beautiful pink one she
does look so well in, and it cost a great deal; but as L knew
she was to see Lord Stanmore, on that account I would make
her have it, wasn't it, Yiolet?"
" Dear father, all this time you have not told me what the
note contains ; never mind my"bonnet, mamma, but tell me
that."
The note certainly communicated disagreeable intelligence.
It was from Lord Stanmore, to say he had that instant re¬
ceived a bad account of his mother's health; she had sent for
two physicians, and he was led to fear there was danger. He
was, consequently, instantly going down to Brighton, where
Lady Stanmore was staying. He desired, however, that the
party might proceed without him. All the arrangements were
made for it, and he had requested a friend to take his place
on the occasion. Lord Stanmore's note concluded with ex¬
pressing great regret at losing so much pleasure as he had
anticipated in sharing the society of the "Woodvilles, and sor¬
row for the cause of his deprivation.
Yiolet looked rather blank on finishing this note. A great
part of her happiness vanished. She went to the window and
began to think the day was not so fine as before. She mused
for some minutes, and then, turning round, inquired in an
absent manner what was to be done now about going.
" Oh, we go of course, all the same," replied Mrs. Wood¬
ville, who very much liked what she called a pleasure party ;
" don't you see, Lord Stanmore, in a very thoughtful manner,
particularly requests that we should upon no account give up
34
VIOLET ; OE,
going, stating that he has got a friend to take his place.
What's his name, Mr. Woodville? Does Lord Stanmore
mention the name of the friend who is to preside in his place
to-day. Give me the note. No—a friend—no, there's no
name—that's a pity. I wonder Lord Stanmore did not men¬
tion his friend's name—it's always as well to know who's
who."
"You are sure he is a gentleman, can't that content you,
Mrs. Woodville ? What does it signify what his name is ? "
said Mr. Woodville.
" Oh, of course, I suppose he is a gentleman, but still it is as
well to know what people are besides."
" Well, for my part, I don't see what more there is to know
besides."
"No, you never do know what you ought. Well, here's
the glass coach. I suppose you gave a guinea for it for the
day as usual, Charles, eh? It is a very neat one, I declare—
just as good as if we had our own carriage."
" Yes, I desired to have a nice one this time. Now get in,
or we shall be too late; you know we are to call for the
Norrises."
When the Woodvilles and the Norrises reached Whitehall-
yard they were late, at least it appeared so from the previous
arrival of two other vehicles, one being green, the other a
deep yellow.
Out of the windows of these several equipages protruded
some fair faces, but I do not know whether the eminently
Parisian hats that waved on the top of these faces were not,
in some instances, fairer still.
Impatience was strongly exhibited on the most coquettish
countenances; and two or three cabs were waiting in the
court, while their owners, in the very whitest gloves, were
alternately walking about, admiring the French polish on
their own boots, or stopping to pacify the anxious sylphs of
the glass coaches.
The Woodville party was clearly the cause of all this rest¬
lessness, and their arrival was hailed accordingly. Then began
the letting down of steps, and the gentlemen's little cab-boys
touching their hats, and endeavouring to get noticed and
obtain their orders, so as not to have to wait all day, and per¬
haps all night too, in Whitehall-yard for their masters, by
whom their wretched little existences, and that of the poor
cab-horses, were being equally forgotten.
Then there was the shawling of the ladies. They were all
THE DANSETTSE.
35
of them good-looking, or approaching to it, which some
women contrive to make about the same thing.
One there was smarter, and still more aux petits soins with
herself than the rest of her companions. She was really
pretty, and had taken every care to make the most of that
advantage.
" Mon cachemire—mille pardons—mais c est egal, milor—
ne vous derangez pas, milor—mais p'a fait, je vous assure,"
and, on this assurance, the milor, of course, redoubled his
attention towards draping the folds of an exquisite cachemire
des Indes on the shoulders of the lady in question.
"There's Celeste," whispered Emily Norris to Yiolet, as
she availed herself of Mr. Harcourt's assistance to walk down
to the stairs.
"Ah, mais voila, ma chere Miss Norris—mais quelle jolie
robe quelle porte ! II faut absolument que je lui parte un
tout petit mot," cried the owner of the cachemire, as she
advanced towards Emily, leaning on the arm of her milor.
" Chere Miss Norris, I must tell you, you are charming to¬
day. I have to feliciter you, have I not P Congratulate, you
call it. And you, too, Mr. Harcourt. Well, you will live
very happily together, I do not but believe you will. Drole
de chose que le mariage ! c'est une liaison pour la vie ! mais
tous les deux vous etes faits pour cela, n est-ce past et quand
est-ce que ce sera, ma tres chere ?"
The last words were conveyed in a loud whisper. Emily
Norris endeavoured to look as if she did not understand; and,
with as much coolness as she could assume, she replied—" I
do not know to what you allude, Madlle. Celeste, but I am so
sorry for the ungrateful reception you met with in the ballet
on Saturday. Everybody has told me of it, and I cannot
tell you how it distressed me for your sake."
" Eh, mais ne vous donnez pas cette peine, mon ange de
bonte. Mais c'est que j'ai fait mal expres pour m'excuser de
ce role qui m'ennuie cfc la mort! Mais dites done,—vous me
prierez a vos noces, j'espere ? Ah, voila, milor qui m attend
toujours; au revoir, chere enfantand the malicious Celeste
skipped off, happily conscious of having said the most dis¬
agreeable things she could, if not to Emily, at least to her
lover, who was out of temper accordingly, for Mr. Harcourt
never could bear to be annoyed,—it is very disagreeable.
Yiolet was upon her father's arm, still a little distressed at
the unavoidable defection of Lord Stanmore.
Laughing and talking, the whole party reached the boats.
d 2
36
VIOLET ; OE,
Iii these, two or three gentlemen were already occupied in
preparing for the reception of the ladies, and one of them
now jumped forward, and said something to Mr. Harcourt
about introducing him. Mr. Harcourt obeyed by presenting
this gentleman to Mr. Woodville and his daughter, and in him
Yiolet at once recognized Mr. d'Arcy, whom she had never
beheld since the night when she met him at Mrs. Norris's.
The impression he had then produced had almost worn
away.
Mr. d'Arcy said he was desired to fulfill all the duties of
his absent friend, Lord Stanmore, on this occasion, and asked,
with an air of deference, to conduct Miss Woodville to the
boat.
As he spoke, D'Arcy gazed in admiration on the most
beautiful face he thought he had ever beheld.
At length everything was arranged, and Mr. Woodville
and Violet, Emily Norris and Mr. Harcourt, who was still
writhing under the infliction of Madlle. Celeste, that young
lady herself and her milor, were all stowed in the first boat,
but ere it shoved off, D'Arcy discovered that there was no
remaining place for him.
" D'Arcy," exclaimed Lord William C , " what are
you looking at ? There's plenty of room for you in the
other boats."
" So I see, but this is the one I mean to go in; who will
move P"
" Why you don't think we shall?"
" Indeed I do, my dear William,—one of you must. I am
particularly desired to see that Miss Woodville is taken care
of, and I cannot think of going in one of the other boats when
she is in this," and stepping forwards, Mr. d'Arcy whispered
something in Lord William's ear which had the effect of
making him propose to his companion, i. e. to Celeste, to find
places elsewhere.
Now, Madlle. Celeste had already practised some manoeu¬
vring to be where she was, and to be ousted thus she thought
unbearable, and this opinion she expressed to Lord William.
" Mademoiselle does not like moving, D'Arcy; she made a
point of being in this boat;" and he added, confidentially, " See
if you can get her out yourself; it's all one to me, but I mustn't
affront her, because I am making love to her, and I have so
many affairs just now on hand, I can't afford losing time to
make it up if I quarrel with her."
With an air of soft benignity D'Arcy proffered his hand to
THE DAN9EUSE.
37
Celeste, and, on obtaining hers, gave it a most hardy gripe,
which acted the part of a lever to the Frenchwoman, whether
she would or not; but he accompanied the action with a smile
and a look he meant for her alone, and one that he would
sooner have resigned all chance of the place he aimed at pos¬
sessing than Violet Woodville should have noticed. It tho¬
roughly overcame poor Celeste, who went away with a better
grace than she threatened to do at first.
To make one more, instead of the two who were gone, a
Madame N was ushered into the vacant place, who, not
having a cavalier, said she did not want one, and was taken at
her word.
D'-Arcy was quickly by the side of Violet; and at the
same instant a waterman called out to Mr. Woodville, to
leave his daughter, in order to trim the boat by sitting on the
opposite side.
D'Arcy, in an easy manner, lamented Lord Stanmore's
absence, and did not scruple to express the reason, which
would, he said, make the deprivation be doubly felt by his
friend.
Violet replied with embarrassment. The conversation
turned on other subjects: she found Mr. d'Arcy an easier
person to converse with than she expected, and in spite of
the timidity which she involuntarily felt, whenever the recol¬
lection of his conversation with Mr. Harcourt crossed her
mind, still his agreeableness won upon her.
His manner, too, she found different from what she had
considered it on that occasion. There was none of the super¬
ciliousness she had disliked ; and when by accident she saw
his expression Violet only beheld the most speaking counte¬
nance, and not a feature, as she thought, that was not lighted
with philanthropic benevolence.
Violet Woodville was fairly puzzled; she wondered how
she could ever have thought ill-naturedly of him.
"Do you know, Miss Woodville," said D'Arcy, "I saw
you at the opera, for the first time, on Tuesday. I am only
just returned to town. I have a great deal to thank you
for; I never knew in my life, before, how exquisite an enjoy¬
ment it is to admire with such intensity !"
" I am very glad to hear the ballet pleased you;—indeed,
I think the scenery is beautiful," answered Violet with
shyness.
" Oh, I am not thinking of the scenery," and D'Arcy
smiled archly in her face. " I do not remember it even, I
38
VIOLET ; OK,
only thought of seeing my beau, ideal of a Yenus so unex¬
pectedly embodied, as I saw it then,—as I see it now ! But
you are tired of hearing you are handsome, and young as you
are, you find the theme is hackneyed. Do not hate me if I
could not fail to worship, and to tell you so, as all those that
ever beheld you fain would."
"No, Mr. d'Arcv, I am not so used to compliments as all
that," said Yiolet, naivement; " only I like people not to
exaggerate so much to me, because I think they must suppose
how vain I am, and that, you know, is not flattering at all."
"Flattery," muttered D'Arcy, half to himself, "no one
ever flattered you."
" Are you fond of the opera, Mr. d'Arcy ?"
" Yes, very; I like it because, in the first place, I am
really fond of music: and, whether or no, I frequent it on
principle."
" But why on principle ?"
" We become so vile and hardened occasionally, I think it
is an immense thing to get one's old romance brushed up-
revived a little at intervals, and nothing does that so effectu¬
ally as a good opera. These touchings up do the basest
hearts an infinite good. Ah! I suppose I talk nonsense to
you, who can know nothing of the world,—may you long
remain blest with ignorance : you ought, for if I ever read a
countenance, yours is the picture of a charming mind. I
could look at you for ever, and I could not imagine you pos¬
sessed of one fault! Tell me, have you one in the world r"
" Oh, yes," answered Yiolet, laughing, " so many ; but I
shall not tell them."
"Well, I think you would if I were to press you very
much."
" What makes you think so ? "
" You have an air of candour that bids defiance to conceal¬
ment of any kind."
" Altogether, you have a better opinion of me than I
deserve ; I am not in the least better than other people, I
assure you."
" For instance," said D'Arcy, " not better than any one of
us in this boat? I confess," he continued, "I am curious to
comprehend this standard of your own perfection. To begin
with that formal Madame N , who has been the Emilia,
pocket-handkerchief woman in Otello for the last three sea¬
sons, to the best of my recollection,—an excellent woman, for
what X know, but would you exchange all the good you are
THE DANSETTSE.
39
sure of in yourself, for the qualities you may suppose her to
possess P "
"No, no!"
"Well, there's Miss—Miss Norris, what do you think of
her P " D'Arcy spoke with an inquiring eye. Violet red¬
dened, for she was reminded of the scarcely less than con¬
tempt with which she had before heard D'Arcy speak of
Emily Norris.
" Miss Norris is a great friend of mine," she answered,
almost deprecatingly.
" Ah! " exclaimed D'Arcy. Violet raised her eves to his.
They were fixed upon her with earnest penetration, while
a smile played round the corners of a very handsome mouth.
Then those eyes, as they encountered Violet Woodville's,
softened ; and timidly Violet turned her head away. But, in
her heart, she felt pleased; and the soft voice, in which it was
necessary D'Arcy's remarks should be made, was not without
its effect on her susceptibility, whilst it prevented their being
heard by their companions.
D'Arcy had very handsome eyes, and the most expressive
I ever saw; they were not continually handsome, but they
had some latent charm: it existed, but was not always evident;
and at times it slept entirely beneath that look of utter indif¬
ference which had been so much remarked by Violet when
she first met him.
" There's Mr. Woodville, but we will pass him over : he is
your father, and that at once endears him in my mind."
" Oh, yes ; if you knew my father, he is better than any¬
body in the world; I wish I was but half as good as he is."
" I believe you.—Now for Mr. Harcourt; what say you for
his excellencies of character P "
" I sec him almost for the first time."
" Then there remains only myself to discuss. Would you,
at a venture, exchange all the good feelings you must be
conscious of for mine P "
" But, again—I know you so little, Mr. d'Arcy, yet I
dare say you are a very good person."
The innocent gentleness with which this was spoken would
have touched a tiger's heart: D'Arcy did not smile; he could
not.
" D'Arcy," exclaimed Mr. Harcourt, who found he had
exhausted his sentimentalities with Emily : " D'A-vv, did you
ever see a girl like that little Celeste ? By Jove ! u hat could
she want here ? "
40
VIOLET ; OK,
"The pleasure of sitting opposite Miss Norris and yourself,
I presume; undeniably no small pleasure," said D'Arcy,
bowing to Emily.
But the manner was changed. In those few words Yiolet
could hardly recognize the persou she had just conversed
with. His look, too ! It was that look and that tone that
Violet could not bear.
" Is Madlle. Celeste a friend of yours, Miss Woodville?"
asked Mr. Harcourt.
" No ; I hardly know her."
" No ! " said Woodville : " I am not very fond of Madlle.
Celeste, and I like to choose nice friends for my good little
daughter there. You must excuse my being very fond of
her. She is my only child, and the best that ever lived, I am
sure. But I have no business to be saying so here ; I do not
know what made me so silly," continued the father, half
modestly, half ashamed of his parental pride. D'Arcy looked
at Woodville's honest countenance, and be wondered in¬
wardly.
Before dinner the whole party went sight-seeing, as is>
usual, I believe. D'Arcy took care not to relinquish the
charge of Violet, and she was too happy to wish for any
change. So off they all -went to see the Hospital, as most of
the party had done a hundred times before: but which was
no reason for their not doing it again now.
Many a joyous party has trod the courts of Greenwich
Hospital—many; and if those old stones could speak, what
tales of love they could reveal! Vows spoken there, and
long forgotten. There, too, many a tear has fallen, and
many a ringing laugh has sounded; and oblivion, and the
dust of the dead, are all that remain of eventful hours—the
joy or the misery of a human life ! But of these things there
is no record ; for the heart has none.
" E'en such is time, which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us nought save age and dust;
Which, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days."
Sir W. Raleigh.
Before Emily quitted Mr. Harcourt's arm, on arriving
at the "Ship," where they were to dine, Mrs. Norris ap¬
proached, and said to Emily, in a sort of gentle voice, which
she used on particular occasions—" Dearest, I fear I spoilt
THE DANSEUSE.
41
half your happiness to-day, by not being able to be with you
on the water. Emily cannot bear to be chaperoned by any¬
body but myself, Mr. Harcourt; she is quite childish about
that. But you saw, love, there really was no room for me;
and the Woodvilles are such good people, and they were in
the boat!"
" Oh, thank you, mamma ; I did regret your not being with
me; but I knew : you could not help it," answered Miss
Norris.
" Mamma," said Emily, while adjusting her hair before
dinner, " Mamma, I beg you will get anywhere but near me
at dinner—above all, do not sit opposite to me. It is very
easy for you, if you try, to get a seat a long way from me
down the table, on the same side—only a long way from me,
mind that!"
" Yery well," said Mrs. Norris, " and pray don't let your
temper get the better of you, so as to have any of your snap¬
ping at Madlle. Celeste. She will do you harm yet if you
are not careful; for my part I shall be particularly civil to
her."
" Harcourt," said D'Arcy, the first opportunity he found,
" what is this new girl? "
" What—which ? "
" That little Woodville, to be sure ! "
" Miss Woodville P " <
" Oh, how punctilious you are become ! Upon my word,
Harcourt, the society you keep improves you amazingly,
Miss Woodville, then," continued D'Arcy, with an emphasis
on the Miss.
" Why, she is a very nice girl, I believe, and it is no use
your looking after her."
" Indeed! en attendant, I shall like to know something of
her."
" Well, I tell you, she is a very nice person."
" Be more explicit, pray; how do you know anything
about ber ? "
" She happens to be a particular friend of Miss Emily
Norris, and gets advice from her; and Emily possesses such
high principles, that I have an opinion of anybody who is her
friend," said Mr. Harcourt, slowly and pompously.
" The devil you have! " exclaimed D'Arcy, bursting into
laughter; "well, I don't despair, notwithstanding. Thank
you, you have told me a great deal."
The dinner was excellent, and gaiety was the order of the
42
VIOLET ; OB,
day. The champagne was declared to be the best ever tasted,
and, on that account, it was tasted very often. All the ladies
were in good humour. Milor and Celeste became great
friends, and he hoped he should not have to waste as much
time in making love to the lady as he at first feared.
Emily and Mr. Harcourt went on remarkably well for two
people who, after all, were playing at cross purposes.
Mrs. Norris, with her lynx eyes, saw them and everybody
else, though she obeyed Emily's injunction, and did not sit
too near her. Mrs. Norris was one of those who particularly
approved of the champagne, and thought it almost as good as
any lover, and wondered she had not thought so all her life.
So she drank it, and went on looking benignly at all the
world, but keeping herself as decorous as she possibly could,
so as not to be a reproach to the rest; for Mrs. Norris was
quite of opinion with the man in " Moliere's Misanthrope
" A force de sagesse, on peut 6tre blamable;
La parfaite raison fait tout extremite,
Et veut que l'on soit sage avec sobriete.
* * » * *
En c'est une folie & nulle autre seconde,
De vouloir se mfeler k corriger le monde."
After dinner D'Arcy was extremely civil to Mr. Woodville,
and talked a great deal about the orchestra at the King's
Theatre, and blamed the manager much for being stingy.
He then praised Violet exceedingly, and, with great frank¬
ness, extolled her dancing, and told Woodville numerous
things that he (D'Arcy) had heard in eulogium upon her.
In the evening walking in the park was proposed, and
acceded to by all.
D'Arcy found a moment to express his anxiety about Mrs.
Woodville's shawl being the right one, and to beg she would
allow him to introduce a cousin of his, Lord Toppington, who
was among their number, and he brought up a raw boy of
sixteen, and presented him, saying the young gentleman was
most anxious for the honour of making Mrs. Woodville's
acquaintance. He next whispered in his ear — " There,
Arthur, that's a great thing I have done for you, you may be
much obliged to me; offer your arm directly, and don't stand
staring like a fool."
Then D'Arcy glided back to Violet, who was attending to
some young men, and, at the same time, forced to listen to
the honeyed words of little Celeste, who was fond of new
acquaintances, and liked teaching a" the young idea how to
THE DANSEUSE. 43
shoot/' She was rather a clever gipsy, that Mademoiselle
Celeste.
A walk by moonlight is a very pleasant thing with a lover,
and a lover, too, just beginning to bud into one. A budding
lover is a much pleasanter thing than a full-blown one, very
often ; there is so much trouble attendant upon the latter sort.
D'Arcy said nothing positive to Miss Woodville about his
being in love with her; he was as discreet on that head as
Mrs. Norris herself could have desired, and Violet grew more
and more pleased with him. He pointed out the moon and
the stars to her, but in a new way, it seemed to Violet; so
that it was really the same thing to her as" if she had never
seen them before.
It may be worth remarking that Violet and D'Arcy, out of
some twenty people who composed the party, were the only
ones who made an observation on the beauties of nature.
Celeste and milor thought of nothing of the sort; and if
CeleBte had shown a disposition that way, Lord William
never could have found time to reply to such a singular little
caprice d'esprit.
Emily and Mr. Harcourt sauntered on together. The
latter was not aimable. He declared he could not under¬
stand Miss Norris's behaviour; her unkindness was extra¬
ordinary. Was he not devoted to herP—had she a desire it
was not his to fulfil P Was he not her slave P Had she ever
had reason to doubt his affection? Had he not forsaken
every other lady for her sake P—and yet what was the return
he met with? He could no longer doubt Miss Norris had
deceived him; her affections were already engaged; he was
but the victim of her coquetry, and was the most miserable
of men!
That last assurance, as a lover, he was, of course, bound to
add, whether it were true or not. All these sentences sounded
very euphoniously ; but what of that ?—for not one of them
hinted at a proposal, and Emily still thought that might be
obtained, finally; if not, why, then but Mrs. Norris was
so discreet a woman, that it is not fair to surmise on the
future actions of any one under her guidance.
As for Mrs. Woodville and her boy Toppington, they
trotted on together; she, poor woman, trying to make such
innocent conversation as would be the best suited to him, as
she conceived; and he, more shy than he ever was in his life
before, and a thousand times more in awe of a lady who acted
at Covent Garden, than even of his stiff great-grandmother,
44 VIOLET; OH,
the duchess of Mightiness, when she sent to give him a
lecture, or to stop his allowance. He thought it, however,
very kind of his cousin D'Arcy to have got him to this water-
party, and still more kind to have introduced him to so dis¬
tinguished a person as Mrs. Woodville.
" [Remarkably pleasing young man, Mr. d'Arcy, I think;
did not you, Mr. Woodville? " inquired Woodville's spouse,
as they reached home in the glass coach.
" Yes, indeed; and he was very attentive to all of us, I
thought; and he told me also that he admired Violet so very
much, which showed him to be a sort of frank young man,
without any double dealing about him, which is what I hate.
I do not like it when young men come and talk to a girl, and
are not for saying anything of it to her parents. I, who know
the world well, always guess that means no goodand upon
the close of these pertinent observations, Mr. Woodville
stepped upon his own threshold.
The next time Violet saw Mr. d'Arcy was while he was
sitting in a side box at the Opera. Before she became aware
of his presence, she thought only of the audience; now he
alone was that audience. The judgment of the multitude,
pending upon herself at that moment, was forgotten; con¬
tending feelings were hers. She hated so that d'Arcy—the
despiser d'Arcy—should behold her one of the tribe for
whom he had declared so much contempt. " I, at least, will
show him I deserve not his ill-opinion," thought Violet.
"Still I am an opera-dancer," she involuntarily exclaimed;
and never since its commencement had Violet Woodville's
dislike to her profession so forcibly recurred to her.
Two or three days afterwards D'Arcy called upon the
Woodvilles. He had heard, he said, from Lord Stanmore.
Lady Stanmore was not better, and his friend wrote in
wretched spirits. He was exceedingly attached to his mother,
and Mr. d'Arcy declared, from the account he received, he
thought it a hopeless case; and he grieved over Lord Stan-
more's affliction in consequence.
Violet was in the room during D'Arcy's visit, and she could
not help feeling that his eyes were riveted upon her when
he mentioned Lord Stanmore. She was really sorry for her
admirer's distress, and she said so without disguising it.
D'Arcy talked more of Lord Stanmore to her father and
mother than he did to herself. During his visit M. Dupas
came in, and while the family greetings were going on, D'Arcy
contrived to approach Violet.
THE DANSETJSE.
45
" Do you never walk, Miss Woodville ? "
" Ok, yes ; very often."
" When ? "
"Very early; before breakfast, often."
" Where ? "
" In Kensington Gardens; we live so near, it is con¬
venient."
" With Mrs. Woodville P "
" No; mamma is not up so early."
D'Arcy longed to ask, Alone, then?—or, With whom?
but he did not quite dare, for he was aware that the drift of
his questions was unperceived by Yiolet, and he feared that,
had it been otherwise, he might give umbrage. Yiolet
actually did not surmise the course of his inquiries. It is
possible, without being a fool, to be quite unknowing in the
ways of the world, and Violet was the most unsuspecting of
human beings. Her simplicity of mind, as to all that was
artful or designing, placed her almost in the position of a
child who learns to read, but, from hating the pursuit, gains
no improvement. Yiolet Woodville daily heard! and some¬
times saw, instances of deception, and even of vice; but
while she knew such things were, she did not dream of them
in connection with herself.
There are minds like this, beautiful only as they were
created; and how sad it is to think that soon the contact of
other minds shall tarnish the purity of such as these, and
reduce them to their own level. Yet are we all alike destined
for an ordeal, and if virtue falls into error, we are bound to
doubt its true perfection. It was not made to pass as use¬
less ; and it has been said by one* who was well read in the
hearts of his fellow-creatures,—" La meme faiblesse qui nous
fait trouver des ecueils au milieu du monde et de la cour,
nous auroit fait une tentation de la retraite m§me. Nous
portons partout avec nous la source de nos crimes et de nos
malheurs, et ainsi il ne faut pas attendre notre surete des
dehors de la situation."
* Massillon.
46
VIOLET ; OB,
CHAPTER y.
" The game of life—how is it played—by whom—
For what ?—What fearful trickery
To gain some wretched end : and, still more sad,
How much of mental power which ought to boast
A nobler aim, employed for means the basest I
'Tis brave to see two knaves engaged, each bent
On duping his opponent; but, alas !
There are some nobler victims, some whose fate
Might wring hot tears of blood from human hearts."
Old Play.
"Charles," said Mrs. Woodville to her husband, "I cannot
help thinking Lord Stanmore gets Mr. d'Arcy to call here,
that he may see us for him, as it were : you know that is so
like a man in lobe. I fancy, too, somehow, Mr. d'Arcy knows
we have guessed that; for he is quite at his ease, and comes
in to us in a way as if he thought we could only be glad to
see him."
"And so we are," replied Mr. Woodville; "but I would
rather see Lord Stanmore himself. I hope Violet is not
thinking too much of him, poor little girl! These fine gen¬
tlemen may go on for a while; but if anything comes to turn
their attention, there's an end of them. Who knows what
fine lady he may fall in love with any day, at all those balls
and places that we have nothing to do with? Don't talk
about him to little Violet, for fear she should get to think
more of him than it is well she should."
"Not I! Really, Mr. Woodville, one would think some¬
times you took me for a fool! I have not heard Violet name
Lord Stanmore these three days!
"I am sure he was in love with her, however; and he
knew well enough, from what he saw of me, I was not the
sort of person to let my daughter do anything that she should
not do; and, with the education we have given her, I would
have him to know she's fit to be the wife of any lord. If he
only knew the money we spent upon her! Perhaps he thinks
she can only dance ? "
" I do not know what he thinks ; but I should like to have
done with him, one way or another: there's a swarm of those
young men every night after the poor girl, all making up
their mind she will come to their turn. If it was not for our
THE DANSEUSE.
47
always looking after her, I do not know what they would not
be saying to her."
"Oh," rejoined Mrs. Woodville, "I take care of that, or
else M. Dupas does. I do wonder when we shall see Lord
Stanmore, for the season will be over in three weeks, and, if
his mother should die, why then he will go into black, and
will not be going about for some time. Parents' mourning,
though, is not worn so long as it used to be, is it, Charles ? "
" I don't know,—but I don't see what difference it makes
to us."
"Ah, well, I do though. There's a ring,—see, is it the
Morrises P—no, it's Duj)as,—no, it's Mr. d'Arcy."
Mr. d'Arcy had certainly familiarized the Woodvilles with
his visits, without their ever having the appearance of being
abrupt or uncalled for. During these visits he saw Violet,
but not always. When he did not he never asked for her,
but he stayed less time when she was not there. He was
fond of music, and understood it, and sometimes he got Mr.
Woodville to play to him upon the violoncello. Very often
he brought new music with him, and he had always some¬
thing to say about Lord Stanmore.
Violet was never engaged in the ballet, that she did not see
D'Arcy in the box nearest to her; and there was no one
whose applause was more frequent, or more loudly expressed.
By degrees she got accustomed to seeing him always at the
opera. She liked him more each time she met him, because
each time she found something of her original misgiving
about him diminished. She soon beheld only the pleasing
side of his character.
Violet now seldom thought of Lord Stanmore: she had
liked him, but D'Arcy interested her. Ah! what a difference
there is in the meaning of those two words ! Interest another
in your favour, be it man or woman, and much may follow,—
to please merely is comparatively nothing. And is it not true
that there are some people who please, but who cannot in¬
terest P There is a wide distinction between pleasing exceed¬
ingly, and interesting exceedingly,—either may happen, and
neither in connection.
About three weeks had elapsed since the Greenwich water-
s same sort took place.
doubt. As yet he had not done anything decidedly declaring
his sentiments, but he ascertained that he had no rival, and
that was what he most desired. "Les impressions sont
He still left Violet in
48
VIOLET; OK,
d'autant plus dangereuses qu'elles sont insensibles." Few of
of us pause to analyse our feelings, and Violet was not one
of those few. Our feelings are born, they grow, they inspire
us vitally, and then, and not before, we wake to a knowledge
of them. After all, though a great deal may be said about
knowing ourselves intimately, and of the utility of such
knowledge, I doubt if there be really any advantage in it.
The commencement, too, of all sentiments of love or
friendship is so soothing. Distrust is disarmed, suspicion has
its opiate; and, if these first moments of illusion are to be
destroyed, say ye who can what remains in lieu of themP
and of what avail is all the reasoning of philosophy if it
deprive us of one little iota of human happiness that may be
fairly ours ?
D'Arcy had not yet endeavoured to profit by the chance
which he had discovered for himself, of meeting Violet in her
morning walks. He had his reasons for this delay. He
thought that Violet would conceive that she did not know
him enough, not to be more surprised than he desired she
should be at the interruption.
He had ascertained that a housekeeper, or old servant of
the Woodvilles, was her duenna in these walks. The Wood-
villes lived near Kensington, and Violet, who was not a strong
person, was advised to get the morning air in the gardens,
and it suited particularly the domestic arrangements that
these walks should be taken early.
" Pray, D'Arcy," said Mr. Harcourt, one night at Crock-
ford's, " what have you been at lately P "
" I have been very much occupied. But I put the same
question to you. You look very ill."
"And so I am,—horridly ill. I am so worried, I am
miserable."
j " That's a pity. ' II riy a pas de plus grande folie que
d'itre malheureux.'* What's the matter P "
"lam in such a scrape with the Norrises,—Celeste has
been blowing me to the devil. I had hysterics, and scenes,
and faintings,—and I declare I don't know what to do."
" Cut, to be sure,—don't be a fool."
"Not if I thought Emily really liked me."
" Upon my soul, Harcourt, you are as weak as water," ex¬
claimed D'Arcy.
" Ah, I don't believe you ever cared for a woman in your
life," replied Harcourt, pettishly.
* DuDeffand.
THE DANSEUSE.
49
D'Arcy laughed aloud.
" What! not for Mrs. O'Colly ? and didn't I turn hair¬
dresser for the Italian girl ? Didn't I ruin myself for Es-
telle ? and didn't I go to Rome after a woman who had been
divorced for the sake of two other men? Didn't I become a
Methodist for the brewer's wife ? and wouldn't I have sold
myself to the devil for "
" Oh, I know you, D'Arcy. At all events, you don't un¬
derstand my feelings."
"Well, but stay, I want to ask you,—a'n't you going to
have a supper, or something of that kind, at the Norris's
this week r "
" What do you ask for ? "
" There's some one to be there I want to meet, and they
haven't asked me,—it is a mistake, I suppose."
" I am not asked myself."
" Perhaps, then, you would like me to see if I can inter¬
cede with the lovely Emily for you; or is it that slippery
crocodile, her mamma, who has turned you out of the house P"
"No, it's no use," said Mr. Harcourt, shaking his head de-
spondingly.
" Harcourt," said D'Arcy, more seriously than D'Arcy
often said anything, " as we are old friends, I should be half-
inclined to give you advice this time unasked for; but I will
not, because I believe I should be doing the most useless
thing I ever did in my life."
" Thank you, D'Arcy, I believe you are a good fellow. I
am going to throw a couple of mains," and Harcourt moved
towards the hazard-table, well pleased with the amenity with
which he thought he had listened to D'Arcy's advice ; for it
did not occur to him, though he guessed its nature, that,
nevertheless, he had not heard it.
Of his own accord D'Arcy went the next day to call on the
Norrises. He found Mrs. Norris and Emily, but the latter
was evidently failing in an attempted escape from the room
as he entered it. Both mother and daughter looked dis¬
comfited. Mrs. Norris, however, soon recovered her usual
placidity, and then said she was to have music the next even¬
ing, and hoped she should see Mr. d'Arcy, if he had nothing
better to engage him.
This was all D'Arcy wanted, but he stayed a few minutes
making conversation. Emily had hardly once spoken. D'Arcy
talked of Harcourt, and said he was out of spirits; Emily
still did not revive. At last D'Arcy observed there were tears
E
50
VIOLET; OE,
in her eyes,—tears, too, that she wished to conceal, and that
she looked cross as well as unhappy, which made D'Arcy sure
it was not feigned grief.
A touch of curiosity led him to observe her more closely.
" She thinks Harcourt is oft", I suppose," thought D'Arcy;
" and perhaps this sleek Jezabel, her mother, has been
scolding her for it."
Mrs. Norris went on talking in her smooth, agreeable,
proper way, and suddenly, as if she could no longer control
her feelings, Emily moved to the window. D'Arcy then rose
to go, but at that minute Madame N was announced, to
whom, on her entrance, Mrs. Norris manifested great civility.
Mrs. Norris had lately struck up an intimacy with Madame
N •. She said she was delighted to cultivate so estimable
a person as everybody knew Madame to be. It was every¬
body knowing it made Madame N so very estimable in
Mrs. Norris's estimation.
During the greetings and seatings between the new comer
and Mrs. Norris, D'Arcy approached the window, where
Emily was still standing. She certainly looked very un¬
happy, and turned away to hide her countenance from D'Arcy.
"Miss Norris," said D'Arcy softly, "is there any way in
which I can serve you ? "
Emily opened wide her tearful eyes. She had grown afraid
of D'Arcy, and had guessed his covert dislike, though she
never could feel sure of it, because it was not easy to feel
sure of anything about D'Arcy. If he sneered in one breath,
he complimented her in the next; he never was brusque;
he often was very civil. Emily had not made him out, but
she was simply getting to dislike him for that very reason.
D'Arcy's present question was uttered in a different tone
from what she had ever heard D'Arcy speak with before : at
first she hardly understood him. He added—"If I can, I
shall be most happy."
An expression of intelligence now lighted Emily's face.
Her mother's back was turned towards her at this moment;
Mrs. Norris was still intent on her new visitor. Emily
glanced her eye at these two persons, then, with great haste,
drew a letter from her bosom, and crushed it almost into
D'Arcy's hand. He put it into his pocket, and then ap¬
peared to be only busy with his handkerchief.
"For Harcourt? " he said, inquiringly, and under-voiced.
"No, no not for him; you will see—in the post—yofl.
will see ; thank you for ever ! "
THE DANSEUSE.
51
D'Arcy thought he never saw Emily Norris look hand¬
somer than she did at that moment, when she cast a look of
evident gratitude towards himself.
Just as Mrs. Norris's little blue, or little red, or little
green page (I forget which) was shutting the door upon d'Arcy,
and the latter was putting his hand upon Emily's letter, in
order to examine the superscription, he was arrested by the
sudden appearance of Lord William B . His manner
was eager, as he joined D'Arcy hastily.
"Oh, I was just going to you, D'Arcy, I wanted to find
you," exclaimed Lord William, in a voice graver than usual.
" Very well, then, we will walk on together."
" D'Arcy," continued Lord William, " I am in a scrape; I
shall have to fight, and I want you to be my second."
" Of course, my dear fellow; but I am sorry to hear this :
what is it ? "
" It's that cursed little Celeste who is at the bottom of it.
She has been telling lies, and that, and her infernal coquetry,
have played the devil."
"Ah, I thought she looked mischievous. You should
always examine the breed well before you have anything to
do with these ladies. But how is it, William ? "
It seems, when I took her, she belonged to Spottington.
I thought her free—I never asked her ;—how should such a
thing come into my head ? I thought she had a great deal
of cash for one who was in the way of getting her living
honestly, for I was fool enough to be taken in, and thought
she cared for me, and believed her when she said she allowed
no other man to make love to her ; and I knew she floored
Dick Wentworth. Well, one day, who should I get a chal¬
lenge from but Spottington, saying he was only just returned
to town, or he should have asked me sooner to give him satis¬
faction for my ungentlemanlike conduct. I thought the man
was mad! I called at his house to try to see him—he was
out. Then I wrote to him, asking him to say, at least, what
he meant. Presently Bubble arrived, to tell me that he was
Spottington's friend, and that he was desired by him to
inform me, that I must be aware my usurping Mdlle. Celeste's
affections, at a time she was under the positive protection
of Spottington, was a piece of treachery that Spottington
could not forgive. The truth is, the whole affair might have
been explained, and I would have done it myself with any
other man than Spottington; but I hate him, and I have
reason to suspect that this is but an excuse, after all, to call
52
VIOLET ; OB,
me out, for he and I have quarrelled before, only then he
could not show his teeth."
" And so, for a fool and a coquette, your life must be
staked?"
" Be it so; we must take these chances, and I myself have
been a fool. Well, you will be my second—that s all 1
wanted you for."
D'Arcy and Lord William separated at the end of the
Colonnade in Begent Street.
D'Arcy then remembered Miss Norris's letter, which Lord
William's recital had caused him partly to forget. ^ He
searched for it in his pocket, and could not find it. Neither
could he find a silk pocket-handkerchief, which had been in
the same pocket. He was not long in concluding that a thief
had deprived him of the one, and unavoidably of the other at
the same time, for he recollected having taken out his hand¬
kerchief, when drawing out the letter to read the direction,
at the moment he was joined by Lord William B—■—, and
that, in the interruption, he re-deposited the two together.
It was evident that, in abstracting the handkerchief, the
letter had been lost.
D'Arcy was sorry for this accident; it looked like careless¬
ness on his part, which made him regret having proffered his
services. Besides, he did not well know how, before the
next evening, he could convey to Emily the knowledge that
her wishes had not been obeyed. If she had not denied it,
he would still have felt assured that the letter was for Har-
court. It was so unlucky, not having seen the direction—
it would have been some clue, as to knowing when Emily
could expect an answer to her epistle. Without running
the risk of Mrs. Norris's being informed, D'Arcy did not see
how he could let Emily be made aware immediately of this
misadventure; and Mrs. Norris, it was clear, was the last
person she meant should know anything about it. D'Arcy
did not much think the pickpocket would forward the letter
to its destination : it was not an impossibility, however. In
the mean time, he came to the conclusion that nothing more
could be done till the next night, at Mrs. Norris's.
He went to Tattersall's, and met Harcourt.
"Harcourt," said D'Arcy, "after all, you never told me
what occasioned this blow-up of yours with the Norrises."
" Celeste wrote an anonymous letter to Mrs. Norris, taking
away her character. It was found out, and traced to Celeste;
and poor Mrs. Norris was furious, because, as she said, if it
THE DANSETTSE.
58
had been sent to anybody else,—but it was a thing which
had never happened to her before, and she never could for¬
give it. Had she deserved it, she declared she should not
have minded; but as it was, it was too bad. Poor woman !
I never saw her in such a state of anger before. In addition
to this, Celeste gave the whole account of the gold chain' I
purchased for her a month ago, when we made friends for a
day or two. She heard me say I had won a hundred pounds
of String, the black-leg, and, as she asked about it, I could
not do less than buy her that chain with some of the money.
All this is her infernal spite against Emily."
"And was it for this you were turned out of the Norris
establishment ? "
"Not entirely ; but I had both women upon me at once ;
and, as I could not well deny the little transaction of the
chain, Emily sulked; but her mother drew up, as if she was
old Scarron's widow, and said she could not permit my con¬
tinuing any longer my visits ; that Emily's affections were
engaged—her health gone ; and, as it now appeared, her
own character attacked, which was the most extraordinary
and unheard-of malice, and that she could not disguise from
herself, that even the last horrible aspersion had arisen, in
some measure, from her intimacy with one who was every
way unworthy of the innocent confidence reposed in me by
herself and her daughter. So now you have it. What could
I do?"
" What did you do P"
" I left the house, crest-fallen, and have been ill ever
since. I have called, and they don't admit me."
" Then you will not be there to-morrow night P "
" Yes, for I shall write a note to Emily to say I must see
her, which I must."
" Then we shall meet there. I am going. I make love to
neither mother nor daughter, and am in the odour of sanctity
with both."
How happy Violet Woodville felt all the day, and days
before, at the prospect of meeting D'Arcy at the Nor^iscs'
that evening. There is so much happiness in the certainty
of meeting a beloved object! and to know that you are also
the object of their wishes !
This certainty, which is soon acquired, is one of Love's
young degrees, and its most pleasing one. There is the quiet
pleasure, but not the agitation ; the passion is still growing,
like a rose-bud; there is the beautiful opening flower, but
54
VIOLET : OE,
the thorns are yet unfelt, and you could think there are
none.
" Love in the soul, not bolcl and confident.
But, like Aurora, trembles into being ;
And, with faint, flickering, and uncertain beams,
Gives notice to the awakening world within us
Of the full blazing orb that soon shall rise,
And kindle all its passions. Then begin
Sorrow and joy : unutterable joy,
And rapturous sorrow ! " Neale.
Violet as yet knew nothing of the " sorrow and joy;
unutterable joy, and rapturous sorrow but she felt exceed¬
ingly happy.
D'Arcy was one of the earliest comers to Mrs. Norris's,
but, for once, Violet was not quite his first object. lie
hastened towards Emily Norris, who was then unoccupied,
and looking brighter than when he saw her the day
previous.
D'Arcy at once told her of the ill-luck about her letter,
and said he could only endeavour to atone for his carelessness
by being doubly anxious to execute any further commands
of hers.
" I had not seen the address," said D'Arcy, " and if you
had not told me to the contrary (at least, if I remember
right), I should have thought a friend of mine would have
been in greater despair than even myself at the loss of your
letter."
" You did not see the address ?"
" No." D'Arcy was too well bred to ask it then, but he
would have liked to have done so.
Emily thought a moment; and, colouring, said, with evi¬
dent hesitation, " Well, perhaps, as the letter was lost, it is
as well .... What I mean is, that I will not write
another—and let it be forgotten altogether. I believe I was
wrong."
" Certainly ; forgotten let it be, if you desire it," said
D'Arcy ; and he was moving away, when Emily gently called
him by name—" Mr. d'Arcy, I hope, though I have not
expressed it, that you will believe how much obliged I shall
ever feel to you for your kindness yesterday morning. I
shall not forget it, and did not expect it from you. I had a
sort of consciousness you did not—much like me ; and I am
the more grateful to you—I shall be so always."
Emily Norris had a very melodious voice ; and, in saying
these words, it sounded more so than usual. There seemed
TEE DANSEGSE.
55
a sincerity about her, too, which D'Arcy did not think she
possessed; and he left her, liking her better, or disliking her
less, than he had ever done before, " And, undoubtedly,
she is very handsome," said he, inwardly, as he turned to
look for Violet Woodville.
" It is three long days since I have seen you," said D'Arcy,
addressing Miss Woodville.
" Yes, so it is," answered Violet, as if she too thought
they were long days.
" And now that I do see you—if you knew how much
pleasure it gives me !" exclaimed d'Arcv.
Not knowing what answer to make, Violet said nothing ;
but the embarrassment in her ingenuous countenance did
not make it less beautiful; and so thought D'Arcy, as he
contemplated her, ere he again spoke.
" There is but one thing to mar my satisfaction—the uncer¬
tainty of when I shall again possess it. Of that you are
heedless ; and even your pity for my uncertainty is perhaps
denied meP"
" Oh, I would give you all the pity in the world, if I did
but know why it was to be given; that is, if I really knew it
was for something that you might be pitied for, with good
reason," answered Violet, with gaiety, but with some em¬
barrassment.
" Perhaps," said D'Arcy, gravely, " I have a right to your
pity, though it may not suit you to believe so."
" I never could pity you."
" Why P"
" I really hardly know how to say it; but I never could
pity you, oh, never! You strike me as a person that never
either pitied, or would pity."
" I must have appeared to you then as an uncommonly
unamiable character P "
" No, not at all; but I have an idea you would so despise
being pitied ; and I cannot fancy your being very pitying or
kind to others."
"Neither, upon the whole, am I; there you are right.
But then it is that I care l'or so few people. I am often
amused, but seldom interested."
" Often amused ! " said Violet, opening her eyes wider;
" that surprises me, because that is what you don't appear to
be."
" And you have corrected me—no, it is true I am not
amused—hardly ever—I meant something else."
56
VIOLET; OB,
" What then p "
" I can very often laugh, con amove, hut still I am not
amused, I confess, even then."
" Exactly ; you are only sneering." Violet blushed; she
feared she had said something very rude.
D'Arcy was a little surprised; but he answered, "Well,
and if I allow you are right, at my age you will often do the
same. But how have you guessed so well ?—you never saw
me sneer ? "
"Yes, I have, very often; I did not like you for it at
first."
" At first! " thought D'Arcy.
" I must be honest enough to confess I never meant you
to have made this discovery," continued D'Arcy. "While I
am near you, my mind is in such a different state from what
it is at any other time ; I hoped you would only have judged
of me as such as I am when with you ; for you have the
power (I have learnt it now) to awaken all that is good within
me ; and it is hard that, without my leave, you should have
seen the revers de la medaille."
" I think you ought to be so glad, on the contrary. I
could not endure being better thought of than I deserve ; I
would rather, almost, that a person had too bad, than too
good an opinion of me."
" I do not doubt it; but you and I are such different per¬
sons ; there is a perfection about you that Nature has utterly
denied to me. I sink beneath my own iniquity, and will
willingly stoop to deceive—that is, when I care to do so."
" Oh, don't say that; I dislike deceit."
" But if frankness should bring upon me your despisal ? "
"Never; and, besides, I thought before you were frank;
now I almost fear you were not."
"Did you think thus of me before, Miss Woodville P" said
D'Arcy, brightening; " thank you : you shall see, from this
day forward, a want of sincerity shall not prove my failing in
your eyes ; I will promise that, at every hazard. Am I re¬
stored a little to your good opinion? "
" Yes, a little, you are," answered Violet, smiling; and
both were silent, and both were happy.
"Miss Woodville," at length, said D'Arcy, "there are
those, I fear, of whom you think much better than of myself;
are there not P"
"No, Mr. d'Arey."
"No? Yet others have tried, more daringly than I have
THE DAN8ETJSE.
57
ventured upon doing, to gain your approbation. I began by
admiring, 1 have ended by fearing you, and when I approach
you, I am actually timid."
" Oh, no, Mr. d'Arcy," replied "Violet, gravely ; " you will
not make me believe that: I am not a person to intimidate
any one."
"Not even a lover P " said D'Arcy, in a very low and clear
voice.
Violet hlushed and started.
" Not even a lover P " repeated D'Arcy, when he received
no answer.
" No, no; why should, why should he "
"It would depend upon the measure of his affection,"
said D'Arcy ; " but then you could not be loved moderately.
Oh, heavens ! what a world of affection might live for ever
upon one look from you ! "
" I have no lovers, Mr. d'Arcy, so I know nothing of all
this, and I could make no one feel timid, I am sure; and
there is no one ready with such a great deal of affection to
bestow upon me, who, perhaps, would be very undeserving of
it all."
" I could contradict all you have said—I see you would
rather I did not."
D'Arcy rose abruptly, and went towards Mr. Harcourt,
who entered the room at that moment, looking uncommonly
bashful, and as if he knew he was a very naughty boy indeed.
" Allow me to support you on this trying occasion," said
D'Arcy. " I will give you the aid of my presence, so as to
enable you to approach somewhat nearer to the chair of la
dame de vos pensees."
" Why, of course," said Harcourt, seriously, " a man in
my situation does feel very awkward : Emily is such a very
correct person—that anecdote about the chain must have
offended her—it would any woman, any delicate-minded
creature like Emily. D'Arcy, suppose you come up with me
to face Mrs. Norris ?—Do you think she looks black ? "
" Very ; but still I should argue in favour of your obtain¬
ing her consent, if you propose for Emily."
"Really," said Harcourt, seriously, "do you know, she is
such a very singular woman, that's more than I am sure of,
upon my honour."
" Indeed! I would not be uneasy, nevertheless : ' while
there's life there's hope,' you know."
" Oh, tell me, D'Arcy—so you were second P—I meant to
58
VIOLET ; OR,
have asked about it sooner ; but these women put everything
out of my head. So B has only a flesh wound in ^the
small of the arm ; and Spottington has left the country ? "
" Yes ; and carried off Celeste with him. They went away
in a chaise-and-four, that he had waiting for him in the lane,
in case of accident. William had one ready for himself, too;
and Celeste was to get into whichever post-chaise was called
into requisition. However, she fainted away when the pistols
went off; and Spottington found her in the bottom of his
chaise, with the post-boy giving her a dram. They are at
Calais by this time."
" I am d d glad of it. Celeste has always been in my
way."
" Yes—but she has the prettiest eyes I ever saw. What is
Goring about? " and D'Arcy returned towards Yiolet Wood-
ville, who was almost hidden by a group of young men who
were standing round her. The conversation seemed animated,
and Yiolet looked very gay.
D'Arcy joined the group.
" Miss Woodville has been saying very unkind things to
all of us, D'Arcy, and we want her to make amends to one of
us, at least, by declaring which of us four she likes the best;
now you're come, we are five."
" And suppose I were to tell you," said Violet, laughing,
but feeling shy, " you know all the rest of you would be dis¬
pleased."
" Oh, but never mind," exclaimed Mr. Goring, " we will
put up with the affront, for the sake of knowing who ean, or
who does, please Miss Woodville."
" But that is what you will be none the nearer to, Mr.
Goring. I shall not tell, after all, who it is I like the best,
but which of you all I dislike the least," continued Violet,
smiling in the gaiety of her heart.
" Oh! then you do admit there is one person you really do
like !—what a happy, happy person he must be ! "
" No, indeed, 1 said no such thing, I am sure, Mr. Goring;
I did not say there was anybody I liked. Did I?—did I?"
Yiolet asked, looking round in much confusion.
"No, Miss Woodville," answered D'Arcy, hastily, "you
said nothing of the kind; and as we all know it is not any of
us who can really please you, so if you had said so it could
only make us a little more miserable than you know you have
made us long before."
" Yes, you have no idea how you break all our hearts,"
THE IiANSEtTSE.
59
said Mr. Goring; but, for my part, I would be contented if
you would only be as merciful to me as you are to D'Arcy."
" Then you do not know what Miss Woodville's mercy is,
or you would not say so," exclaimed D'Arcy, sharply, for he
saw the annoyance Mr. Goring's speech occasioned Violet
Woodville.
Mr. Goring had long been one of her admirers, but he had
met with no encouragement. His manner was not such as
could render him successful with a person whose mind was
not depraved; and Mr. Goring had not an idea of any
woman's mind being anything else.
"D'Arcy," said Goring in a whisper, "that was a sharp
answer of yours to curry favour."
" Be assured I will make no more such answers, Goring,
when they are unnecessary," D'Arcy drily replied.
" Miss Woodville," said Mr. Goring, boldly, "Mr. d'Arcy,
I presume, is a declared swain? "
" Goring, why do you annoy her? " said one of the other
young men, sotto voce, but Mr. Goring did not appear to
have heard the reproof.
D'Arcy at once saved Violet from having to reply.
" No," he said, " I am not a declared lover; Miss Wood¬
ville has never allowed me to become one, and I am suf¬
ficiently aware of my own demerits to see she is not unjust
even when she disdains."
" My father, I think, must want me; I will go to him,"
said Violet, rising from her seat.
" Going, Miss Woodville ? " exclaimed Mr. Goring, in pre¬
tended astonishment, and annoying high spirits ; and, as he
spoke, he stood before her with his arms outspread, so as to
impede her passage.
During the last ten minutes Violet Woodville had been
enduring great annoyance. She was hurt to the quick by
Mr. Goring's manner, and his words too, and she thought to
herself, aH this he thinks he may say to me because I am
only an opera-dancer: if I were anything else, he would not
venture to have behaved thus. But now, as he stood in¬
solently before her, Violet suddenly summoned her courage,
and she answered Mr. Goring's question, when he repeated
it—" Going, Miss Woodville, going? "
" Yes, Mr. Goring, you have been so agreeable, were I to
stay longer I should be quite spoiled."
D'Arcy offered her his arm, she took it, and he led her
instantly to her father, who was with the music party at the
60
violet; oe,
end of the room, and, as well as Mrs. Woodville, intently
listening to Madame N singing Gluck's beautiful
"Eurydice," and the music of that beautiful song soothed
the feelings of the wounded Violet Woodville, and she could
have listened for ever to one of the most enchanting airs that
was ever composed.
"Did you hear that impertinence?" said Mr. Goring,
turning round to his companions.
" Not at all," cried two or three youths at once—"not at
all; you deserved it, Goring; you were very uncivil to her."
" Pray, what did I say that was uncivil? "
" Oh! it was your manner; you know you meant it."
"Well, I wonder what right she has to expect anything
better ? She is Stanmore's mistress, if she belongs to no one
else."
"What's that you say? She is a dear, honest, real little
Venus, that I will swear to," cried a half-fledged, tender¬
hearted young midshipman, reddening with zeal.
"No, no, come, come; be fair, Goring. She's a good girl
now, and Spenser is right," said one.
"Yes," cried another; "and Stanmore would not stand
by hearing you take away her character, I can tell you, if he
were here."
" No, poor little girl," exclaimed a third; " she is only too
honest for it to last, I fear."
"You hope, you mean."
" Granted, for she is honest,—so, Goring, don't scandalize
her because you don't happen to be the favourite; that's not
fair, Goring."
"Never mind, Goring; perhaps you will be the winning
horse next time," said the young sailor again; " there's more
pretty girls than one in the world, though there's not another
in Europe half as pretty as Miss Woodville; but then, you
know, some people must take what they can get—that's what
they tell the middies on board the Atalanta."
Mr. Goring, finding by these observations that he had the
worst, and not the best of it, acknowledged his error; but
added, he had no idea of an opera-dancer standing up for
virtue ; in former days they would not have dared to have
thought about such a thing; it was all that cursed cant about
Eeform which had brought things to such a pass.
" My dear Violet," said Mr. Woodville, " Mr. d'Arcy was
talking a great deal to you last night at Mrs. Norris's; what
was he saying to you ? "
THE DANSEUSE.
61
" Oh, papa, Mr. d'Arcy is such a good person! " exclaimed
Yiolet, eagerly; "when I find how different other people
can be, I like him so much! "
Mr. Woodville opened his eyes; he was sitting at break¬
fast with his daughter.
Poor Mrs. Woodville was studying very hard the part of
Elvira, in " Pizarro," which she had been requested to perform
on an emergency at Covent Garden, on a two days' notice.
" What's that you say about Mr. d'Arcy, Charles ? "
"We were talking,—I and little Yiolet."
" Oh, very well; I am not attending,—I cannot. While I
think of it, Mr. Pizarro—Mr. Woodville, I mean—mind I
have ordered some nice little landrails for dinner; they are
expensive little birds, to be sure; but I am fond of them, and
my cold is so bad, so I thought we would have a treat. If
my voice is not better by to-morrow, I shall never be able to
get through the great tragedy scenes about the child, and the
little pathetic parts; I must have some new eggs beat up."
" Well, Violet," resumed Mr. Woodville, having previously
expressed himself content with the prospect of the landrails,
" we did not end our remarks about Mr. d'Arcy."
" No, papa, but now I will tell you all about it."
" About what, Violet P " exclaimed Airs. Woodville. " How
you do interrupt one ! "
" To be sure, that must be the case as long as you sit here,
my dear," said Mr. Woodvile.
" Mr. Woodville, I suppose I am to have some breakfast,
though I am to act at Covent Garden to-morrow night.
How rude you are sometimes—and so unfeeling too; cut me
another slice of bread and butter, Yiolet. I hope I shall not
forgett to tell Hummings that the landrails must not be over¬
roasted ; that dries them up, and they are not so good."
" Well, Yiolet, so what did Air. d'Arcy say, to please you
so much P "
Violet recounted to her father Mr. Goring's disagreeable
manners, and the opposite conduct of Air. d'Arcy.
" Mr. d'Arcy behaved like a gentleman, and Air. Goring
did not," replied Woodville. " But, Yiolet, I am not for
Mr. d'Arcy falling in love with you, or you with him."
"No, papa; but then he is not in love with me," said
Violet, blushing, " I assure you."
" I suppose you mean he has not told you so, eh, my dar¬
ling child P"
" No, dear father, indeed he never has exactly, not yet."
62
VIOLET ; OK;
" Well, Violet, you know X am not a silly, strict father,
but I wish to caution you; you are very young, my child;
you do not know the world as I do, so it is I who, as your
father, must be wise in time for you.
" You see, Violet, although you are a pretty little girl, you
are not a lady. We have almost brought you up like one,
and you are a great deal better than many ladies, every way,
I'll be bound; but still you are not one. Every one knows
your mamma acts, and that I play the violoncello ; that we
may earn money enough to live, and for you, too, not to be
ill off, happen what may.
"Now all these gentlemen that you meet with, and who
make you such fine speeches, may in themselves, some of
them, be very nice people, but they will not fall in love with
you the less for that; and their telling you so means no good,
for they will not marry you, Violet; or if they would, their
relations will not allow them to do so.
" They are to be blamed for it, when these gentlemen go
too far; because they are well aware that though it may do
you harm, it can do none whatever to them. Mind, Violet,
I don't say it is an impossibility that you should ever marry
a gentleman, for it is not; and you deserve it, if ever any one
did; but it is not a likely thing, and when I see these young
men buzzing about you it alarms me, because I always guess
it means no good.
" Now this Mr. d'Arcy is a very taking young man indeed;
I myself cannot but like him, and he has an open way that
wins one's heart, somehow. At first, too, I thought he came
to see you because he was Lord Stanmore's great friend."
Woodville sighed,—partly because he was out of breath, for
he was not in the habit of delivering such long speeches.
" And now I do think it is all for himself, or rather for you,
Violet, that he likes to see us. But that will not do; Mr.
d'Arcy is not a gentleman who will ever think of marrying,
were he to be in love ever so; he is not a marrying person;
and, indeed, I have heard one or two things of him which
have made me not like him quite so well. At all events, I
don't wish you to like him too much, Violet." He paused at
length, and Violet Woodville trembled as she ventured to
ask her father what it was he had heard against Mr. d'Arcy.
"They say he is very apt to fall in love, and not very long
either to care for one lady."
" Oh, father, that is so unlike Mr. d'Arcy's manner; he
has enemies who say this."
THE DANSEUSE.
63
" His manner is not what is to tell us about a gentleman's
constancy. But I did not think my saying this would annoy
ou, as I see it does; you must like Mr. d'Arcy very much,
begin to think, Violet ? "
" No, indeed, father; but only be just to him, and I 1
will do anything you like ; only pray don't be unkind to Mr.
d'Arcy on my account, because he has been so kind, and I
am sure he does not deserve that."
" Well, Violet," said Mrs. Woodville, looking off her book,
" I have been hearing something of what your father's been
saying, and I hope you will attend to it; you have been dis¬
tracting me sadly. What I still expect is, that Lord Stan-
more will propose for you, my dear; what I always say is,
why should not he ? But it is right of your father to tell you
not to think of him only all day long, because there is no
saying; and if his mother should get better, which she may,
you are sure she will be against you. Now call Hummings,
she must be home from the greengrocer's by this time ; before
she does the dinner I must speak about the landrails, or I know
they will be dried to a chip. Lock up the tea, Violet. John,"
said Mrs. Woodville, turning to the slender-looking footboy,
who entered the room, " is Mrs. Hummings not come in yet?"
" No, ma'am ; am I to take away the breakfast-things? "
" Yes ; and another time leave out the word things—break¬
fast, not breakfast-things. Let me know when Hummings
does come back. There's a ring at the door; oh, it's only
Dupas."
The old Frenchman was always well received by the
Woodvilles, and Violet loved the old man.
" So," gaily exclaimed M. Dupas, " I hear of nothing but
Violet's lovers; she is a sly little thing, and never tells me a
word about them; but I see and I hear," and he winked
good-humouredly at his protegee.
"Well, Dupas, let us have them; count them up for me,
like the cherries on a string, that I may hear and choose for
her myself," said Woodville, laughing.
"Well, then, I am told there's Mr. d'Arcy thinks of no
such thing but Miss Violet, and never goes anywhere but he
is to see my little pupil. Is that so?"
"You see I was not so wrong, Violet," said Mr. Wood¬
ville, archly. Violet blushed and laughed, for she had re¬
covered a little from the conversation with her father, and
she could not help feeling gratified that people thought Mr.
d'Arcy did care for her. But she was embarrassed, and she
64
VIOLET ; OK,
caught hold of M. Dupas' two hands, and began dancing with
him the part she had to perform with her supposed lover in
the ballet. M. Dupas only laughed, and looked at her
dancing with delighted eyes.
" M. Dupas," said Mrs. Woodville, "what do you think of
Mr. Harcourt's marrying Emily Horns? "
" He will not do it, I am sure."
"Well, I must leave you, for I am so taken up with this
new part I have to act on a day or two's notice. I suppose
Hummings is come home by this time. Perhaps you will
dine with us to-dajr, M. Dupas ? "
M. Dupas accepted the invitation.
CHAPTER VI.
"Thus doth the wily fisher weave his net."
"Alack, alack! that heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject."
Romeo and Juliet.
While Violet Woodville and her father were talking about
D'Arcy, they little imagined where he was at that very time
bestowing himself. D'Arcy was walking up and down within
five doors of the Woodvilles' abode.
He did not look pleasant, he yawned, and with his • stick
he beat his boot, and once he struck the iron railing very
hard. He kept continually looking over his shoulder, and
occasionally walked round the corner of the street, but
always re-appeared in a few seconds, though cautiously, and
with the air of a man who is wisely thinking, when he cannot
observe much himself, that neither can he be much ob¬
served. At first, he only looked impatient and bored beyond
endurance.
It is astonishing what changes come over a visage, which
can reflect with much expression the workings of the mind.
D'Arcy's was absolutely peculiar, from the force of his
countenance, upon all occasions.
Any one aware of his intimacy with the Woodvilles would
have expected, perhaps, to see D'Arcy, as he was so long in
their street, either gazing sentimentally up at the windows
of the house, where he might have beheld part of Violet's
sleeve or Mrs. Woodville's cap-string,—things quitf import¬
ant enough for a lover's fancy to feed upon a whole day; or
THE DANSEUSE.
65
that, in the hope of being seen, though he could not see, he
would have continued his walk in front of the house; or, at
least, that his eyes should have wandered to the front door,
as if from that issue he trusted for the reward of his pedes¬
trian watchings. But not a bit of it, for TV Amy's eyes were
invariably inclined in one direction only, and that was always
downwards.
It was almost as if the brick foundation alone of
Mr. Woodville's house drew his attention,—the bottom of
the iron railings, or the lowest step of the door,—down it
was, always down, that his eyes were directed.
At last he became more demonstrative in his actions, for
he went and peeped into the area, and presently did so
again: this time it was a satisfactory survey, for, with
excessive alertness, D'Arcy retreated backwards, and began
walking rapidly, but looking now as if he wished to knock
hardly anybody down, instead of everybody, so that it was
plain he was at once in better humour.
In the meantime a woman was seen slowly ascending from
the said area. She was rather stout, and forty ; she had on a
cotton gown, a white apron, a coal-scuttle black bonnet, and
horrid shoes upon criminal hoofs (for it would not be right
to designate them as feet) ; and, without describing her any
further, it is sufficient to say that, seen from any point of
view, she might have been deemed peculiarly exempt from
the power of inspiring any man with the desire for her pre¬
sence manifested by D'Arcy. She wras never intended to
have to resist the insidious attentions of a man a bonnes
fortunes. It might be charitably inferred that Providence
had considered these small temptations as unnecessary trials,
and had, therefore, placed this good woman specially beyond
their influence.
The respectable person in question was no other than
Mrs. Hummings, and she it was who fulfilled the functions
of ladies' maid, cook, and housekeeper in the Woodville
manage. She it was also who escorted Violet Woodville in
her morning walks.
D'Arcy had ascertained, by means of a servant he had sent
to reconnoitre on six successive mornings, that it was at this
hour, namely, between ten and eleven, that Mrs. Hummings
was in the habit of leaving the house upon the furtherance of
some domestic affairs ; for instance, there was a connection
between these matutinal walks and the landrails Mrs. Wood¬
ville was to eat for her dinner that day.
F
66
VIOLET; OIL
D'Arcy desired to speak with Mrs. Hummings, and to do
so cost him all the bore and the exertion of which the reader
has been made aware. Now he beheld her : there she was,
plodding first down one street, then up another.
D'Arcy only waited till Mrs. Hummings was out of sight
of Mr. Woodville's house, in order to address her. He
felt his courage rather at a low ebb, when he made up his
mind that now or never was the moment of attack. _
He switched his cane several times, coughed, kicked and
scuffled with his boots, and, at last, brought himself into a
parallel line with the black coal-scuttle bonnet.
First imagining and then finding she really had less room
on the pavement than previously, Mrs. Hummings looked
round and saw D'Arcy. She altered her pace,—but he did
the same ; she eyed him sternly,—but D'Arcy replied by an
affable smile. " Ma'am," said he, " could you be so very
obliging as to direct me to street?"
"Yes, sir; turn to the right, and then to the left, and
there you are."
" Thank you, ma'am. Pray, have I not the pleasure of
speaking to a most respectable domestic in the family of Mr.
and Mrs. Woodville!"
"Yes, sir; did you want anything with them ? I know
your face, as coming there very often, sir."
"No,—but I have much wished to see you, and have
sought this opportunity of meeting you."
"Sir!" said Mrs. Hummings, looking less condescend¬
ingly ; " what is that you're saying, sir ? "
" I own, I have desired to see you, Mrs. Hummings ; I
have so constantly heard your praises from all the family,
that I was well aware of the lady-like person I should find
you, and that knowledge gives me courage to address you on
a little business of my own."
Mrs. Hummings had been colouring very much while
D'Arcy spoke, and she now turned full round upon him, with
red cheeks, and likewise red eyes, like a leopard's—so, at
least, they seemed to poor D'Arcy—while she exclaimed,
" Sir! a gentleman like you, visiting our family, ought to be
ashamed of yourself for looking after a respectable woman
like me, that's old enough to be your mother. Sir ! I would
have you to know better!"
Mrs. Hummings bounced past D'Arcy, as if she did not
mean her last words to be taken in vain.
" There's no saying what D'Arcy felt; but he had a
THE DANSEtJSE.
67
material point to gain,—he was a man of great courage, and
he did not allow his feelings to divert him from its pursuit;
—he followed Mrs. Hummings.
" Good heavens, ma'am! could you for a moment suppose
I had the intention to insult a lady like yourself? of whose
excellent character I was that instaDt telling you I had been
so well informed P—my business with you was not exactly
about yourself."
These words struck Mrs. Hummings ; she began to think
she had been precipitate in her comprehension of D'Arcy's
discourse. It may have been owing to a little adventure, of
the nature she now suspected, having befallen her the pre¬
vious week, in an ill-lighted street, and whilst the moon was
under a cloud, that Mrs. Hummings was on this occasion so
susceptible. Having discovered her mistake, she was anxious
by her present civility to make amends for it.
The ice broken, and upon the whole, as D'Arcy hoped,
not unsuccessfully, he ventured to proceed, and requested
Mrs. Hummings's approval of his joining herself and Miss
Woodville the next morning in Kensington Gardens, should
they happen to be there. D'Arcy explained that Violet
had no knowledge of his request, but he said he had some¬
thing of importance to communicate, and that this was the
only means of conversing with Miss Woodville alone. He
hoped, therefore, that Mrs. Hummings would be so kind as
not to mention to Mr. or Mrs. Woodville the fact of his
designing to meet their daughter, as they might, or might
not, approve of it; D'Arcy said he really could not say
which, but at all events, he observed, under her chape-
ronage, Mrs. Hummings must be aware there would be no
impropriety in his appearing accidentally to meet Miss
Woodville in Kensington Gardens."
" What's the meaning of that word, sir ?" asked Mrs.
Hummings, gloomily.
" What word?"
" Some such word as chapperingage.—What do you mean
by saying that sort of word to me, sir? "
" Oh, I understand," answered D'Arcy, hardly able to con¬
ceal his laughter, while he explained the meaning of the
word chaperonage, and at the conclusion of the explanation
he slipped a couple of sovereigns into Mrs. Hummings's red
ungloved hand. Mrs. H. stared, and tried to return the
money; D'Arcy would not hear of it. "I could not,—
I could not, Mrs. Hummings,—I only attempted to make
!•' 2
68
VIOLET; OK,
a small amends for tlie unfortunate alarm I at first occa¬
sioned you by my abrupt intrusion; as a proof of your
forgiveness, I must beg,—indeed, I must desire you will
say no more about it. I fear I have already taken up
your time too much,—I hope you will be good enough to
—to"' D'Arcy hesitated with his words, for he hardly
knew what he was saying.
At that moment he beheld, advancing up the street, a
well-known associate whom he would rather not have met
just then.
At that hour of the morning, D'Arcy considered he was
quite safe, and might devote, unseen, his attentions to Mrs.
Hummings; nothing but a clerk of the Foreign Office could
be visible at such an hour, and this was not the way to
Downing-street: otherwise, his present companion was not
the lady he would have aimed at being seen to escort; and
there could not have occurred a more laughable circumstance
to any creature who knew D'Arcy, than to have beheld him
at this moment.
Besides the sort of person D'Arcy was in himself, he was
always remarkably recherche in his dress; he was not less so
than usual now, and Mrs. Hummings, of all people in the
world, offered a singularly uninviting contrast to D'Arcy.
Still there he was, bending his head under her black, hor¬
rible bonnet, and talking with all the eagerness he might
have done, if she had not been old, or ugly, or honest,—in
one sense of the word.
The first two qualities Mrs. Hummings did not concern
herself about; it was her having some glimmering of the
last-mentioned one which caused her still to hesitate, while
D'Arcy felt as if he could have hung her up to the next
lamp-post. "Nonsense, nonsense; it can do Miss Wood-
ville no harm. Well, only for once—I cannot stay—I see a
friend ; now, my dear Mrs. Hummings ! there; what does
it signify—who will know P "
Between Mrs. Hummings's anxiety to return the sove¬
reigns, and D'Arcy's impatient refusal to receive them, they
very nearly dropped. D'Arcy could only exclaim, " Turn
round that corner; get out of the way ;" and, without wait¬
ing for the reply, walked quickly up the street, till he was
within hail of his unwelcome friend.
" He cannot have seen her," said D'Arcy to himself, but
almost aloud, as he joined a pale and interesting-looking
young man, of distinguished appearance.
THE DANSETJSE.
69
D'Arcy turned his head—Mrs. Hummings had obeyed his
injunctions, and was out of sight.
" My dear fellow, how glad I am to see you! " cried
D'Arcy, with extended hands.
" And so am I to see you, D'Arcy; but I did not expect to
do so just here. Whom on earth were you talking to, when I
saw you at the end of the street ? "
" Oh, an old woman, wife of a man I owe some money to."
" Oh, a dun!—but what has fetched you out, at this time
of day, in such a direction as this ? "
" I had to see that woman, and have a good deal to do to¬
day ; so I got up early."
"Not a bit of it, D'Arcy : you have got some love affair in
the wind."
" What! with that old devil, do you think ?—But tell me,
—how is Lady Stanmore ? "
D'Arcy's companion looked grave at once, although he
answered, "Better, thank God! — My mother has been
wretchedly ill; but they do think her better—at least I was
assured there is no immediate danger, or you may be certain
I should not have left her. But I have been out of London
so long, that I had much to arrange, and am obliged to be in
town for a day or two; but I shall return to my poor mother
the moment 1 can."
" When did you come up ? "
" Last night."
" Where are you going P "
" I am almost ashamed to say ; however, to you, I "
" Shall we walk on together? "
" Do. But—why, I will tell you where I was going,—to
those Woodvilles; it is so long since I have seen them; but I
am half ashamed to confess it."
" Pshaw; I know them very well too—now, she is a beau¬
tiful little girl: I am almost in love with her myself."
" What has she been at, D'Arcy? "
"Nothing, I think; the father and mother keep such a
look-out upon her."
" They are right; for she is almost too good to be thrown
away. But what men are about her ? "
"There's Goring, chiefly, I suspect—and Dormer, besides
Cramden; but it was before you left town Cramden began
with her, was it not P "
" Yes ; but doesn't she encourage any of them ? "
" No ; it's very odd ; but I don't think she does."
70
VIOLET; OR,
" Singular! for there is not one of those girls that dance
that ever was good for anything ; or, if they are in the be¬
ginning, they are always utterly and entirely corrupted in six
months."
"Utterly and entirely "
" Extraordinary, is not it ? "
" Most extraordinary ! "
" By the bye, D'Arcy, did it ever appear to you as if she
cared for me at all ? "
" JSTo; I never observed anything, as if she did in the
least."
" Oh," said Lord Stanmore, in a mortified tone, " I was
fool enough to think she liked me better than other people,
at one time."
" Well, I dare say she did ; but, you know, you have been
away a month; and, you know, ' les absens ont toujours
tort.' "
" She is a beautiful creature, D'Arcy, is she not P" said
Lord Stanmore, thoughtfully.
" Yes, beautiful!"
" Such a graceful being ?"
" So graceful!"
" And such pretty manners !—so unlike anything belonging
to her class!"
" So unlike !"
" Nothing plebeian about her—the most aristocratic loveli¬
ness she has ; hasn't she ?"
" Oh, she has, certainly."
" I wonder," pursued Lord Stanmore, as if he were think¬
ing aloud—" I wonder what will be the fate of a creature like
that P If she is virtuous, she will end by having a rich trades¬
man's low-souled son for her husband ; or else some rascally
singer at the opera will marry her, to make money by her
talents—spend it—ill use, and, probably abandon her !"
"Just so "
" And how hard, that that should be the result of having
a mind superior to the set of people she associates with !"
" Oh, so hard !"
" D'Arcy, what are you about ?—you don't talk ; for the
last half hour you have done nothing but echo my words."
"Havel? Oh, I suppose I was thinking of something
else. I have been so bothered lately : I am waiting all this
time, you know, for an appointment abroad."
" But I thought you had got that settled P"
THE DANSETJSE.
71
" Why, so I had ; but I can't leave England just now—I
am so in debt, and it does not suit me. So I have made a
compromise ; for I found out I should oblige Lord •, by
pretending not to be in a hurry ; and he gave G , his
nephew, my appointment: I am to have another later. I
want to get something in England, if I can—I mean to try."
"Well, I am so glad to have met you, D'Arcy."
By this time the two friends had reached the street wherein
was Mr. Wpodville's house, and D'Arcy was taking leave of
Lord Stanmore, when the latter exclaimed, " Oh, but do
come in with me here ; I had almost rather you would ; I am
out of spirits, and you will help me to get on with them; it
is difficult sometimes to find conversation for these sort of
people ; and as you know them "
D'Arcy did not require to be asked twice.
The Woodvilles were much surprised by the appearance of
Lord Stanmore, and Woodville was too open-hearted not to
make his satisfaction evident; while Mrs. Woodville made a
thousand kind inquiries after the mother of her intended son-
in-law.
Lord Stanmore cared little to reply to her; he only wanted
to talk to and to look at "Violet.
I do not know that we can ever more fully tell how dear
another is to us, than when we meet them after an absence.
We did not know before how the sight of that object could
make our pulses beat, or chill us with the nervousness of inse¬
cure affection, so deeply felt by a doubting heart. These are
feelings which have their silent agony, for they are among
those that are never told, or if they are, who can imagine the
mental suffering that has been endured by the mere force of
the words in which those sufferings are told,words that seem
trifling in the ears of even an interested listener. But so it
is ; our most unpleasant hours have often been occasioned by
the smallest nothings, and quite as often by our own suscep¬
tibility alone. All of us peidiaps have these sensations, but
not one of us can enter into them when they are another's.
Of this truth we have an innate consciousness, and from this
cause the minutia> of any individual's unhappiness remain
untold even to his most intimate friend. If, at the end of a
long life, a prosperous man—one whose cares were established
to have been but few—if this man could lay bare the whole
past feelings of his existence, he himself would be astonished
at the number of small and long-forgotten sorrows he had
undergone; things so little tangible, that the pen could not
72
VIOLET; OR,
define, and the tongue would have been despised for uttering
them. , .
D'Arcy, after greeting Violet as usual, withdrew himself
from her, and obligingly took up the attention of her parents
and of M. Dupas, who was also in the room. A sufficiently
animated conversation was thus got up between these four
persons, which left Lord Stanmore at liberty to approach Miss
Woodville. He was, however, embarrassed, and she felt so
likewise, though from a different cause. She was conscious
of being changed towards Lord Stanmore, now that she met
him again, and by him was forcibly reminded that his attach¬
ment to her remained the same, qtill she talked to him, and
only grew absent when she began to remember that as yet
D'Arcy had not once addressed her. This was so unlike him,
she was at a loss to account for it. He went on, however,
talking to the Woodvilles as if Violet did not exist in his
heart; and her astonishment at this neglect grew greater
every minute ; for we all know that if we ever make moun¬
tains of mole-hills, it is when our self-love is in the case.
At length there was a sort of general pause, which Mrs.
Woodville interrupted by saying that to-morrow was to be
the next opera, the last night of her daughter's appearance
this season.
" If I continue hearing that my mother is better, I shall
certainly go to-morrow to the opera," said Lord Stanmore.
" D'Arcy, will you come to my box ? "
" Ho," replied D'Arcy; " I have an engagement that will
prevent me, one I cannot avoid."
Violet heard, but she thought she could not have heard.
She looked at her admirer, but his face was not turned to¬
wards her. Her manner grew feverish. When we are quite
young, from being unused to deal with covert annoyances,
we bear them not only impatiently, but betray by our de¬
portment our secret discomfort.
D'Arcy's apparent neglect of her was as nothing to Violet,
compared with his declaration that he should not go to the
opera on her last night!
Violet could not recover from the dismay it occasioned
her; and in vain she tried to read D'Arcy's mind in his
countenance. Lord Stanmore, in the mean time, felt deeply
hurt by the comparatively cold reception he received from
Miss Woodville; and now in moody silence he ceased to
address himself to her, and had it then been possible, he
would have expressed his perception of her estrangement.
THE DANSEUSE.
73
D'Arcy and his friend at length rose to take leave, and then
the former fixed his eyes upon "Violet. She looked at him,
and hers were eyes that asked his pity. She almost drew
her breath with hesitation, lest she should lose some one last
word of D'Arcy's. She yet hoped to hear him inquire when
he should again meet her.
D'Arcy had always found so many sideways of ascertaining
this, but not a syllable passed his lips in allusion to it. He
held out his hand to bid her adieu, and Violet tried to speak,
but the words would not come. D'Arcy looked at her once
more, but this time she was sick at heart, and she saw him
not.
Hitherto she had found D'Arcy her undeviating wor¬
shipper ; to-day he seemed almost unconscious of her pre¬
sence!
The door closed, and D'Arcy and Lord Stanmore were
gone. " Perhaps I shall never see him again," thought
Violet Woodville ;—for, reader, have you never felt (that is,
if you have ever loved) that, in moments of despondency,
this strange idea has risen in your mind ? It is but one of
those spasms of a grieved heart that tears itself with every
self-delusion. " My God! then I have dreamt it all, and he
does not care for me!"
Violet would have cast away that thought, but it recurred
continually, and at night in her dreams it lived.
Lord Stanmore and his friend walked on in silence,—at
least up one street, and then it was LoTd Stanmore who
spoke.
" D'Arcy, what can have happened P "
" What P to whom ? "
" To her,—to Violet Woodville ; she is altered; I find she
is not the same person as when I left her."
" You mean in her manner towards yourself? "
" Yes ; I find I must either have been egregiously mis¬
taken in her, or "
" Or what P "
" Or that she is a thorough coquette, which I never can
believe. Whom in this world can one trust? " exclaimed the
young man.
" You are speaking very solemnly; can it be possible that
you are in love P "
" To distraction ; and I do not care who knows it. Besides,
I told you so long before."
" Yes, but I did not believe you, although now I do."
74
VIOLET; OB,
" And pray wliy now ?"
" I can conceive it so very possible, for I am myself in
love with Violet Woodville."
" You, D'Arcy ! are you in earnest P "
" Yes, I think I am."
" What do you mean to do F "
" I was not sure whether through you I might not ascer¬
tain."
" Pshaw! you did not show any signs of caring for her
during our visit."
" No ; I thought I would give you a fair chance, as I have
been able to make play during your absence. Not much,
though ; the father or mother, or that cursed old Frenchman,
are always there ; and you know, Stanmore, what an obliging
fellow I can be to a friend that I like as yourself. So you
got on ill with her this morning P "
" Devillish ill, I think, or she is changed; she was ab¬
sent. Who has been making a fool of her while I have been
away? "
" They have all been trying it; but I declare I cannot
exactly say who our rival is."
" Our / you need not say our—I do not believe you are
thinking of her."
" On my word I km. Why not ? "
" I conceived you to be otherwise engaged; besides, she is
not in your line."
" Oh," said D'Arcy, "but she is handsome enough for
anything, and my heart is capacious."
" How I always hate your cold answers, D'Arcy. I am
desperately in love with that girl," exclaimed Lord Stan-
more, passionately, and he stamped with his foot on the
pavement.
"You will succeed with her at last, perhaps,—don't knock
down that old barrow-woman."
"Ah! I am not likely now; and those spies always about
her, too."
" They would like you to marry her."
" Which, of course, I shall not do."
" I see you thought I expected you to say you would,"
answered D'Arcy, laughing aloud.
" No; and you need not laugh again in your vile way.
But I do love her with all my soul; is she not a little
divinity ? But, D'Arcy, if you are so in love, why do not
you go to the opera to-morrow night ? "
THE DANSETJSE.
75
" Oil! that was still to give you an opportunity of making
up for lost time. And so, Stanmore, you do not think she
likes you now ? "
" No: she used, or something like it. Can it he Goring?
He is such a brute, she would only hate him. But I will see
her again; and I will watch,—I will find out,—there is
nothing I will not do."
" Well, shall I see you at Crockford's to-night ? "
" I think not; I am too unhappy, and altogether "
Here Lord Stanmore and D'Arcy parted ; the latter walked
on with a light step, and was soon out of sight, while the
young peer proceeded more slowly in another direction.
Yiolet remained a prey to vexation of spirit. " How un¬
true to say youth is the happiest season of our life, with its
keen feelings laying themselves so bare to the vulture, ex¬
perience. Youth is a season that has no repose,"* we feel so
acutely then, and every petty grief cuts like a sharpened razor.
Violet could not recover from D'Arcy's altered manner,
and his declaration that he was not going to the opera. She
asked herself a hundred times, was he changed? Or (the
supposition flashed horribly across her) had all D'Arcy's
apparent liking merely been an interest, the source of which
was in his friendship for her known admirer, Lord Stanmore ?
And now was he only desiring to promote the success of his
friend P
If the supposition was far-fetched it was not unnatural, for
love is so feeble in its judgments, so wonderful in its mental
devices, so erring in its weaknesses, so bitter in its imagin¬
ings, so cruel in its suspicions, so unjust in its reasonings, so
sublime in its folly, so partial in its arguments, and so inge¬
nious in its self-torture, that there can be no limits to its
inconsistency or to its doubts, and the power of the under¬
standing sinks beneath the force of that single passion, even
while its strength is weak.
" Or, can I have offended him?" thought Violet, wrongiug
her gentle heart with the idea.
The morning following this inauspicious visit was a bright
day in August, and we all know the relief given to the spirits
by obtaining fresh air and exercise ; so Violet was not less
ready than usual to set forth upon her morning walk with
Mrs. Hummings. She intuitively desired by any means to
dissipate her uncomfortable feelings. Every day and every
hopr that she had spent with D'Arcy, since the time she first
* L. E. L.
76
VIOLET; OR,
knew him, had been conjured up by memory to soothe her
grief, and to convince herself that D'Arcy's conduct must
have been unintentional.
She proceeded along the straight walk by the elm trees in
Kensington Gardens, without the spirits to explore the more
intricate paths, as she sometimes did, enjoying with childish
gaiety the freshness and the verdure.
Violet walked on slowly and in reverie, and Mrs. Hum-
mings felt hardly more at ease than her young mistress, and
secretly hoped that something would prevent Mr. d'Arcy
from keeping his determination of meeting them; but the
hope was hardly born in the tender bosom of Hummings, ere
it was cruelly killed, by the appearance of D'Arcy walking
quickly towards them.
When Violet saw him, she could scarcely believe her eyes,
but he approached. " How singular," she thought, " that he
should be going this way, and at this hour—as if it was really
on purpose that I might see him! At all events, he must
speak to me—I shall have that pleasure," and with this con¬
clusion her young heart bounded with joy ; so when D'Arcy
held out his hand, and smiled, it might be, more gravely than
usual, but still with his accustomed tenderness, Violet felt
only too happy, and her delight shone with exquisite truth in
her lovely countenance.
" Le sentiment vif, court tant que l'on veut les risques de
l'illusion, et s'il se trompe quelquefois, il a aussi senti en re¬
compense, et exprime pour ainsi dire de l'objet qui lui est
presente, tout ce qu'il pouvoit avoir de touchant."*
" I am so surprised to see you! where were you going?"
inquired Violet Woodville, with bashful artlessness.
" I had no object except one," replied D'Arcy; " I have but
one in the world now I think, of any kind—may I walk on
with you ? Tell me, if you would rather that I did not."
" No—no," stammered Violet; not very conscious what
she ought to reply. " But shall I turn, as I met you going
in the opposite direction ? "
" I was, Miss Woodville," answered D'Arcy, with emphasis.
" But if I knew your way—the one you wished to go—I
would so much rather—I mean just as soon walk that way as
this Violet spoke with some confusion.
" It is the same to me. I came here but for the purpose of
meeting you; did you actually suppose my coming here was
accidental?"
* Portrait de Madame de Plamorens,
THE DANSEUSE.
77
> " Indeed I did, Mr. d'Arcy. I could not tell that you de¬
sired to—to—to see me, at so early an hour—and besides "
" And besides ; well, you do not continue ? "
" And besides, I knew that you would call, if you wished
to see us."
" Yes; but in calling I could not have seen you alone, and
the gine of never doing so is insupportable to me—I find I
can bear it no longer ! "
Violet turned her head in the direction of Mrs. Hummings,
but she found her duenna had unaccountably lingered some
paces behind.
"Listen to me," said D'Arcy, impatiently; "do not look
after that ugly old woman. Oh, listen to me for this once at
least; I would give so much for one word of kindness from
you—for one word only, Miss Woodville—will you listen to
me if I tell you ? "
" I do not know what you are going to say," exclaimed
Violet, blushing. " But another time, not now—I believe I
ought to be going home."
" The vain excuse! Yes, now it shall be ; but you well
know—you must long have seen it. I shall say nothing that
could surprise you, and yet" D'Arcy paused, and appeared
to reflect.
Header, I know not why he hesitated, nor can I guess at
the nature of his reflections. He spoke again after a few
seconds, and bending over the castdown eyes of Violet, he
uttered, with a tone of humbleness, and of dejection too : " I
was going to tell you, as I do now, that I love you ! "
At least, there is one word in the English language that
has music in its sound—Love ! ^yho can pronounce it, and
not say it is a gentle word, soft and beautiful as its meaning P
Oh ! breathe it how, and when, and where you will, is it net
always a touching word P and, should it be uttered by one
whose affection we delight in, it is a dream of bliss to hear it,
and one that will be unforgotten while every other joy lies
buried beneath the sorrow that fails us not—covering with
its heavy mantle the happy hours that have gone before.
But, as first uttered by a loved being, the memory of that
word will endure.
It may be heard again and again, yet will not half its charm
be the hope of once more feeling the magic pleasure its sound
at first conveyed P Oh no, those feelings we can never know
twice, whether they are called into being in the spring of life
or in later years, it matters imt.
78
VIOLET ; OK,
Violet Woodville made 110 reply to D'Arcy, but she hung
down her head, and blushed deeply. D'Arcy watched her
in silence. At length he whispered, " Am I not to hear one
word from you?—you surely are not offended with me ?—you
cannot be ; and the declaration of a great affection, be it from
whom it may, can merit no despisal."
" Alas ! " said Violet, with an unequal voice, " if I knew
but what to answer, Mr. d'Arcy ! "
In his heart, D'Arcy felt how much more these guileless
words conveyed than their speaker imagined.
" Tell me, at least, that you believe me."
"Even that I cannot do. I have been so taught to dis¬
believe all such professions, that how am I to know yours are
more to be relied on than others ? "
" To whom would you compare me ? " exclaimed D'Arcy.
" To the tribe who haunt you ? who admire you, I grant; but
admiration is not love : you do not think that one of all those
men feels towards you as I do ? or is it possible that you can
do me the injustice of thinking so ? "
" But then, Mr. d'Arcy, what is the reply you desire me to
make? Do you wish me to declare that I suddenly place faith
in you—and on your simple showing ?—rest convinced hence¬
forth, that you do love me P "
" Say it, oh say ! you believe that I do ! "
Violet shook her head.
" I see it all," cried D'Arcy, his countenance darkening.
" There is another person who might have made this declara¬
tion, and it would then have been more acceptable."
" On my word, you are wrong," said Violet Woodville,
vehemently; " there is no one in the world I care for in the
sense you mean."
"Not even Stanmore, I suppose?" D'Arcy ironically
demanded.
"No, Mr. d'Arcy, not even Lord Stanmore."
" At all events, you hate me ? "
" Oh no ! "
" Oh no," said D'Arcy, repeating her words in the softest
tone of his musical voice ; " but since you will not beliere
I love you, why should I believe that you do not hate meP"
" At all events, you did not even like me yesterday,"
Violet replied, partly in the endeavour to lead the conversa¬
tion into another strain. " You would not speak to me,
Mr. d'Arcy," and she coloured violently.
THE DANSEU8E.
79
D'Arcy answered readily, by quoting tbe beautiful old
verses of Sir Walter Raleigh.
" Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,
Who sues for no compassion.
" Since if my plaints were not t' approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t' exceeding duty.
" For,, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve,
A place in her affection.
" I rather choose to want relief,
Than venture the revealing;
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing."
" You have a good memory, Mr. d'Arcy ; are you fond of
poetry P "
"No—yes,—we will not discuss that now; and will you
not vouchsafe me one word of kindness P "
Yiolet was silent,—she at last replied, but it was with an
effort,—" I wish to say nothing that is ungracious to you, Mr.
d'Arcy; but since you call upon me for my sentiments, may I
tell you that if you do, as you say, love me—would not the
best proof of it have been to have avoided the conversation
you have now begun P It must end here,—I am quite aware
that it ought to do so."
Yiolet spoke with a quivering lip. She knew not how her
words might be taken by D'Arcy, and she dreaded to offend
him, as we ever dread to offend everything we love,—
nor could she love the less for being so lately told she was
beloved.
"I have said nothing that is disrespectful to you, Miss
Y7oodville," replied D'Arcy, with gentleness ; " that, at least,
I am incapable of. But I did not think I should find you the
one who would receive with coldness the avowal of a true
affection. I have not asked you to return it,—I am con¬
scious, alas ! that I have no right to do so ; but your pity I had
hoped for,—and if you did but know what it is to love, and
to love as I do, you would not thus have denied it to me. It
was all I hoped to obtain from you. Others may be more
fortunate than I can be,—they may win the heart whose
slightest wish I could kneel to listen to. I have not known
80
VIOLET ; OK;
you long; but from the hour I first saw you I was touched
by you. I admired your excessive beauty, and wondered at
its perfection; then I heard you speak, and as I grew to
know you I became fascinated. At first I despised myself
for my folly, for so I thought it; and, until I met with yon, I
never conceived that I could feel for any living being as I do
towards you. You treat me with indifference,—well, be it
so,—I cannot care the less for you ; and could I serve you, I
would lay down my life to do it. I am most unhappy ; and,
on my honour, I have not uttered one word that is not true."
" I am flattered," said Yiolet, " that you should think it
worth your while to tell me this ; and if you do—if you do
love me, as you desire me to believe—you can understand
that, as I never can return your affection, it is better for me
to avoid the possibility of being led to do so."
" There is no danger of that, Miss Woodville."
" I know not, and it is better, therefore, to think no more
of it."
"Yes; but, as far as I am concerned, that is not done
so easily,—and I really cannot see, while others are allowed
to say all that I have said to you, why I am to be made the
exception P "
" But others do not say to me what you have said, at least
never with my permission."
" Not Lord Stanmore, for instance ? "
" Again ! not even Lord Stanmore."
" You will not tell me that you do not know that he is in
love with you P "
" But that I cannot help ; what I mean is, that he has no
opportunity of telling me so that my parents could disap¬
prove of."
"Well, I see that I have nothing to hope for. You will
have many admirers, Miss Woodville, I do not doubt; but you
may believe me when I say that mine is a better love than
theirs. I would have devoted myself to you—I should have
prized you more than anything that exists in the world; and
could I have met from you with but the slightest kindness, I
think I could have lived for years on the bare recollection of
it, and should have gloried in proving that my words have not
deceived you, and that mine was an undying affection. As it
is, I wish to spare myself further pain—I shall shortly leave
England, and it will be for years."
Violet turned very pale, but she made no answer.
" When I return, be it when it may, or it may never be—
THE DANSEUSE.
81
the bitterest recollection I shall have ever known will await
me—of one whose affection, whose pity, I sued for in vain :
and no term of years, and no absence, will efface from my
memory the force of my feelings, or how my soul could have
clung to loving the only thing I ever looked on and found no
fault in."
" Why do you intend to remain so long abroad ? " asked
Violet with a faltering voice.
" Circumstances might oblige me, but, independently of
them, I solemnly declare to you, that you, and you alone, are
the charm that makes me care for anything, even to live ! I
am old of my age, sometimes I am sick of life, and the beau¬
tiful part of human nature has been hidden from me. I have
known misfortune, I have endured vexation of spirit, I have
lived to despise the world; above all, I have lived to doubt
that one good and pure being existed in it; and then I met
with you, and was forced to own such a one did exist. Your
beauty and your artless character attracted me till I grew to
love you, and madly. I have thought of you till I have con¬
ceived it to be all a wild dream, and that I had fancied it; but
I saw you again, and you looked more beautiful. I heard
your voice, and I heard your guileless, unspotted mind in the
tones of that voice, as I saw it, too, in your speaking counte¬
nance, and worlds, had I possessed them, I would have laid
at your feet!
" I grew to fear you, and I dared not tell you of my love.
I sometimes thought you were a hallowed creature, and
longed to worship you. Now I have told you all, and you
have repulsed me. I did not know before how horrible it is
to cast one's all of happiness upon a die and to lose it. While
I have life I shall love you, and on earth I may never see
you again! " D'Arcy stopped and held out his hand to bid
her adieu.
Violet took it, and burst into tears.
"Why, why do you shed tears ? " exclaimed D'Arcy.
" I cannot bear you to leave England, Mr. d'Arcy," ex¬
claimed Violet, almost convulsively, as she wiped away the
glittering drops.
"Never! I never will, if you will tell me to stay," he
vehemently answered.
"Oh, no, not for me, not on my account," continued
Violet, almost inarticulately ; " but do not go abroad, unless
you must—-pray do not."
" I would sooner die than do it now," exclaimed D'Arcy,
o
82
VIOLET ; OE,
" You are agitated—lean on me; " and lie drew her arm
through his, and neither of them seemed to remember that a
Mrs. Hummings drew breath in the world.
" Oh, Mr. d'Arcy," said Yiolet, a little come to herself,
" what I said was very foolish ; I had no business to say it:
you had better forget it."
" Forget it! I could not if I would. Do not be so un¬
generous ; grant me to live through one day, at least. I am
but your slave—I never can importune you; and I would
hide myself from every living thing sooner than annoy you.
You have but to say the word, and I will still disappear from
your sight for ever. But now, have patience with me. I am
happier at this moment than I have been for years ! " And
Violet could hardly doubt that D'Arcy spoke the truth, for he
looked so happy, and that was not his general expression.
The lovers walked on conversing till they reached the
opposite gate. D'Arcy's respectful manner disarmed her of
all mistrust, and, in spite of herself, Violet felt a joy she had
never known in her life before.
"And to-night I shall not see you, and it is your last
night," said d'Arcy, alluding to the Opera of that evening.
" Where shall you be ? " inquired Violet.
"I have an engagement to go twenty miles from town
with Lord , the Minister for the Home Department. It
is important for me to keep the engagement; nothing, in
fact, but necessity would make me give up the pleasure of
seeing you to-night. As it is, I have not much chance of it,
as I have to speak to Lord on business, and shall he
detained, or I could still go to , and find myself in
the Opera in time for the last act of the ballet. To-morrow I
shall call at your house, if Mrs. Woodville is not informed of
our meeting this morning. She will not think my visit is1
made so very much too soon."
"But how is mamma not to know of my meeting with
you ? "
" She cannot, unless you tell her, and surely that is not
necessary; it would only occasion remarks, and for once
there can be no objection to its not being known. But do as
you judge best," added D'Arcy.
"But," said Violet, "there is Hummings, who will think
it so odd; and there is something so disgraceful in having
anything to conceal from papa or mamma—I cannot bear it!'
" Then tell Mrs. Woodville of our meeting. I advised you
not, because I know what mammas are, and that yours is not
THE DANSEUSE.
83
aware that I am not like Goring, or any of those men whom
it would not be so well for you to be on the same terms
with. I myself should be wretched if you were. But your
parents will not make the distinction; and I flatter myself
that you, at least, think I deserve that you should have per¬
fect confidence in me."
" And I have, Mr. d'Arcy. But there is still Hummings ;
she may speak of our walking together ? "
" No, I think not; no, I am sure she will not. The truth
is," continued D'Arcy, smiling, " I so wish to call upon you;
and I fear, if, in addition to our walk to-day, I venture to
appear in your house to-morrow, I shall be forbidden to do
so ever again .... Shall I not? " asked D'Arcy, as he took
and pressed the little hand of poor Violet, while he regarded
her beseechingly to acquiesce.
Violet sighed; she felt there was something wrong in her
conduct; but D'Arcy's arguments prevailed, and she agreed
to conceal their having walked together.
No sooner had they parted, and she was slowly returning
homewards, than she repented her agreement; but her mind
was in a tumult of emotion, and hardly any idea was defined
enough to become the one uppermost.
At one moment she was seized with the most poignant
regret at having asked D'Arcy not to leave England; and
felt she could do or endure anything to have the power of
recalling her words.
"And what must it have made him think of me?" in¬
wardly exclaimed Violet; and her delicacy shrunk with
dismay from this avowal of her feelings towards d'Arcy.
Then, again, the idea rose in her mind, that, had it been
otherwise, she might have bade him an eternal adieu; and
that, to a heart such as hers, was a thought too overwhelming
in its misery. Sooner than that—sooner than part from
D'Arcy, Violet would have given up her life, her happiness,
her honour—no; that last sacrifice did not occur to her, or,
if it did, it was so vaguely and so seemingly impossible, that
it passed through her mind quicker than the bird of the
ocean flies over its waves. She did not question the force
of D'Arcy's love : she did not fathom the depth of her own ;
still she was aware that all this could have no good end, and
felt a consciousness of future sorrow, and a dread of the day's
coming when he must be taken from her. Then, again,
Violet remembered- that she was beloved by D'Arcy, and
brooded over that conviction in silent happiness.
84
violet; oB,
Suddenly she began to wonder what construction Mrs.
Hummings had put upon her meeting him, or whether she
put any at all. She addressed her, and Mrs. Hummings,
who was full of internal perplexity and uneasiness, answered
submissively, and as if she were the culprit on this occasion,
as in fact, though unknown to her mistress, she was.
"I think," said Mrs. Hummings, " it is of no use of our
saying to your mamma or pa' of our a-meeting with Mr.
d'Arcy ; they may not desire as you should see him : and if
you don't say nothing on it, I am sure I shan't think on it,
miss."
" Yery well, Hummings," answered Yiolet, with an averted
face, for her conscience would allow her to say no more;
and she reached her home without again speaking to her
attendant.
CHAPTEE VII.
" Beauty lures the full-grown child:
* * * * *
A chace of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in foUy, closed in tears.
The lovely toy, so fiercely sought,
Hath lost its charm in being caught;
For every touch that wooed its-stay
Has brushed its brightest hues away,
Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone."
Byron.
" She is the finest creature I ever saw ! " cried Lord Z—-,
as he surveyed Violet Woodville through his opera-glass.
The ballet had commenced, and Violet was dancing. " As¬
tonishing ! So much grace!—'Pon my soul, she is lovely,
Goring ! "
" Oh, yes ; but it's no use—she wants the ring."
" Is it true that Stanmore marries her ? "
" No—I asked him ; he turned sulky upon it; but swore
it was not true. They say D'Arcy is the favourite."
" Oh, oh !—so he finds time for that, too, does he! How
she has filled the house this season; and it is mere grace,
excessive grace, and excessive beauty; for she does no tours
de force, and her dancing is nothing compared with that of
Heberle and Montessu. She-as really divine to-night. I
should not wonder if Stanmore was fool enough to marry her
■—except that, in general, he is a clever fellow, I think."
It was true that Violet never performed her part with more
THE DANSEUSE.
85
spirit, and never looked more beautiful. Her mind was yet
joyful, and full of the impressions of the morning. At night,
particularly, and in a scene of excitement, we remember with
tenfold pleasure that which has pleased us, and we do so then
without dwelling on the possibly attendant evils, however they
may occur to us at another time. Violet was not without
some of the natural pride belonging to her sex, and she was,
in fact, more gratified on this night by the homage paid to
her, than she had ever felt before. She knew she was hand¬
some ; but she was only vain when she thought of D'Arcy's
intense admiration; and his praise had made an impression
upon her self-love, which the unceasing compliments of every
other man who addressed her had hitherto failed to effect.
One of the best boxes on the second tier was occupied by a
single person, a young man; the curtain occasionally con¬
cealed his face, but generally there was something interesting
in his close attention to the stage. His eyes wandered not
from it, and the white-gloved hand, that rested on the edge
of the box, was never moved except to convey the opera-glass
tb his eyes. Not once did he glance round the house, and
the somewhat melancholy expression of his finely-cut profile
remained undisturbed throughout the evening. Lord Stan-
more—for he it was—appeared conspicuous from the house
not being full. The season had drawn to its close.
There he sat, while to an observer his countenance betrayed
a mind preyed upon by unpleasant reflections. It was not
that he was moralizing : but it did strike him, as he gazed
steadfastly at the beautiful opera-dancer, that it would be sad
if a spoiler should come to blight the innate excellence of one
so fair. And himself? Was it not his aim? had it not
become his sole desire ? But then rose up the melancholy
conviction that the heart he had thus guiltily sought to win
was not for him ; either it never had been, or it had proved
incredibly fickle.
" If she did but love me," said Lord Stanmore to himself,
" I should be happy. She may be virtuous, and I know she
is ; but so sweet a disposition must err through its own ten¬
derness—and was it another who would be her seducer p "
Lord Stanmore would not think it possible; he quailed under
the supposition, and found ljhnself muttering, " The success
of such black villany would be incredible. It is a sacrilege
to think she could be so debased," be involuntarily exclaimed,
as the loud plaudits of the pit woke him from the deep reverie
in which the nature of his ideas had absorbed him.
86
VIOLET ; OE,
It is of no use to say tliat the profession of an opera-dancer
is a modest one ; but it is fair to remember that to those who
fulfil it, it does not appear so immodest as to the spectator.
From childhood they have been taught to look upon it pro¬
fessionally, and they grow up, seeing it in no other light.
And thus it was with Violet: she disliked her profession, but
it was DArcy who had led her to despise it.
She was quoted for the dignified modesty of her demeanour
upon the stage; and it was remarkable how strongly her
native character developed itself even there: the propriety
of her demeanour had not failed to call forth merited surprise
from many ; in Lord Stanmore's eyes it was one of Violet's
greatest charms.
On the night in question, probably because it was the last
of her appearance, she was certainly more applauded than
usual.
Violet felt, during some moments, a thrill of happiness
almost too great to endure: it was when her eye fell upon
D'Arcy, as he entered a box upon the same side as that of
Lord Stanmore. He was in evident haste as he advanced to
the front, and remained almost bending over the box, as if he
never could sufficiently behold the goddess of the night. He
was just in time; three minutes more, and the curtain
dropped, and Violet's last vision was the admiring eyes of
D'Arcy, as they sought her to the latest instant.
Violet never dressed at the Opera. She was on that night
solely under the care of M. Dupas, and when the ballet was
over, had nothing to do but to throw on her cloak and get
into the hired carriage which was waiting for her. She
reached home before she had recovered from the unhoped-for
pleasure of seeing D'Arcy. He must have made such haste
to have been in time ! It was twenty miles off where he
dined.
M. Dupas descended from the carriage to assist his young
charge in getting out, but the trouble was saved him, for
another person lent her his aid.
" At least I have seen you," said a beloved voice; and
Violet's hand was wrung by the pressure of D'Arcy's, and
before she had recovered from her surprise, her lover had
rapidly moved away. She flew to her room, it looked upon
the street; to throw up her window, and to look out for
D'Arcy was the work of an instant, but the light of the moon
only discovered a solitary policeman, and the white reins of a
cabriolet, as it turned the corner. Violet waited for the last
THE DANSETJSE.
87
sound of the wheels before she closed the window. She
wondered whether M. Dupas had recognized D'Arcy. It
was not a very clear night, and he was hidden by his cloak
and a hat slouched over his features.
It was late when Yiolet came down to breakfast next
morning, but this was a privileged adjournment.
Mr. Woodville was gone out, and Mrs. Woodville was
engaged; still the apartment was not untenanted: M. Dupas
was sitting there, with his legs crossed, and his eyes turned
thoughtfully upwards, as if watching the summer flies gather¬
ing upon the ceiling; and he looked graver than he did in
general.
M. Dupas had been handsome, at least his features indi¬
cated that he must have been so; and when excited, his
countenance became very animated, like that of most Drench
people ; but when this was not the case, his face was placid,
and rendered pleasing by an expression of extreme benevo¬
lence. He was, in fact, a remarkable man for his age, which
was rarely guessed, because his activity and neatness of dress
made him pass for a much younger man.
His known worth, and their long acquaintance with him,
caused him to be respected and looked up to by the Wood-
villes ; besides, independence of fortune always renders a
man dearer to his friends, and it has before been said that
Dupas was well off. By Violet he was loved: as a child, he
used to give her sugar-plums and story-books, and once had
brought her from Drance a pair of blue shoes, which made a
great impression on her. Then, as she grew up, she was often
amused by him, for his conversation was entertaining, and
through him Violet often heard of people and events of which
she would otherwise have known nothing.
This morning Violet was not as glad as usual to behold
M. Dupas. She would have preferred being alone,—so many
ideas were crowding upon her, and she was seeking to indulge
them.
Love, when it gains possession of the mind, is like a bee in
a garden; it is ever at work; and its restlessness, like that
of the insect, never leaves an unbusy moment.
Violet sat down to her breakfast, and then M. Dupas in¬
quired if she was not much fatigued; she answered, languidly,
in the affirmative. The old man remained silent. Violet
walked presently to the window and made some remark on
the weather, but received no answer.
M. Dupas appeared absent; he tapped the nd of his gold
88
VIOLET; OB,
snuff-box, and Violet said something else ; instead of reply,
ing, her companion cast a look at the breakfast-table, at the
broken bread on Miss Woodville's plate, and her half-finished
cup of tea, and sighed, but at the same time he turned to
address her.
" Will you let me give you advice, u,n vieillard comme moi,
while it can be of use to you, mon enfant ?" he said mildly.
Violet took the chair he advanced to her, but she almost
trembled.
" Do not let me vex you, Violette, you will have trouble
enough in the world without my adding to it; but advice is
of use, sometimes. I wish you were my own child, and there
would be no occasion for it; but it is pride in this country
turns the heads of the women and the men too. Your father
and madame, they wish you to be the wife of a gentleman,
and they do not think anybody else good enough for you;
who is not some one, it is no use to think of. C'esiun
mauvais systeme, bien mauvais. But it is very true; and
there is Mrs. Norris and your friend Emily, are they not
trying all in the power of two silly women to make a young
gentleman do that which it is not right he should ? Ce Mon¬
sieur Harcourt, that he should marry mademoiselle is Madame
Norris's Paradis en perspective, and for that she would sell
herself to the devil! Je vous demande pardon, mais toujours
c'est vrai; and does not she know that if he does marry Miss
Emily, some of these days he will find out he has been un
imbecile, and hate her and her daughter too when it will be
too late? Les mesalliances ne reussissent jamais.
"Now I will tell you why I say all this to you; it is be¬
cause that madame voire mere does not know what I do, nor
monsieur voire pere neither, and 'you do not see your own
danger, and that, my child, is what I wish to warn you of.
Is it not so, that your parents think that Lord Stanmore will
marry you, that do you not care in the least for him, and
that you do care very much for Mr. d'Arcy ? Et lui—est-ce
que vouspensez quil vous epousera ?"
"No," answered Violet, as steadily as she could; "no, he
is above me, and I should not desire it."
" Ah! then why is Mr. d'Arcy always calling here ? why
is Mr. d'Arcy always at the Opera ? why is he always talking
to you? why does he follow you everywhere ? why is he the
devoue of madame your mamma? why is he, at two in the
morning, to be standing, with bis white gloves and his
whispering words, at your^ father's door, to hand you into
THE DANSEUSE.
89
your father's house? No, no, it is all bad. But the differ¬
ence is, you are not in love with milord, and with Mr.
d'Arcy you are. And has he not found that out, or he will
not do so ? and then—oh, mais cela me fait horreur—N'im-
porte, I will say out to you what is the truth. When he asks
you to be his mistress, what will you feel ? "
Violet hid her face in her hands, while she almost screamed
out: "Never, oh, never, never; Mr. d'Arcy never would;
you do not know him, he is incapable, indeed he is."
"Eh, y pensez-vous, mon enfant?" answered M. Dupas
drily.
" But he is a man of honour! "
"Ah! c'est selon," replied her companion, shrugging his
shoulders. "II le croit, je ne men doute pas. But he has
fallen in love with you; he knows you are not of an equal
rank with himself—he will not marry you, he cannot! but
that, he says, c est voire affaire, et voila pourquoi moi, moi,
je me mele de tout cela. Vous ne m'en voulez pas, ma douce
enfant ? "
" Oh, no," answered Violet, overcoming her emotion ; " you
have meant it well; but can you conceive it possible I could
ever forget everything so as to become so degraded a crea¬
ture P Oh, it is too horrible ! "
" Vous me meprenez," said M. Dupas : "if you think I can
doubt the purity of my little Violet's heart—no, not in the
least; but the world is full of temptation. Yet that is not
what I fear; no, I shall never live to see the little child—
you, my little darling, that I have seen growing up, and that
I have taught myself—I never shall see you disgraced, I am
sure of it. But there it is; Mr. d'Arcy will find he can make
you love him, but that he cannot make you wicked—et alors
il sen ira—and then will his heart or yours be the one to
break; his that is full of pride, though he does not think we
see it:—with his manieres a I'eau sucree to madame, et les
bouquets qu'il apporte. Bah ! lui, il se consolera with his fine
ladies and his fine friends. Et a, vous—reste le souvenir de
ses belles paroles I You will be unhappy, he will not—ce
n'est pas a savoir cela." And M. Dupas had again recourse
to his snuff-box and to his shrug, while Violet sighed deeply.
At length she summoned courage to ask if he had any
positive reason for thinking ill of D'Arcy. He shook his
head, and replied ambiguously;—that he had lived long
enough in the world to be wiser than she was ; and that he
had seen enough of Mr. d'Arcy to feel certain he was not a
90
VIOLET; OB,
good acquaintance for Violet. He went on to say, that evil,
in some way, was sure to result from her intimacy with him,
—that the refinement of D'Arcy's manners, and the outward
polish of his affection, would prevent her ever being able to
return that of a poorer, and more suitable admirer. Violet
replied that the same objection might' be made to so many
other gentlemen who had made her acquaintance. " Yes;
hut it is not the same thing: as long as you do not care
about them, it does not matter, you don't feel their ad van-
tages, and you do not value them. But Mr. d'Arcy's—en
perdez-vous un seul ? "
In her heart, Violet could not deny the force of the argu¬
ment, but it was one the least likely to make a useful im¬
pression. She could only promise to remember all M. Dupas
had said,—she thanked him, and ventured to beg he would
not alarm her parents on this point.
"Soyez tranquille," said the old man. "But you I warn
—that your mother hopes Lord Stanmore will marry you,
and that if he does not, Mr. d'Arcy will; and your father
sees as madame does, or, at least, acts as she desires he
should in everything; ce nest pas etre clairvoyanthe
added, " mais c'est le defaut (Tun cceur genereux."
It may be supposed that D'Arcy did not fail to call as he
had told Violet, in their morning walk, he meant to do ; and
he chose the time when he felt certain of finding Mrs. Wood-
ville at home, and less sure of finding Mr. Woodville. D'Arcy
had ingratiated himself with the former ; he had the art of
pleasing where he desired to do so. He flattered her by his
air of deference, and by his knowledge of the world, which
had likewise enabled him to discover the vulnerable parts of
her character. She was more anxious about, and desirous of
Lord Stanmore's society, but there were no personal feelings
blended with this solicitude. Lord Stanmore paid attention
solely to her daughter; his civility was always reserved
towards Mrs. Woodville, and nothing more, whereas D'Arcy
had in some way enlisted her private sympathy in his favour.
To be sure, the Woodvilles never were in want of marks of
attention from their friends. The day seldom passed without
some such arrival as pine-apples from Lord X , salmon
from Mrs. C , American apples, or a haunch of venison,
from B , or A ; and endless tin boxes of violets and
bouquets of moss-roses for Mrs. and Miss W.; and, in the
game season, their supplies of partridges, &c. were incessant:
besides other sorts of birds with rare names, odd plumage,
THE DANSEUSE.
91
and lean bodies, wbick cooks tbink it felony not to send to
table half raw. In short, none of the gallantries of this
nature, which it was permitted to remember and to fulfil,
were ever forgotten by the numerous admirers of the lovely
Miss Woodville.
But to return to D'Arcy, He did not pay his visit alone
this time ; he requested permission to introduce an acquaint¬
ance who was passing that way with him. Violet remarked
nothing more peculiar in D'Arcy's companion, than that he
had not the usual tone of the men she was accustomed to,
and that he never took his eyes from off her countenance ;
while she could not help fancying that she had before en¬
countered his observation.
D'Arcy, meanwhile, was asking the "Woodvilles to join a
party to Richmond, for the following Sunday week. Mrs.
Woodville was nothing loth ; the rest of the party were
not as yet fixed upon. D'Arcy said it was to be very select,
and he had come in the first instance to ascertain if the day
he had named would suit them.
While D'Arcy was in the house, another cabriolet drew
up at the door, and Lord Stanmore entered the room. On
seeing D'Arcy he started slightly, and changed colour. If
D'Arcy did the same, he was seated with his back to the
light, and it was not observable.
Violet remained almost immoveable from embarrassment,
for she did not possess one grain of coquetry ; if she had, the
circumstance of two lovers paying their visits at the same
time would have been to her only an agreeable disturbance.
There was a silence, which D'Arcy was the first to break.
Lord Stanmore looked gravely at him while he spoke, and
did not once address himself to him. A constrained sort of
general conversation ensued. Lord Stanmore's countenance
indicated an irritation which, by his manner, he made a poor
attempt to conceal. And now Mrs. Woodville began to feel
uneasy. She would not, for the whole world, offend Lord
Stanmore ; and she feared lest he should be jealous of
D'Arcy—that he had much cause to be so was a fact she
was herself in ignorance of. Lord Stanmore rose suddenly
to bid them good morning, and in the next minute his cab¬
riolet was heard driving furiously from the door. D'Arcy
and his acquaintance shortly after took their leave.
"Your objections are plausible, but surely they are not
92
VIOLET; OH,
reasonable. The laws of society are strict in themselves, but
there may be many instances in which, if the spirit of them
is kept, it is more than sufficient. The world requires this
sort of social government, which, individually, might often
be dispensed with. I am hurt at the rigorous discipline you
would impose, since it discovers your mistrust of me. The
doctrines of a prude can never become yours, and you are
too inartificial ever to feign to like them, while your under¬
standing convinces you that they are unnecessary."
So spoke D'Arcy, in answer to the refusal of Violet Wood-
ville to meet him again in Kensington Gardens. She urged
that, as she was concealing her meetings with him, that alone
rendered them objectionable; and that in future, therefore,
she trusted he would not join her. But D'Arcy replied with
other arguments, and combated hers with all the sophistry
he knew how to employ.
Violet felt it difficult to persevere in a resolution he treated
as originating in a mistaken zeal of over-correctness, and she
thought that, as he spoke, she detected a sneer on D'Arey's
lips, and that cold smile hovering there which she now so
rarely beheld.
There was once, too, something like contempt in the tones
of his voice, and the fear of offending him induced her, at
length, to acquiesce in his reasoning. Violet began to think
that he, at least, was sincere in the view he professed to take
of the conduct she desired to pursue, and, if so, to adopt it
would be unappreciated as well as displeasing.
" II n'est pas de plus fort prejuge que celui qui est forme par
l'amour."*
And then again she was lulled by the flattering words of
her adorer, and in listening to
" a voice where Passion shed
All the deep sadness of her power,"
while he detailed the progress of his love, and descanted on
the earnestness of his feelings, she alike forgot her danger
and mistook her duty.
D'Arcy was an eloquent and a passionate lover, but it
cannot be doubted that the force of his words gained addi¬
tional strength by the inward acceptance they met with. An
unacceptable lover might pour out his soul in the language
Moore puts into the mouths of his angels, but it would fall
unheeded on the ear of the indifferent listener.
* Memoires du Marquis de Langallery,
THE DANSETJSE.
93
"And so," said Emily, one day, to Violet, "it is clear
enough you are in love with DArcyand Emily remained
musing, apparently on the Sense of her own words.
The habits of intimacy continued to prevail between Miss
Woodville and her friend, and the faults of the latter were
not so glaring as to have much deteriorated their mutual
friendship. Besides, there was a certain talent about Emily
which had its charm with men and with women too. She
was quick, and she was too young and prosperous to be under
the guidance of very bad feelings.
It was a relief to the conscience of Violet when she had
told Emily of her walks with DArcy, and had expressed her
own sense of error.
" I am not so sure that you are wrong," replied Emily.
" If you like him better than Lord Stanmore, I should
certainly show him that I did. There is not time to be
thinking always of what is so exactly right or so exactly
wrong. There is no harm, that I can see, in your meeting
DArcy when you are out walking; after all, you are) cha¬
peroned, there is that ugly old Hummings with you. It is
very natural, I am sure. If he loves you, he must have a
thousand things to say to you which he can seldom have so
good an opportunity of speaking otherwise; and there is
something, do you know, Violet,—there is something I
rather like about Mr. dArcy."
" There can be no doubt of my having done wrong, Emily,"
said Violet, with a sigh, and not alluding to Emily's last
sentence ; " my father would say so."
" I dare say he would; but, poor man, you must not mind
that. As your father, you know he is, in some sort, bound
to see you don't have lovers, and that sort of thing, too
much; but there would be no pleasure in life if you were
only to do what other people choose, instead of what you
choose yourself, and parents don't understand. You are a
nice girl, Violet, and I will answer for your always knowing
what you are about."
" Ah, Emily, that's the way you always reason; and my
father and mamma, too, are so kind—and I have actually
begun to have a concealment from them! "
At night, when Violet was going to bed, Mrs. Hummings
entered her room and placed a letter in her hands. She said
it had been brought by a person, who desired her to give it
to Miss "Woodville when she was alone. Mrs. Hummings
did not add that she was also paid for undertaking to do so.
94
violet; or,
She suspected the letter came from D'Arcy, and her con¬
science was not much disturbed at being: the channel of such
a communication, as she argued that, if her young mistress
could take a walk with that gentleman in the morning, it
could not do much harm if she read a letter from him in the
evening. Mrs. Hummings, however, was mistaken: the
letter was not from D'Arcy, but from Lord Stanmore.
It contained a passionate declaration of love to Violet, and
ended by making her the most splendid offers of a disgrace¬
ful kind; but the letter was worded with the greatest
delicacy, and with all the endeavour not to wound which such
a proposition would admit of. It concluded thus : " If what
I have written avails me not, and if the pleadings of a very
devoted heart are spurned by you,—while you censure me,
consider that I am not more to blame than a thousand others:
nay, less, inasmuch as, having a consciousness how greatly
I should appreciate the sacrifice you would make for me, I
should feel bound to treat with a lasting tenderness the
object of an affection so rewarded."
With indescribable anguish Violet threw down the letter.
"And this, then," she exclaimed, "is all they think me
worthy of. They profess to love, but hesitate not to insult
me!"
She at first determined to make no answer, but, on reading
over the epistle a second time, something in the spirit of it
moved her to think differently. " He could not marry me,
and in what he offers he is generous, most generous," thought
Violet, humbly and despondingly; and a melancholy sense of
humiliation stole over her. " It is not his fault. He does but
think I may be one of the many, and he treats me accordingly.
And d'Arcy,—if he should possibly think the same of meP
Oh, I should go mad with horror! But he knows me. He
respects me; he will not insult me—never—I am sure of
that."
Violet seized a pen, and answered Lord Stanmore :—
"My Lord,—I cannot accept your offer. If you knew
the cruel humiliation I have suffered in receiving a letter like
yours, you would, I trust, have spared me.
" I am, my Lord,
" Yours sincerely and humbly,
" V. W."
Such was the reply of our heroine to Lord Stanmore, while
THE DANSETJSE.
95
she continued to meet D'Arcy nearly every morning in the
gardens.
She received another letter from Lord Stanmore: it was
laconic:—
" Forgive me."
" Go with me to the rehearsal to-morrow, will you P" said
Emily If orris to her friend one morning. "We are going to
try over Le Faux Cupidon; I have nearly forgotten it."
Violet agreed to go, and told D'Arcy of her intention ; he, of
course, did not fail to join her on the stage at the time she
went there. Yiolet was with Mrs. Norris, and it so happened
that neither her father nor mother accompanied her.
" I had some difficulty in getting here," said D'Arcy, laugh¬
ing, and apparently in higher spirits than usual, as he took
his post next Yiolet, who was leaning against one of the side
boxes.
"How do you do, Mr. d'Arcy?" said a young lady, in a
free and easy tone, in flesh-coloured silk stockings, a pair of
corsets, and wearing about one petticoat and a half,—and
holding out her hand, familiarly to d'Arcy.
" Vous avez chaud, apparemment, ma chere," said a
gentleman, interrupting her, whose costume consisted of
yellow slippers and white cotton trousers, with a pink silk
handkerchief knotted round his throat.
" Get away,—you are jealous," cried D'Arcy's young lady.
" Pray let me give no cause for anxiety," said D'Arcy,
moving away from the fair one and her friend.
" Come,—come,—so you won't speak to me to-day P" said
the nymph, following our hero round the stage very closely.
" I see you like that new miss, there. Why, she is not half
so good as I, and she is proud, and you know I am not. Have
done, Nicholas ! why do j'ou follow me so P You never let
me speak to any one."
" Vous etes une perfide," whispered Nicolas, the gentleman
in white cotton ! " et je vous en payerai," he added, making
a most ferocious pair of eyes.
The lady replied by a laugh ; and, following D'Arcy to the
back of the stage, tried to take his arm. " Get away," cried
D'Arcy impatiently.
" Bless me," said the nymph, in surprise, real or apparent.
" Well, I see you don't want me; you ungrateful—you—"
" Allons, commevfons," called a voice from the other end,
and D'Arcy was liberated.
96
VIOLET; Oft,
Yiolet could not help seeing what had passed ; she knew
the girl to be one of the figurantes, and one not of good cha¬
racter. She saw her, and others of her sort, often enough
addressed by gentlemen, but this creature's familiar tone of
speaking to D'Arcy shocked her particularly.
Mrs. Norris had taken a chair apart from all the other
mammas and chaperones, and Yiolet screened herself behind
her, to avoid associating, as much as possible, with her present
set of acquaintance.
" N'est-ce pas que ma Julie a des jambes superbes ?" said
a respectable-looking old lady, with an air of modesty, to Mrs.
Norris, who was forced to put up her glass to survey the said
" jambes" of Mdlle. Julie, while D'Arcy once more approached,
to resume his station by Yiolet; but this time he was attacked
by the same old lady who spoke to Mrs. Norris. "N'est-ce
pas," said she, looking up benevolently in his face,—N'est-ce
pas, monsieur, que ma Julie est une brave fille ?"
"Is it not dreadful the sort of people one is obliged to he
civil to, Mr. d'ArcyP" Mrs. Norris pathetically asked; "for
my part, I have a perfect horror of these sort of persons; I
never speak to them unless I am absolutely forced."
" You seem bored," said D'Arcy, addressing Violet.
"I never like this place."
" And why,'loveliest ?"
Yiolet shrank from D'Arcy, almost for the first time in her
life, for there was a levity in his tone she had never before
detected.
" JDois je commencer avec le commencement ?" called the
fiddler. " Oui," said Miss Norris, imperiously, while she
began an arduous pirouette. About five bars were played
over once again, while Nicolas, in the back-ground, seemed
exerting himself to perfect an elaborate battement with one
ill-humoured leg.
" Listen to me, my soul's idol," said D'Arcy ; " why are
you so unkind to me this morning ?"
"I am not unkind, Mr. d'Arcy."
" Yes, you are ;—what have I done? tell me."
" Believe me when I say, Nothing."
At this moment D'Arcy's eye fell upon one of the side
boxes: it was Lord Stanmore's, and in it, even by the imper¬
fect lights of a rehearsal, D'Arcy saw Lord Stanmore himself.
He was looking gloomily at Yiolet, and at his friend; Violet's
attention was at the same moment drawn to him, and Lord
Stanmore, seeing he was observed, quitted the box. Yiolet
THE DANSEUSE.
ff7
shuddered. " Hew great must be his contempt for me!"
thought she ; " and I merit it."
D'Arcy saw that her spirit was not at ease. " Her self-
love is hurt," thought he, and he applied himself to dissipate
the cloud, and he succeeded. He had some difficulty, how¬
ever, in getting her to promise to meet him the next morning;
this was not the first time she had resisted.
" Well," at length said D'Arcy, " for this once more you
must meet me,—I have a reason for it. I-have a picture I
want you to see, and you must meet me to-morrow, that I
may show it to you."
The next morning, when Yiolet walked out to meet her
lover, she was oppressed with a sense of doing wrong, and
fully determined that it should afflict her for the last time ;
this, she resolved, should be effectually done by giving up her
morning walks. She thought of what the future would then
be, and it seemed a blank before her.
As it was only exposing herself to additional temptation,
Yiolet wisely determined to say nothing about her resolve to
D'Arcy, but her heart was sadder than she had ever felt it in
her whole life.
" Look here," said D'Arcy, on joining her, " do you recog¬
nize this face P " showing her a small and beautifully painted
miniature of a young girl in a morning out-of-doors dress.
Violet started—it was herself in the attire she usually wore
when she went out.
"How could you get this P " she inquired with surprise.
" I have had so great a desire to possess a good likeness of
you, and I have so often regretted," continued D'Arcy, " that
I could not ask you to sit for one. But, I believe, I have at
last succeeded wonderfully in obtaining this. I met with a
clever artist, to whom I gave every opportunity of seeing you
that I could think of. You must have passed him constantly
of a morning when you have been coming here ; he has been
hovering on your steps for the last two months, and I seldom
allowed a day to pass without paying a visit to the atelier of
my artist friend, for such he has been to me. You may sup¬
pose that my corrections have done something towards the
likeness. I brought him to your house the other day, too,
and introduced him as an acquaintance who was walking with
me."
" Good heavens ! " said Violet, " so then that was the man
who never took his eyes off me, and I really wondered what
he could be looking at."
H
98
violet; ok,
" His admiration of you was profound," said DArcy, " and
to that I chiefly attribute the fir eat success of my miniature.
"While I live I shall never part with it. You see I have had
it made small on purpose, and the little gold case is the neat¬
est in the world. I shall hang it round my neck—here is the
chain I shall put to it, and a riband also, for fear the chain
should break."
" I hardly knew you cared so much for me as all that," said
Yiolet, touched.
"Alas ! " cried DArcy, with sudden emotion, " I wish that
I had it more in my power to prove the excess of my affec¬
tion."
" Allow me to say," said Violet, with agitation, " that I am
quite aware I never can receive any further proofs of your
affection for me. I am so aware of this," she continued,
" that it would hurt me if you could imagine I should expect
it. Our situations in life are perfectly different, and to break
through the restraints they impose would be a lasting error
which I feel, were I in your place, I could not commit. I
believe I am speaking with a frankness which is uncalled for,
but you will not think it boldness."
" I understand you," answered DArcy, " and I admire you
the more for what you have said. I will be sincere with you
—I once promised that I always would be. I cannot think
of marrying ; my position in life is one that will not admit of
it. Had I the largest fortune to-morrow, however, I should
not marry, or if I did "
DArcy paused and sighed. " I cannot say that I should
not marry in that case ; but there is but one person I would
ask to be my wife."
" And who would be that person, Mr. dArcy ? "
" Yourself."
"Never," cried Violet, "never!—how can you so try to
deceive me? Nothing would induce you to marry an opera-
dancer !"
" What can make you think so ?" asked DArcy, with
surprise.
Violet related the conversation she had so long ago over¬
heard between him and Mr. Harcourt.
" But still you underrate my great love for you," said
DArcy: " it would lead me to overcome every prejudice."
"It could, but it would not" repeated Violet, steadily.
"You may be right," answered DArcy, after a moment's
reflection. " But yet it is true that I have never once exag-
THE DANSET7SE.
99
gerated tlie strength of my affection in all I have told you ;
more than that (believe me or not, as you choose), there have
been moments when I have endured the most poignant regret
—regret?—yes, I have upbraided myself; but I do love
you, may God bear witness, better than all things that are;
and I would give worlds—what am I saying ?—oh, my very
soul, I would give it away, if "
" You hesitate; I do not know what you are going to say,
but leave it unsaid. I am unhappy enough as it is—so un¬
happy, I see that I can never know happiness again," and
Violet Woodville clasped her hands in deep sorrow; D'Arcy
seized, and covered them with kisses, while he almost knelt
at her feet.
Hummings was a great way behind, but she hastened her
pace now, and her approaching steps induced both Miss
Woodville and D'Arcy to try to recover their composure.
Violet's determination of not meeting D'Arcy again was
preying upon her mind, and she had the tenderness of her
heart, as well as the deepness of its affection, to struggle
with.
They came to the end of her usual walk in silence, and
when Violet gave D'Arcy her hand to bid him farewell, her
heart was too full to speak.
" I shall meet you at the opera to-morrow ; Mrs. "Wood¬
ville told me she was going with you, but to-morrow morning
we will talk of that: you will come here to-morrow morning ? "
whispered D'Arcy in an imploring voice. " Ah, dearest, you
will believe me, my very life is in your hands."
Violet could make no reply. When she was alone, her
tears flowed long, and how sadly !
"Nos actions ne peuvent ctre appreciees par leur valeur
intrinseque non connue. La position qui les met au jour en
decide le prix."*'
* Madame de Staal de Lauiiav.
H 2
100
VIOLET; OK,
CHAPTER VIII.
A savage jealousy that sometimes savours nobly.
Twelfth Nioht.
Oh, what a host of killing doubts and fears,
Of melancholy musings, deep perplexities,
Must the fond heart that yields itself to love
Struggle with, and endure!
Lobd Stanmoke went to Brighton, but, finding his mother
really better than he had expected, he returned to town. It
was, in some measure, curiosity that prompted him to do
this, mingled with more unpleasant feelings. He was cer¬
tain that the impression he once hoped to have made on
Yiolet Woodville was at an end; at the same time he gave full
credit to her upright mind; but he found he had a rival,
and the observations of a week were sufficient to enable
him to discover who that rival was. In his jealous anger,
Lord Stanmore vowed never again to see D'Arcv. He
avoided him, therefore, for he felt he hated him. It was
a chance thing his seeing him and Yiolet at the rehearsal:
he sometimes went to the rehearsal of an opera, and a
mistake as to the nature of this one was the reason of his
coming to his box on the morning in question; and it was
a moment of great pain when he there beheld Violet and his
former friend.
He could have declared to all the world his conviction of
Violet's hypocritical conduct, although, in fact, he refused to
give it his own credence.
" Les amans portent quelquefois leur aveuglement jusqu'a
ne pas connaitre dans leurs maitresses les defauts qu'ils
savent bien en faire connaitre aux autres."*
On the last night of the opera the Woodvilles took a box,
or rather the manager very civilly gave them one; and
Mrs. Woodville, without saying a word to Mr. Woodville or
Yiolet, wrote a note to Lord Stanmore to inform him where
they were going. Her excuse was, that he had once said
something of her letting him know if they went to the
Opera; and without this little arrangement on her part,
Mrs. Woodville would have looked on the opera-box as a
most vain acquirement.
* St. Evremoml.
THE DANSEUSE.
101
A sudden resolution prompted Lord Stanmore to avail
himself of this information, or rather invitation. The over¬
ture was only just ended when, to the great surprise of
Violet Woodville, he entered the box and seated himself by
her. She was in the back, where her mother had placed her,
because she thought, in case Lord Stanmore chose it, it
would be giving him such a good opportunity of proposing to
her. Poor Violet was thinking only of D'Arcy, and cared
little where she sat.
The words of civility were no sooner passed and the opera
begun, than Lord Stanmore (his jealousy overcoming his
embarrassment at seeing Violet after the letter he had lately
written to her, and her reply) began to upbraid her for her
preference of D'Arcy, which, he said, was undisguised.
This language was not well received ; and, with woman's
pique at being scolded by a lover she did not love, Miss
Woodville answered that there were others, and not himself,
who were the best judges of her conduct, and had the best
right to interfere in it. Thrown off his guard by this rebuke,
Lord Stanmore exclaimed. "And is it possible you can
think of being the slave of D'Arcy, who, at the very moment
he is professing love to you, is thoroughly involved with
another woman P I care not if you tell him I told you this
—nothing signifies now to me. Put of him I warn you. He
has no heart to give, and of you he is utterly unworthy."
Violet felt sick at heart when Lord Stanmore pronounced
these words. "Of whom are you speaking?" she asked,
with a tremulous voice; " with whom is he, Mr. d'Arcy,
involved P"
" Names cannot matter to you ; you will not suspect me of
an untruth. What I have said I would have said in D'Arcy's
presence—he could not have denied it."
" But why, then, is he your friend—a person you think so
ill of?"
" The person who is perfectly fit to be my friend, may be
most unfit to become yours."
" I have nothing further to reply to your remarks, my
lord," said Violet Woodville, almost passionately. For a
moment her usual gentleness was overset by the anger as
well as the bitterness of her feelings.
" I am prepared to meet your coldness," continued Lord
Stanmore ; " but it shall not hinder me from telling you
that I see you ready to sacrifice everything—yes, everything,
in time, I have no doubt—and to D'Arcy. I may be led
102
VIOLET ; OR,
away by the jealousy which you have so fearlessly caused
me, and it may be true that I have no right to interfere ; but
I think the very force of my attachment to you gives me
that right, as it does the power certainly. If you knew how
much I have thought of you! God forgive me if, even
while I watched over the sick-bed of my mother, I remem¬
bered you as a consoling angel! With you to have fled
from the world, to have seen you as my wife, to have owned
it, and to have been proud of it! These have been my
visions at moments when I thought your heart might be
truly mine. And then D'Arcy came, and he has worked the
ruin of every hope I ever formed!—Villain !"
" Say not that," cried Violet; " Mr. d'Arcy has done yon
no harm ; he has never spoken to me against you, as you have
done against him this night."
" Ah ! I see you cannot forgive me for the truths I have
told you. How you must love that man! I wish he was
dead !" said Lord Stanmore, bitterly: " I abhor him !"
" You are horribly unjust, and you terrify me."
" Do I ? I beg your pardon—but you forget that he was
my friend; and I did not think this wretchedness would
have been occasioned me by him."
" If Mr. d'Arcy knew it, he would be sorry, I am sure."
" Sorry!—oh, no, that's not likely. I, his friend!" con¬
tinued Lord Stanmore, incoherently: " the baseness—to
dare again I beg your pardon; I cannot help my own
violence: you have no conception of what I am enduring;
you would forgive me, if you knew how I loved you—how I
have cursed myself for that odious letter I sent you; what I
would have given if it had never been written—and you hate
me for that more than ever, do you not?"
" I never hated you, Lord Stanmore."
" Now you are lost," he continued, without heeding her
reply. " You could not, if you would, give me back the
heart which is D'Arcy's; but," he added, in a voice of
deeper feeling, " do not destroy every illusion — do not
become a guilty thing—let not even D'Arcy teach you that;
love him, if you will—make him your god, and lavish upon him
the whole treasure of your first affection—die for him—let
your heart be the bruised token of his power: cherish him
while you live—pray for him when you are dying—but, oh!
allow him not to bring you to dishonour !"
Lord Stanmore's words became hardly audible, while he
went on speaking with great emotion.
THE DANSETJSE.
103
" From this degradation, let my prayers preserve you!
Spare me that—not for the sake of the good will you bear
me, but for your own. You do not know what vice is. It is
your very ignorance which has made you so beautiful in my
eyes ; and I do think that, were I to see you debased, I could
never believe in woman's purity again. Would that you had
never known D'Arcy !—and shall I live to see you his
victim ? Surely Heaven never made you to become the
child of sin ; or, if it did, it would blast a portion of its very
self. I could immolate to shame every created thing—I
could believe in an angel's fall, but not in yours ! "
Lord Stanmore ceased. Pale and tremulous, Violet had
listened to each word ; terrified at his vehemence, and filled
with nervous dread, she yet, more than all, remembered the
assurance that D'Arcy was devoted to another. Overcome
at length with the extremity of agitation, she suddenly
leaned towards her mother, and drooped her head upon her
shoulder. Lord Stanmore had not seemed to observe her ;
and, as if he hardly knew what he was about, he rose, with¬
out looking towards her, and left the box.
The two senior Woodvilles had been sitting as much to the
front as possible during this conversation; and, besides
listening to the music, Mrs. Woodville had contrived to
carry on a constant dialogue with her sposo. Once only she
ventured to look round at her daughter with the mere tail of
one eye ; but seeing how much Violet was apparently en¬
gaged, she determined nothing should induce her to commit
the like imprudence again, and in that direction she took
special care that poor Woodville should neither see nor hear
at all.
It was a loud opera, and, as Lord Stanmore spoke very
low, it may easily be imagined that his conversation passed
unheard.
Mrs. Woodville's reflections, in the mean time, were very
similar to those of the maid with the milk-pail in the fable ;
and its overthrow could not have dashed that damsel's pro¬
jects more completely than were Mrs. Woodville's when she
'beheld her child's pale face reclining on her shoulder, and, at
the same moment, saw Lord Stanmore retreating from the
box. Consternation seized the parents ; and, in their alarm
for their only child, they thought but of restoring her.
Violet had not fainted; but she earnestly expressed her
desire to return home.
" Oh, perhaps Lord Stanmore is gone to see for our coach ? "
104
VIOLET; OR,
said Mr. Woodville, looking round. " Did you tell him, my
darling, that you wished to go ? "
"No, father; but do you see for it."
At this instant the box again opened, and it was to admit
Mr. d'Arcy and Mr. Brown.
Mr. Brown was a vocalist, smitten with Miss Woodville,
and, having met D'Arcy on the grand staircase, it occurred
to him that, if that gentleman were going to visit the Wood-
villes, he (Mr. Brown) had as good a right to go likewise: and
he determined to take the opportunity as well, deeming it
expedient also to scrape acquaintance with Mr. d'Arcy, so as
occasionally to seem to belong to him.
D'Arcy was much astonished when he beheld the drooping
Violet leaning on her mother's shoulder; but he was still
more so when, on speaking to her, he received no answer,
and she closed her eyes.
"A little air,—more salts,—eau de Cologne !" cried Mr.
Brown; " if Miss Woodville would take a little more salts to
smell ? " and he appealed to D'Arcy, who surveyed him for
the first time with something between contempt and
curiosity.
" Violet's quite ill, Mr. d'Arcy," said Woodville, " so I
am going to see for our coach, and perhaps you and Mr.
Brown will have the goodness to take care of them while I
am gone."
" Could you take an arm, Violet, and go downstairs ? "
inquired her mother; " and then we shall be ready." Violet
answered in the affirmative, and D'Arcy proffered her his aid,
but it was rejected in silence ; and Mr. Brown stepped for¬
ward to offer his.
" I shall only lean upon mamma," said Violet; and she
did as she said, while Mrs. Woodville availed herself of
D'Arcy's assistance. As they moved on, he inquired the
cause of her daughter's indisposition.
"Indeed I do not know," answered Mrs. Woodville;
" she was talking too much, and over-exerting herself, I
think. But you are much better now, Violet, an't you ? "
Violet answered, "Yes," in a more restored voice, and
added, " I could even go back to the opera, if you wished it,
mamma."
D'Arcy looked at Violet, and tried to penetrate the cause
of her changed manner. In vain he sought to meet her eye,
or to induce her to speak to him. The carriage was now
ready, her father now hastened to inform them; and, as an
THE DANSEUSE.
105
excuse for helping Yiolet into it, D'Arcy seized her hand,
but it was eagerly withdrawn; and he saw the Woodville
equipage disappear, while he remained standing on the pave¬
ment, in astonishment at this novel conduct on the part of
Yiolet.
" The heat of the house overcame her, I am inclined to
imagine," said Mr. Brown, with a facetious air, and address¬
ing himself to D'Arcy.
" Sir ! " said D'Arcy, staring at him,—" Yes." And he
walked away, leaving Mr Brown to comfort his amour
propre, by muttering, " Yulgar manners, I think, upon my
word!"
As for Violet, she remained in an agony of mind. Much
as there was to annoy her, she would not have suffered so
deeply, if our feelings could ever be disturbed in proportion
to their real cause, rather than to the way in which we view
that cause.
She was stung to the quick by every word Lord Stanmore
had uttered. She could not bear his foreseeing her degrada¬
tion as a thing possible,—and might not the supposition (she
asked herself, as she had done before) occur to D'Arcy ?
This was worse still: what woman would not rather be
thought ill of by all the world, than that a lover should
dream she could live to err P
Then she remembered Lord Stanmore's assurances that
D'Arcy's heart was already engaged; and when she gave
way to this reflection, her misery was inconceivable. Not
only was she wounded by the fact, but the deceit of her lover
affected her still more powerfully.
We are so unwilling to confess the faults of any one we
love; and this night, for the first time in her life, Violet
learnt that "la disgrazia di non piangere e una delle pin
crudeli ne' sommi dolori."* Her grief too partook of a vio¬
lence that hardly accorded with her character.
" II est de fait que les amants se montrent plus impitoya-
bles les uns envers les autres que les ennemis les plus
irreconciliables."
And upon this true observation her sensations may be best
understood.
Violet, of course, resolved never to speak to D'Arcy again.
At one moment she determined to write to him, to inform
him of everything Lord Stanmore had said, and to express the
height of her contempt. Sometimes she thought she would
* Silvio Pellico.
106
VIOLET; OB,
supplicate him herself to tell her the truth ; for, despite of all
her anger, Yiolet involuntarily felt that if D'Arcy were to
deny every word, she should believe him. She took up her
pen and composed her letter; but when she read it over the
next morning, her good sense pointed out to her the impru¬
dence, or perhaps the indelicacy, of sending it to him.
She was in hopes all day long that D'Arcy would call, that
she might show him she never meant to speak to him again,
by leaving the room the moment he entered it; but D'Arcy
did not call.
To her parents, Yiolet assigned no reason for her illness at
the opera, and professed herself unable to account for Lord
Stanmore's sudden departure from their box.
" Some lovers' quarrel, I am sure," said Mrs. Woodville to
her husband, "that will all come right again, but we must
have patience. I own I am disappointed, for I declare I
thought the young man was going to propose ; did not you,
Charles ? "
" Indeed I do not know why you thought any such thing,"
replied Mr. Woodville ; " all I know is, I wish something or
other was settled. Dupas was talking to me about it yester¬
day. He says, what's very true, these young men don't
think of marrying,—all they think of is amusement. There's
young Brown,—only you won't be civil to him,—why should
not Yiolet marry him ? he is a very proper sort of person;
and I know his uncle has made money. With him one might
know where one is ; but as for all these dandies, they drive
me out of my wits. Don't I see that D'Arcy flying about the
girl, and making a fool of you besides, for it's the truth; and
whispering, and following us wherever we go,—and humbug¬
ging me, I am ashamed to say, almost as bad as he does you,
for I never know what he would be at, he is so cunning about
it all; and to us he is as if butter would not melt in his
mouth, notwithstanding he looks as if he were the Grand
Turk."
" Oh, Mr. Woodville, you know you have always had a
prejudice against Mr. d'Arcy; I am sure he is a very good-
looking "
" Good-looking !—yes, I dare say; that's always the way
with a woman. What do his looks signify to me ? Good-
looking !—that makes a great deal of difference, I suppose!
and are we all to act like fools, because a man is good-
looking ? "
" Bless me ! Mr. Woodville, don't be so cross."
THE DANSEUSE.
107
"I am not cross, Mrs. Woodville : you should not provoke
me by saying a man's good-looking: what's that to me ? It is
not that I have any malice against Mr. d'Arcy—I will be
hanged if I ever know exactly what I think of him; and it is
certain, so far, he is like a thorough gentleman to me. But
he is always here, and that other one is just as bad—just: he
does not ask my consent to marry my daughter; and if he
ever meant it, why does not he ? What's to hinder him ?—he
is of age, and his own master."
" I never knew anything like your unreasonableness : you
speak as if you hadn't two grains of sense, sometimes ; you
would spoil everything by your impatience; and as for Brown
—I would not, upon any account, that anybody thought that
Violet was dreaming of condescending to him ! "
" She may come to worse condescensions than that, Mrs.
Woodville."
" I don't know what you are meaning to insinuate against
your own child," replied the lady indignantly.
" I am not insinuating anything: as for Lord Stanmore,
that I don't say so much about; there might have been a
chance of getting him—he had only to do as he chose ; and
when a young man gets his head full of love, he will do a
good deal."
" Well, and pray why shouldn't Mr. d'Arcy want to marry
Violet, supposing Lord Stanmore does not? "
"That's just your uncommon folly !—I cannot help calling
it so; you put me out of patience with so much nonsense.
How, I should like to know what you see in Mr. d'Arcy's
face to make you think he will marry my daughter P"
" Why shouldn't he as soon as his friend, Lord Stanmore,
pray P "
" In the first place, he has no money ; and, in the second
place, he is not a man that would lower himself so far, jf
Violet was as beautiful as a saint—or I am much mistaken."
" No money !—how are you sure he has no money P "
" Because I have heard it of those that are likely to know."
"It does not matter," continued Mrs. Woodville; "he
belongs to great people ; and who knows what he may not be
some of these days P Besides, he is always a gentleman."
" Yes, there you are again ! I know who fills you up with
this nonsense ; but I am not a man that finds fault when there
is no occasion. Mrs. Norris may do as she likes ; but the end
of Miss Emily is not seen yet. I won't have the respectability
of my family endangered. Other people may do as they
108
VIOLET ; OR,
please, but I will bave a little better order kept in my bouse ;
gentlemen shall not be coming in at all hours of the day : and
I beg, in future, Violet may be taught to think of those, in
a becoming manner, who properly ought to think of het
Violet is ill. Do you think I don't see that, between them,
these lovers of hers have been worrying her to death ? They
are all of them an unprincipled set of young rascals; and
I have opened my eyes to see the mischief of what they ale
doing to me and mine."
" You are in a bad humour, Charles," said Mrs. Woodville,
in a mitigated tone; " and I shan't say any more to you now;
it is of no use."
"No, it is not; so don't say any more—only please to
remember what I have told you, and to mind it, that's all."
Violet continually expected that D'Arcy would call; he
could do so very easily, she thought, as there was the excuse of
inquiring after her; but the day passed, and D'Arcy had
never been.
"Hummings," said Violet, when she went to bed, "has
no one called? "
" No gentleman, miss ; but Mr. d'Arcy's servant was here,
to leave his master's card, and to inquire how you was."
" But then, Hummings, Mr. d'Arcy was in bis cabriolet,
and his servant came to the door? "
"No, miss, he warn't, for there wasn't no cab. I looked,
to see if Mr. d'Arcy himself was a-nigh the house, but his
young man walked on of himself, till he turned the corner."
Violet wondered why D'Arcy had not called ; there could
be no doubt he would yet do it, however, she argued—and
another day dawned, and with it her expectation of seeing
him. She longed so to show him her displeasure—to con¬
vince him that she never would forgive his perfidy—for per¬
fidious she considered him ever since Lord Stanmore talked of
his heart being another's. Alas for the tears the remem¬
brance of those words occasioned her—they were such heart¬
felt ones ; but another day passed, and D'Arcy came not.
Violet paid a visit to Emily Norris, pour se desennuyer.
" Well, I do wonder you have not seen Mr. d'Arcy," said
Emily, when Violet had told all of her present grief that she
had to tell.
"But, good heavens! it quite shocks me to think how
sillily you have been behaving. Why, you might have married
Lord Stanmore, Violet! "
THE DAXSEUSE.
109
" Oh, never mind that, Emily ; it is only Mr. d'Arcy that I
care about."
" Yes ; how much you are in love with him ! I will tell
you what, Yiolet;—I will ask Harcourt about him,—not so
as to betray you, leave that to me; I shall see him to-mor¬
row,—we are great friends just now; so don't fret any more.
Mr. d'Arcy is ill, or engaged, or gone to the country for a
few days,—you will see; or, perhaps, he is only playing
sulky, for you know, though you had cause to be angry,
D'Arcy could not guess that anything so unlikely should
have happened as Lord Stanmore telling you what he did ;
and he must have thought your conduct very odd, and very
unaccountable."
Emily was as good as ber word in making some inquiries
of her admirer. In consequence, on the first occasion that he
met with, Mr. Harcourt addressed D'Arcy, by saying—
" D'Arcy, may I ask if you are still in love with that Miss
"Woodville?"
" To be sure I am."
" That's being very constant for you ; but I want to know
why you have not been near her lately ? "
" So, Miss Norris has desired you to ask these questions,
eh, Harcourt P "
" Why, yes—she has. She said (You know the Wood-
villes and Mrs. Norris are great friends), and Emily said she
was sure that pretty little sylph, the girl, was worried to
death about something, and that she knew you had not been
about the Woodvilles lately, and she asked me what was the
reason, or if you were in town. Now what have you been
at? "
" On my word, nothing; but," added D'Arcy, with his
frequent sneer, " I am not a marrying man,—you are, I be¬
lieve ;—and the poor Woodvilles are too good for me."
" Ah, then I understand you. You have been an unsuc¬
cessful suitor, and the little creature will not be your mis¬
tress P "
" I own to you, I never ventured to ask her."
" Why, D'Arcy," said Harcourt, opening his eyes, and
rousing himself from his usual nonchalant manner,—" why,
D'Arcy, you don't say so ? You will never make me believe
that."
" I don't see why,—after all, I am such a very modest
fellow."
110
"VIOLET ; OR,
" I did not know it, and neither do other people.'
" I assure you it is true, Harcourt; and it is very often
the greatest disadvantage to my advancement in life. I have
the humblest opinion of myself; I would give anything for
the assurance of Goring, of D——, or of C continued
D'Arcy.
" And so you have given up the poor girl ? " Mr. Har¬
court continued.
" Rather say, she has given me up."
" You know Stanmore is gone back to Brighton, so he will
not stand in your way."
D'Arcy's countenance looked somewhat bitter, and hia lip
curled into an icv sneer,—his sneer,—as he haughtily replied,
although addressing his friend Harcourt,—
" As she is neither his wife nor his mistress, Stanmore's
presence or his absence, I presume, must be a matter of indif¬
ference to me."
" And how, all this time, are you going on with your
other lady ? "
" Much as I have always done ; and my humble disposi¬
tion has stood in my way there likewise."
"Ah, I don't understand you," said Harcourt, at length.
" I wanted to consult you about Emily, but I don't like your
mystifications to-day; however, if you like, you shall go
shares with me in a thing I am to be let into in Casselford's
stable. I am going to-night to the One Tun, in Jermyn-
street,—if you choose to accompany me, we will talk it
over; and I will own to you I am not sorry you have not
made a prey of that Woodville girl, for she is Emily's great
friend, and it would have shocked her so. Have you seen
Mrs. Skiffney ? "
" Ho."
" Then go to the Haymarket to-morrow ;—we will all go.
I should like to hear your opinion: 'pon my soul, I think
her head and shoulders the finest thing I ever beheld."
" Is she good ? "
" Yery ; iust the thing for you. So you have not seen
Mrs. Skiffney!"
" I have had so much to do lately, and am so bored about
my place under Government. But we will certainly go to
the Haymarket to-morrow, and see this new launch you tell
me of."
" Ah, it will do you good, D'Arcy," said Mr. Harcourt
affectionately ; " for you are looking horribly bilious."
THE DANSEUSE.
Ill
Emily Norris, as has already been said, partly from friend¬
ship and partly from curiosity, tried to discover, through Mr.
Harcourt, to whom Lord Stanmore could have alluded when
he spoke of D'Arcy's divided heart. But her efforts were
unsuccessful, Harcourt either did not know or would not
tell; perhaps he had no idea of betraying D'Arcy.
" I wonder how you can like Mr. d'Arcy ? " said Emily,
inquiringly; " he is half inclined to be disagreeable."
" My beloved, he is the cleverest fellow in the world."
" But I believe you are all afraid of him."
" I vow I think we are, sometimes, now you have put it
into my head."
" What does he do ? Is he rich P "
" They say he lost upon the Derby last year? "
" I saw him once, myself, talking to a lady in Grosvenor-
square. She looked handsome, and wore a hat made of blonde,
and I remembered the shape of it at the time ; I and mamma
were passing at that moment. Is Mr. d'Arcy in love with
some lady in Grosvenor-square ? "
" If he is, he does not tell me; but he is always in love
with a hundred women at a time ; he never cares for any of
them; he throws them over, and then he affects that they ill-
use him. Your little friend had better keep out of his way.
Besides which, I do not think he cares for her; and he is
going abroad shortly. Where's Mrs. Norris P "
" Mamma is writing a letter she says must go by the post,"
said Emily, laughing ; and in five minutes more Mrs. Norris
entered the room, lamenting she had not been able to come
sooner; for she said, " Though I. am not a foolish prude, Mr.
Harcourt, I never like to brave prejudices; and as young
ladies are in the habit of having a chaperone, I always try to
be with Emily when she sees gentlemen ; however, I left the
door wide open, and that's much the same thing, is not it ? "
continued the excellent Mrs. Norris, with a complacent
smile.
Emily Norris faithfully reported to Violet the substance of
all she ever could extract from Mr. Harcourt about D'Arcy.
" He allowed to me," said Emily, " he met D'Arcy, and
had asked him why he had not seen you lately, but that he
got no answer from him; and I have tried since then to find
out what sort of person Mr. d'Arcy was, and I asked if he
was a rout; but Harcourt only answered in his usual way—
you know his way—he is so indolent sometimes,—
No, I never heard him called a roue;' in short, Harcourt
112
VIOLET ; Ol!,
seemed stupid about it, or else it was his indolence. I wish
you would forget D'Arcy."
" Impossible! my dear Emily; all I wish is to see him
once more, only once. I only want to tell him all I now
think of him, and that I forgive him, and that I never wish
to see him again !" answered Yiolet, sighing profoundly.
" He would tell you you were very foolish, and begin
making love all over again."
" He could not; I should convince him that I knew every
word he said was false, and that I was acquainted with his
affection for another person."
" Which, of course, he would deny."
" No ; he could not tell an untruth."
" Nonsense! as if he would think that an untruth."
" D'Arcy would not tell a falsehood," persisted Violet
Woodville, while the tears rose to her eyes.
Poor Violet! The days passed heavily now, and every¬
thing seemed changed. As long as we are in love, or rather,
I should say, during the intervals that our love runs
smoothly—few they are, few and far between—but during
these intervals, the presence of the adored one is as the sun
of our day; and its influence is still felt, and its beneficence
shed upon every other object with which we come in
contact.
Those who are in love, and who go on for a while happily,
live entirely in a world of their own; much that was of
importance becomes a matter of indifference to them; they
rejoice in a fine day without knowing it, and when a rainy
one comes they do not perceive it; everything with them is
couleur de rose, and they never guess that the hour of trouble
is but deferred, and that they are drinking then
" The cordial drop Heav'n ill our cup has thrown
To make the nauseous cup of life go down,
On which one blessing God might raise,
In hands of Atheist, subsidies of praise."
Lord Rochester.
But when some evil change occurs, and they are awakened
from their dream, then indeed they think it has been one,
and tbere is no saying how mournful a heart they bring to
the gayest scenes, how broken a spirit reposes in that which
should be the happiest home.
Violet Woodville was now undergoing all this, for two
weeks had passed away and she had not seen or heard of
D'Arcy. Emily Norris could tell her nothing more than that
THE DAN8EUSE.
113
she believed him to be still in London, which Violet had
begun to doubt. .It was the month of August, and he might
be gone into the country.
Over and over again she questioned herself as to the reasons
for D'Arcy's total neglect of her. Sometimes she conceived
that he had either guessed or ascertained all that Lord Stan-
more had told her, and that he guiltily felt ashamed of meet¬
ing her. It was a naive supposition, and if it recurred often,
it was as often discarded. Violet felt that this was not in
accordance with what she knew of D'Arcy's character. He
was not ill, since it was clear Mr. Harcourt would have said
so to Emily. Then, all other supposititious excuses would
be as nothing in the case of a true lover. Had he ceased to
loveP No, for that would happen gradually ; and by means
of that freemasonry which exists between lovers, notwith¬
standing her disdain towards him, Violet felt that very night
at the Opera, D'Arcy was as much engrossed by her as ever.
Was it then possible that mere anger had induced him to stay
awayP " But," thought Violet suddenly,—" but suppose I am
wronging him altogetherP but no; Lord Stanmore would
never have stooped to deceit! no ; yet he might possibly be
mistaken: and then, if poor D'Arcy should be blameless!"
Imagining that D'Arcy considered himself unfairly treated
by her, Violet thought it was possible that indignation might
make him refrain from seeing her. She did not know what
the experienced could have told her, that it becomes more
urgent with us to tell a once beloved object that we hate
them, we trample upon them, we despise them, than it ever
was before to declare how passionately we adored them.
The Woodvilles noticed the grief of their child, and could
not divine its direct cause, whether it was owing to having
quarrelled with Lord Stanmore, which she let them suppose
was the case, or whether it was owing entirely to Mr. d'Arcy's
absence. They often spoke of him, at least Mrs. Woodville
did, and wondered why he never came ; and Mrs. Woodville
asked Violet if she had quarrelled with him likewise, for her
behaviour to D'Arcy at the Opera had passed unnoticed bv
both her parents, on account of her illness. Only once, when
she was alone, and M. Dupas asked, in his kindest voice, why
she was unhappy—for he was sure she was so,—and why had
she given up all her admirers so suddenly, Violet replied
that she did not know whether Mr. d'Arcy was in town ;—■
" Do you think he is, M. Dupas P " The old man lixed upon
Violet a glance of inquiry, but her pale cheeks and sunken
i
114
VIOLET} OR,
eye denoted too plainly that she was unhappy, and that vras
an answer.
" You may trust me, mon enfant," he said, compassionately;
" I am sorry for you. What is it you want to know about
Mr. d'Arcy ? Is it not at your desire he has left off coining
to see you ? I had hoped it was."
"No."
" How then P "
" I don't know," said Violet, listlessly ; and, too unhappy
even to discourse on the cause of her grief, she left the room.
Still the Woodvilles, fere et mere, were very gay, and con¬
tinually making Vauxhall parties, or going to Greenwich, or
dining at Eichmond, chiefly to procure diversion for Violet,
at least so said Mrs. Woodville. Very often, on pretence of
illness, Yiolet would excuse herself from joining these
" pleasure parties," to use the phraseology of Mr. Brown,
who continued to he most assiduous in making love—no, I
mean paying his addresses to Miss Woodville—who, poor
girl! now absolutely sickened at the sight of him.
And here, as M. Dupas had predicted, was one evidence of
her misfortune. Having once associated, and intimately,
with a person of real refinement, she could not like those who
possessed not the same advantages, and towards Brown
especially there is no expressing the dislike Violet felt; and
nothing but her sweetness of temper enabled her to disguise
her contempt under the garb of cold civility.
Mr. Brown was not repulsed, as he might have been, by
Yiolet Woodville's dislike to him, because he did not conceive
it-possible. He looked in the glass and saw his own face, and
the coat, &c. which clothed his person, and said to himself—
" It is out of the question for any lady not to think me ex¬
tremely handsome—and then I am certainly an elegant man,
and, I am sure that, on particular days, when I take pains, I
look as much the gentleman as any one that I know."
Love might draw his bow-string and take aim at an arma¬
dillo, and, for what I know, his aim might be successful.
But let him try to make a woman fall in love with a man (no
matter whether really vulgar or not), but whom that woman
thinks vulgar, and Cupid's arrow would fall blunted to the
ground. There is something repugnant to feminine nature
in the detection of vulgarity. A woman may be devotedly
in love with every description of villain you may please to
name, but, if she has any delicacy of mind whatsoever, she
cannot even put up with one whom she esteems vulgar,
THE DAN8ETJ6E.
115
No wonder, then, that Violet Woodville, with her head
and her heart full of D'Arcy, could not endure the attentions
of Mr. Brown.
" What do you think of her, D'Arcy ? " cried Mr. Goring,
who was one of a party of young men occupying the front
seats of a public box at the Haymarket.
" Why, I don't fancy her—nevertheless, she is a spirited
little devil."
" Take my glass," said Mr. Harcourt to D'Arcy, " your3
is not a good one—mine is excellent."
D'Arcy accepted the lorgnette, better to contemplate the
lovely Mrs. Skiffney, for she was the lady he and his friends
were discussing. At this moment his eyes fell upon some
persons in a box opposite, and D'Arcy lowered his glass
suddenly as he distinguished Violet Woodville; returning it
into the hands of Harcourt, he abruptly excused himself on
the plea of suddenly remembering an engagement, and left
the theatre.
" What was that for ? " inquired Goring.
" Heaven knows—D'Arcy is insufferable with his caprices.
Goring, sit closer, or some cheesemonger will take his place
—and pray desire that old woman on your side not to stifle
us with her confounded musk, and to stop that young rascal
her son from spitting his orange peel into my hat."
When had Violet Woodville's heart beat so keenly as it
did this night when she distinguished D'Arcy ? and how great
was the pleasure it gave her ? how great! She never remem¬
bered then all the anxious hours she had passed, or that he
had caused them. She saw him once more—was not that a
foundation for a few moments, nay, for hours of real delight ?
Violet was all alive to the fact that she did behold D'Arcy,
for love is so dreamy a state of existence, that it happens
when, by untoward circumstances, we are parted from the
loved object, that we actually grow to doubt even the reality
of their existence, and fancy that the words and the scenes
which are indelibly impressed on our own bosoms are either
forgotten by them, or are as if they had never been.
There is a great deal of nervousness in combination with
all very highly-wrought feelings; and there is no limit to the
imaginativeness of a mind of great tenderness, alarmed and
grieving. I never thought there was any exaggeration of
sentiment in Werter's sending the little boy to Charlotte,
that he might have something to behold, on which Her eyes
had rested. Our reason laughs to scorn this species of hypo-
i 2
116
VIOLET J OE,
chondria of a love-despairing mind; but what, except some
latent feeling of this nature, stirs up those inexplicable sen¬
sations in a lover's bosom, when only the name of his mistress
is casually pronounced ? or, if he sees, at a distance, her
equipage, her servant, or anything belonging to her; what is
it but the means thus afforded him, of confirming his con¬
viction of her existence, and that he may behold her again
and again, hear her speak, and to him ? But, like the brilliant
metal which must be wrought upon ere we can have an idea
of its ductile power, love must undergo a similar process
before we can learn all the variety of feelings which are
attendant upon it.
D'Arcy was no sooner beheld than he was gone : in vain
Violet Woodville hoped to see him return to his place in the
box, and then, when she despaired of that, she yet felt pleasure
in the presence of his late companions, for to them she had
seen him speak; they were his friends—they had something
to do with him; so she watched them, one by one, as they
left the theatre; and, when all were gone, a sense of deso¬
lation crept over her that was hard to bear.
CHAPTER IX.
" How cruel seems this long estrangement! "
" Indifference from those we love
Is the worst pang the heart can prove."
The day passed, and nothing more was heard of D'Arcy;
but Violet continued to retain an expectation of meeting him
once again. The party to Richmond, which our reader may
remember some time before he himself had proposed to her
family that they should join. The arrangements were all
made for it; and Violet, in the company of her parents and
the Horrises, met the gay set of ladies, and the gallant gentle¬
men, who were the originators of the scheme. It was a
beautiful day, and nature was dressed in its fairest splendour.
The company went upon the water, and the sound of mirth
and music was ringing its melody up the banks of the Thames,
as the boat glided on : there were jokes and laughter, and
much civility and much good humour—everything, in
short, to gladden the heart for one half-hour, if external
things could ever do that; but they cannot, alas ! always do
THE DANSEtTSE.
117
so; and Violet Woodville was now one of tlie victims who
are forced to wear a gay face, to conceal a most wretched
heart. D'Arcy was not there. To Violet, everything about
him now was so enveloped in mystery, that she became a
prey to secret worry as well as sorrow.
But she was looking beautiful, and she was not left to her¬
self. She was urged to talk, and at last, with that recklessness
that sometimes seizes an impetuous mind, her spirit caught
the tone from others, and gave way
" To all that frantic mirth—that rush
Of desperate gaiety, which they,
Who never felt how pain's excess
Can break out thus, think happiness."
Many of her admirers were charmed at this transition: her
parents were delighted and astonished to hear her laugh out
so roundly ; and one or two of her former pretenders ap¬
proached her, with hope revived of finding some signal of
encouragement.
Mr. Goring especially remarked the change, but he was
sharp in his observation, and malicious, when it so suited
him.
" Pray, what excuse did D'Arcy make for not coming P" he
called out to the gentleman whom Violet was talking to, while
he mercilessly fixed his eyes upon her face.
"I don't know ; I thought he was to be one of us origin¬
ally."
" Why is D'Arcy not here ?"
" As if I knew !—he is in town ; I saw him this morning."
" Have you any idea why Mr. D'Arcy is not here P" cried
Goring to the victim of his inquiries.
" No," replied Miss Woodville, as steadily as she could.
" I only asked you," pursued Mr. Goring, " because he is
so devoted an aamirer of yours, that I thought you must
know something of him. Really, as you are of this party,
his absence is unaccountable." And Mr. Goring burst into a
loud laugh, as if he had said something witty.
But it was not echoed by one other person; most of the
ladies hated him, and with reason, and the men knew his bru¬
tality whenever he was inclined to be spiteful,—though, in
this instance, they guessed his intention without comprehend¬
ing its nature.
The day of pleasure was over at last, and at one in the
morning the unhappy Violet was allowed the repose of soli¬
tude,—that great blessing to the very unhappy. " Ah! la
118
VIOLET ; OK;
pitie n'est pas due a celui qui pleure dans la solitude !" may
well be said, in the words of a French writer.
Yiolet's feelings were not of that acute kind which deny us
the power of sleep,—hers were more the jaded feelings of
continual anxiety ; and, worn out, with a harassed mind,
doubly fatigued with the exertion of false spirits, she slept,
to wake almost unrefreshed, perhaps, and to endure more
keenly than ever the grief of the time before. " La mente
appena risentita ricorre alle idee abituali della vita tranquilla
antecedente ; ma il pensiero del nuovo stato di cose le si affac-
cia tosto sgarbartamente e il dispiacere ne e piu vivo in quel
paragone istante."* But the observation has been so often
made, it is a hackneyed one now, only that its being so hack¬
neyed proves how similarly we all pay alike the tribute of
earthly anguish, and it is always a consolatory assurance that
our amount of unhappiness is not greater than that of most
other people, and that that which we feel, others have felt,
and others are to feel.
" Write to D'Arcy," ci'ied Emily Norris one day to her
friend : the advice, if injudicious, was not ill meant. Emily
was really sorry to see the impression D'Arcy's strange
absence had made upon Violet Woodville, but she was not
astonished at it.
"Impossible, Emily."
" I don't see that. His not coming near you for so long is
very extraordinary, and you have a right to inquire the reason
of it."
" How can you argue thus ? I have no right of the sort.
I feel deeply the singularity of his conduct, and D'Arcy must
know that,—but that gives me no authority to write to him,
and there would be something in the act that I could not
bear."
" That ought to depend upon what you wrote; I am not
counselling you to send a love-letter ; but, if you did, I am
quite sure D'Arcy would be at your feet in the next hour."
"Oh! Emily."
" But just write him," continued Emily, "two lines that
might be published at Charing Cross,—merely, that you are
hurt at never seeing him, and that you wish to explain why
you behaved so ill to him that night at the Opera."
"Never!—I never could. What would D'Arcy think of
me ?"
"No harm, I tell you again, I will answer for it. It ia
* " I Prjmessi Sposi,"
THE DANSEUSE.
119
not so much the things we do that signify, but the manner in
which we do them. If you wrote in the sort of way I advise
you, D'Arcy may think the better, but he cannot think the
worse of you for it."
" It never can be my place to write to him, and the idea is
shocking."
" Nonsense, you see the things in a light of false refine¬
ment. I am quite persuaded there's a great deal of good
about D'Arcy. I declare I like him now, though I never
used to do it. Do you know there is something very piquant
about D'Arcy P" pursued Emily Norris, in a half-reverie.
" He is very handsome ; his eyes are quite peculiar. I am
not surprised you are in love with him, but I believe I have
told you that before,—I dare say I should, if he had made
love to me, but he never did. I don't think he was ever
inclined to admire me, was he, Yiolet, ehP"
" No," replied Yiolet, with naivete and absence,—"no, he
never told me that he admired you."
" Ah ! I am not his style. Harcourt and D'Arcy are so
diS'erent; the same sort of person never could please both
those men. Oh, but about your writing,—now do it, pray,
Yiolet, I am sure you will not repent it; well, you will think
of it, will you P" Emily went on for some time, endeavouring
to persuade Violet Woodville to take the step she recom¬
mended, but unsuccessfully ; however, in a day or two she
returned to the charge, and by doing so very often she suc¬
ceeded in making Violet less imperiously bent against it.
She was becoming quite miserable, and her father and
mother were sadly distressed, by witnessing the change that
took place in her spirits. Mrs. Woodville grew cross under
it. She could not bear the want of her daughter's lovers,
and she seemed to think she had a right to grumble, as if the
misfortune was more hers than her daughter's. Poor Mr.
Woodville felt far differently, but he was more truly unhappy
than his wife.
The one who looked on with cooler judgment, but with
equal feeling, was the old dancing-master. Each year, as he
had grown older, so had he become more attached to the
Woodvilles; and he would have rejoiced in seeing Yiolet.
suitably married,—or honestly so, in her own class, and pur¬
suing her profession with an acknowledged character. But
now nothing of the sort seemed likely to come to pass, and at
the present moment there was a mystery about her that he
could not fathom. One day when lie was calling at tiie
120
VIOLET; OE,
Woodvilles' lie found that they were out, but that Violet was
not. He entered the sitting-room, and drew out of his pocket
a Morning JPost, which he began to read.
Violet soon made her appearance. "My father," she said,
"is engaged at the Hanover Eooms, and mpmma is gone to
Madame Centi's."
"Well, but, Violet, it is always enough if I find I can see
you: only I wish you looked as happy as you used to do
once. Stay, what is this?" and M. Dupas was silent for a
few minutes, while he read something that had caught his eye
in the paper.
" What is it ? " Violet inquired.
"Iam not sure," said M. Dupas, hesitatingly; "do you
know what has become of Mr. d'Arcy, lately, mon enfant ? "
"No, I don't; but do you know? What is it you are
reading ! " asked Violet, with intuitive quickness, and her eye
glanced at the Morning Post.
The newspapers she sometimes obtained at her father's
house had of late become of importance to her, not for the
political intelligence they contained,—no, but in the account
of dinners: valuable and rare occurrences in the month of
September: in the list of names, she had now and then espied
D'Arcy's, and was not that quite enough to invest every
newspaper with a solid interest in her eyes ?
The eagerness of her countenance at once induced her old
friend to adopt the wise plan of showing to what he was
alluding, by simply pointing to a paragraph, which ran as
follows:—
" The Corsair sails on Tuesday, with Lord Eockemore and
suite on board. Lady Eockemore and her eldest daughter,
we understand, do not accompany his lordship. We have
reason to believe George D'Arcy, Esq., intends forming part
of his lordship's suite for the present; Mr. d'Arcy leaves
town to-morrow."
At this moment Miss Norris, on a visit to Violet, bounded
into the room, and this saved the necessity of commenting
upon the intelligence of the Morning Post, both to M. Dupas
and herself.
The instant she was alone with her friend, Violet showed
the paragraph, and burst into tears.
" Write now, at once," exclaimed Emily, "there is no time
to be lost: his going may not be true ; but, for Heaven's sake,
endeavour to learn what it is that is at the bottom of all this.
THE DANSETTSE.
121
It will lead to_ nothing, only you will see him once again,
which you say is all you want."
" It is very true, I must see him again; but what must I
say ? Emily, do not counsel me to do what is very foolish; I
would rather break my heart than that he should think ill of
me!"
"Nonsense: it all depends on what you write." Emily
snatched a pen : Violet felt so unhappy, that she hardly knew
how to reason with herself. The thought of having parted
on such terms with D'Arcy, and that she should perhaps
never see him more, was an irresistible idea which overpow¬
ered every other. Of late, too, she had been accustoming
herself to think that she had behaved ill to him, and that
Lord Sta. more was somehow mistaken in what he had said
of him. Be it as it might, D'Arcy's influence, as the D'Arcy
she had found him, had been gradually resuming its power.
It was so natural that a mind like hers should return
speedily to a state of love and confidence; opposite senti¬
ments were so uncongenial to a nature such as Violet's. She
wrote then to D'Arcy.
There is no doubt that, under the same circumstances,
another person, as sincerely upright, but with education, even
merely a wordly one, would not have done as Violet Wood-
ville now did. She would have argued, that however great
D'Arcy's affection, still, as it was not an honourable one, it
must be left to the unpleasing alternative he had appeared to
adopt (I am not sure, though, that this reasoning would have
come from the very warmest heart in the world.)
" May I see you once again ? I am conscious of being
wrong in making the request, but I own I am very unhappy
at thinking when we last met we were not friends. Believe
only this, and then you will excuse my addressing you."
Such was the letter Violet consented to write to D'Arcy. It
was sealed, directed, and, under Emily's auspices, sent to its
destination by means of that most convenient of all Mercu¬
ries, the twopenny-post.
That Violet instantly regretted what she had done, when it
was too late to be undone, is so exactly what everybody else
feels when they think they have themselves been venturing
to interfere with the course of their own destiny, that there
is no use in enlarging upon the fact.
How poor Violet's heart beat the whole of that day and
the next morning ! She did not know whether D'Arcy would
122
violet; or;
reply to lier by coming or by writing. She did not know
whether he would do either; she could not be certain he was
yet in town, so as to get her letter. No wonder, then, that
during twenty-four hours she nearly died under a palpitation
of the heart, such as most of us have suffered from during
hours of anxious expectation.
About three o'clock in the afternoon Mrs. Hummings en¬
tered the usual sitting-room, but it was not clear why she
showed herself. Mrs. Woodville was writing, and Violet was
picking the gold off the skirt of a Sultana's robe, her mamma
having the intention of turning it into a lining for some other
garment she was in imagination contemplating.
"Only come to see about the fire, mam. You have not
told me which gown I am to prepare," said Hummings, then
addressing Violet.
" Oh, directly I will show you, Hummings."
"No, no; pray go on with that now," cried Mrs. Wood¬
ville ; "that will do about your gown another time. Brush
up the hearth, Hummings, and then go, and don't interrupt
me again." Hummings was obliged to obey, and Violet was
obliged to sit still.
"Bless me, what do I see!" cried Mrs. Woodville, sud¬
denly taking the work out of her daughter's hands; "you
have sown the skirt up a second time, after undoing it once! "
" Heavens ! " responded Violet, astounded at her own per¬
formance.
" And that wrong side out, too ! What are you thinking
of?" Mrs. Woodville said nothing more than this home
question ; she did not like to be very angryand Violet pre¬
sently found means to escape from the room.1
" Hummings ! " Hummings heard. " My gown," Violet
began, by way of excuse, but she could not finish her sen¬
tence ; she could only grasp an enclosed note, in a hand¬
writing which as yet remained unknown to her, and which
Mrs. Hummings held out. She read,—
" Will you meet me to-morrow, at the usual hour, in the
gardens? Have no fear, I never can think ill of you.—Yours,
Gr. D."
What happiness ! Poor Violet was so intensely happy on
receiving this note, that in her joy she threw herself on her
knees and thanked Heaven. Then she read it over and over
agaiD, and gazed at the hand-writing, and kissed it. But it is
THE DANSEUSE.
123
true, in many cases besides this, that not all the manuscripts
in the British Museum can ever have been half so prized as
only one little line written by a being that we love. The
paper and the writing are almost sacred, and they bear with
them a prestige, which time may add to, but which it cannot
destroy,—and few, indeed, are the objects, even material or
substantial, over which time has no power. For what feel¬
ings does it not annihilate, and what affections does it not
impair? What events can it not obliterate, or at least deaden
the remembrance of? But the handwriting of one we have
sincerely loved acts as a talisman while we live, conjuring up
so many feelings that it bewilders us; and with the convic¬
tion that the indulgence of such reminiscences too strongly
disturb the even current of every-day life, we re-deposit the
writing whose spell is so potent, and dread alike the pleasure
and the pain of falling again under its influence.
CHAPTER X.
" Dim not the starry diamond's lustrous blaze;
Rob not the floweret of its balmy odour,
Nor clip the wing: that would have soar'd to heaven.
Oh, let my heart's deep anguish plead to thee
With more than mortal eloquence, appealing
To all the better feelings of the soul,
The nobler attributes which God has given,
To raise us from the devils we resemble."
Ol.l) PI.ay.
It is necessary, for the reader's comprehension of our story
in its present stage, to return to that night at the Opera when
Lord Stanmore joined the Woodvilles there, and, on that
occasion, allowed his violence to get the better of his judg¬
ment.
Lord Stanmore was one of those characters whose goodness
is developed by prosperity, and on which the frowns of for¬
tune have a contrary effect. There can be no doubt of his
extreme love for Violet Woodville; and when he talked of
having thought of her as his wife, he did not exaggerate. It
is fair to him to say, that perhaps no other person in her
situation would have inspired him with the same feelings.
He had a high sense of worldly morality, and a keen one of
the nicest honour. He had been spoiled hitherto, and he
might have said, with Madame Montpensier, that his good
124
VIOLET; OB,
qualities were all liis own. He had not been less dissipated than
most of his class are in this country, but his heart remained
uncorrupted. There was a certain melancholy interwoven
with his disposition, which had softened his mind without
making it more impressionable ; it only tended to give to his
affections a greater degree of refinement, and to render him
more alive to the wounds to which our feelings are ever sub-
j e(Jf •
I am always inclined to think, that the sentiments of men
may be deeper than those of women. I know the ladies
dispute this, and claim all the griefs of the heart as exclu¬
sively their own. I do not know why they are so eager for
this monopoly, but any reasoning with them upon the point
is, I have remarked, generally treated with contempt: and,
almost invariably, they steadily adhere to the notion that
the hearts of the male sex are more flinty than theirs, and
that they do not suffer mentally as keenly as the fair Eves
of the creation. But is it not reasonable to conceive, that as
the strength of men is greater, and their power of action
more enlarged, their feelings should be likewise in propor¬
tion ? It should seem, that if this were not the case, the
lever would be wanting to complete the nature of their being,
and when a man has the power to face the danger that a
woman turns from, the same force that supports him then,
it is reasonable to suppose will be applied to all the circum¬
stances of his life. Be assured, my lady reader, the senti¬
ments of men are to the full as deep as woman's ; but then,
as their moral energy is greater, their hearts will withstand
that which would break a woman's.
A girl, under the load of misery which oppressed Lord
Stanmore as he left the Opera on the night we have re¬
curred to, would in many cases have committed suicide; the
idea never occurred to the young peer, but still he felt
wretched. Undoubtedly, it is a great agony to love entirely,
and to find another possesses the heart you would have ren¬
dered up life to have been blessed with, even for a moment.
Eor the time, a blighting anguish ruled the spirit of the
unhappy lover.
He pursued his way along the streets alone, as we can be
in the midst of people, and felt the dreary hopelessness of a
heart bursting and irritated; and, as the vision of Violet
Woodville rose ever before him, he almost cursed the Provi¬
dence which had given him all things except that which, to
his passion, seemed the one thing needful. Originally, Lord
THE DANSEUSE.
125
Stanmore felt certain of having obtained Violet Woodville's
preference—at least be was not prepared to find tbat this was
to be tbe beginning and tbe end, neither till now did be know
the force of bis own love. It was only of late, when be
looked round him, and compared this young girl with tbe
rest of those who aimed at winning bis fortune and his affec¬
tion, tbat be felt aware tbat to him she was tbe phoenix—all
were so worldly, or so cold—so vain, or so uninteresting.
There was not one of tbe Almack's beauties, married or
single, that could rival Violet. He thought of every virtue
she possessed, and of every charm that appeared to be one
in his eyes, and, when he had done, his heart was breaking
still, for it loved; and reason, and the fulness of despair,
were alike in vain, against that earthly spell.
A hopeless passion, and the consciousness of a rival being
preferred, are heavy to bear; and in exulting youth, when
prosperity is the glass behind and before us, then, indeed, it
is a lesson learned that lasts.
" Aimer ! parole triste, insultante ironie,
Pour qui vit un matin,
Mot fatal, et qui n'a d'echo dans cette vie
D'amertume et dedain.
" Ah! choisir une femme, et creer autour d'elle
Tout un monde enchante,
Et vouloir seulement, pour la faire immortelle,
Une immortalite.
" A ses moindres discours suspendre tout son Ctre,
Emu d'un doux espoir,
Et mourir tout le jour, helas! k se promettre
Un sourire le soir.
" Et lorsque ce regard que le regard mendie
On n'a pu l'obtenir,
Sentir avec terreur k l'ame aneantie
Ecliapper l'avenir!
" A la vie, au bonheur, dans sa douleur farouche
Jeter un monie adieu,
Tomber a deux genoux, le front contre sa couche,
Et s'ecrier ' Mon Dieu!
" ' Au lieu de les laisser l'un sur 1'autre descendre
Si pesans mon cceur,
Mon Dieu! ne pouvez-vous ensemble les reprendre
Tous ces jours de malheurs 1'
" Epuiscr ces tourmens qu'en ce monde oh nous sommes
On ne peut exprimer,
I.cntement en mourir .... dans la langue des homrnes
C'ela s'appelle aimer."
" La Vie Intime," Pcesies de A. Latouii.
The French poet must have loved, or he could never have
written these touching lines.
126
VIOLET; OE,
Other reflections started up to harass the roind of Lord
Stanmore. How had he acted with respect to D'Arcy p
Was it purely for Violet's sake that he had this night be-
trayed his friend, and had not jealousy urged him to treachery?
But was it deserving such a name? Was it not fair that
merely as her friend he should warn her against the love of
one like D'Arcy! indifferent, as he considered him, alike to
her ruin and his wretchedness. " It was most base of him,
and I have done right," exclaimed Lord Stanmore ; and as he
spoke, his mind's truth denied the inference.
He had reached his own home, and the grey light of the
morning was coming in at the window. Lord Stanmore had
opened it, that he might breathe, for he felt almost as if he
had not the power.
The clock struck four. The sound of the striking ap¬
peared to give him a resolution, which he hastened to
execute. He left his house and went to D'Arcy's lodgings.
He knocked two or three times without receiving admittance,
At length the landlady's head, in a nightcap and a bonnet,
by way of shading the delicate nature of her coiffure, ap¬
peared through the half-opened door.
" Is Mr. d'Arcy at home ? " inquired Lord Stanmore.
The landlandy stated that she did not know, but she be¬
lieved not; Mr. d'Arcy had a key to let himself in at
whatever time he liked. Wild, for he was almost so, Lord
Stanmore flew past the mistress of the house, and threw
open the door of D'Arcy's apartments. He passed the first
room, into that in which he slept, and convinced himself that
D'Arcy was indeed not at home.
The landlady followed him, and looked very cross. How¬
ever, she knew Lord Stanmore by sight, and she conde¬
scended to hand him a lamp which stood in the passage, and
pointed to the candles, which were on a buhl table ; and told
Lord Stanmore to replace the lamp when he had lighted the
candles, that Mr. d'Arcy might not break his neck when he
did come in. She then retired.
Lord Stanmore threw himself upon a couch. With one
foot he kicked on the floor a knife-cutter, and a volume of
"Paul de Kock," and with the other, one of "Sand;" the
reader's place being retained by the insertion of some small
and tumbled notes, written on coloured paper. Alike lost in
his reflections, and agitated by them, Lord Stanmore was
only disturbed, at last, by a tired cabriolet driving up to the
house-door, which was presently unlocked; and D'Arcy's
THE DANSEUSE.
127
voice was heard giving directions to his servant for the fol¬
lowing afternoon. D'Arcy mounted the stairs with a fatigued
step, and threw open the door of his sitting-room. He looked
pale and out of temper, as he cast his cloak, his hat, and his
gloves on [the floor, and he started with evident annoyance
at the sight of Lord Stanmore.
" Stanmore ! " he exclaimed.
"Yes," said the other, making an effort with himself;
" doubtless you are surprised to see me here. I suppose I
ought to apologize, but I must speak to you : till I have done
so, I cannot rest."
D'Arcy bowed in acquiescence, but his countenance ex¬
pressed anything but pleasure. He looked ill, besides, and
worn out. However, he pushed, a chair into its place, and
seated himself ; then leaning his head, with his arms upon
the table, he placed himself in a listening attitude for Lord
Stanmore's communication.
An observer of human nature, a minute observer, would
have made a study of the character of these two young men
from their countenances and demeanour at this moment: The
light was so placed as to fall exactly upon the faces of both,
while the greater part of the room itself was almost obscured.
Lord Stanmore was at all times handsome, but for a man
who until now had known no care, he had an habitually
melancholy expression. We have said before that his cha¬
racter was tinged with it; now, however, it clouded his, face,
while the swollen lip and gloomy eye gave a sure index of
strong mental irritation, and in his manner of speaking there
was something indicative of the nervousness of a delicate
mind, wrought upon by the violence of passion. He flushed
as he spoke, and the gloom at intervals gave way to flashes
of fever lighting up his eye. He leaned against the back of
the sofa, as if he tried to obtain self-possession by his bodily
repose.
D'Arcy exhibited a different character. His countenance
scarcely betrayed his mind ; his features had much play, but
they were strictly under command. There was not the same
candour evinced by them, or perhaps D'Arcy's was a more
worn countenance—one as if it had lived to be the index of
so many feelings, that it disdained to disclose them now.
There was something very fine, nevertheless, in his brow,
and altogether, if you were inclined to distrust the man, it
would not be for a small stake; and if there was anything
villanous about him, Schiller's description might be givemof
128
VIOLET ; OE,
it: " Die Schande nimmt ab mit dem wachsenden Siinde."
But D'Arcy was harassed and out of humour. We have no
right to quote Schiller because a man looks ill, and finds his
house disagreeably invaded at five in the morning, D'Arcy
was always handsome, but yet he did not always look so.
The more he was known, the handsomer he was considered;
but he did not universally please, nevertheless, because his
cold and somewhat sardonic expression was apt to offend,
before he felt a wish to please ; when he aimed at doing so,
he never failed.
" I have seen the Woodvilles to-night," said Lord Stan-
more, abruptly.
" So have I," replied D'Arcy.
Lord Stanmore continued, without heeding the interrup¬
tion, " And I have done all I can to prevent that young girl
falling a prey to you. I know you well, D'Arcy, and for
once in my life I choose to tell you, that I consider that you
are behaving ill—shamefully ill! "
"What do you mean?" cried D'Arcy, looking up in dis¬
pleased astonishment.
" What I say!—that I have warned Violet Woodville
against you;—that I have told her your heart is professedly
another woman's ; and I have supplicated her not to become
the mistress of George D'Arcy ! "
D'Arcy coloured, and started from his chair, while he ex¬
claimed, in a tone of passion, " I should like to know what
has given you the right to interfere thus in my concerns ?—
not our friendship certainly."
" I will tell you why; because I loved her—because I
loved Violet Woodville, and, therefore, I did not choose to
see here crushed by you; and, let me tell you, if you had
had the smallest portion of generosity in your soul, you
would have hesitated in your determination to seduce so
sweet a creature. You know her, and therefore you have
not to learn that she is one so faultless that no one but a
villain could successfully act the part you seek to play! "
"And yourself?" cried D'Arcy, sternly and interroga¬
tively.
"No," answered Lord Stanmore with firmness; "no, I
have tried—I may have wished it once; but as I have
learned to know her infinite purity, I have shrunk from a
pursuit become, I think, dishonourable, when the object is
one so much too worthy. However, I am convinced I had
no chance of succeeding. She does not love me, but you
THE DANSEUSE.
129
have power over her, for you she does love. Use this power
as you may, D'Arcy, and I say you are a villain! "
"Are you come here at five in the morning to pick a
quarrel with me, Lord Stanmore ? "
" I am not; but that is as you choose."
" You well know," said D'Arcy, " that one man has no
pretext for addressing another as you have addressed me. I
was not aware," he continued, his countenance assuming the
withering coldness which made it at times almost hateful,—" I
was not aware that you were so very warm an admirer of
Miss Woodville. Am I to understand by this tirade that your
views are simply Platonic, or that I have interfered most unfor¬
tunately with a matrimonial speculation of your lordship's ? "
Lord Stanmore's colour rose as he replied, " I neither
regard your rage nor your cold-blooded sneers. What I do
consider is that poor girl, who believes in your attachment,
and who may be ruined by the excessive art of one who
actually does not'care for her! "
" And you have cared," said D'Arcy, tauntingly.
" I have—there you are right; and I think it was not the
office of a friend to supplant me where he knew I should most
feel it."
"Neither was it the office of a friend to go and basely
betray my errors, out of jealousy, to one whom you yourself
allow to have preferred me."
"You are not my friend," said Lord Stanmore, hastily;
" that is past. All I aim at now is, if possible, to preserve a
being whom I have adored, and whose guileless character has
made an impression on me which her beauty could not have
done. Yes, D'Arcy, I love her; and if you had not come
like a devil between me and my happiness, she would have
been happy too ; for if it had not been for you, Yiolet Wood¬
ville would have loved me; and proclaim it to the world if
you choose—I would have made her my wife; and do you
think that now I will sit tamely by, and witness your false
professions of affection, in return for which that innocent one
will barter her whole existence P and, instead of my wife, see
her be, some day, your neglected mistress ? The blessed
alternative you will have brought to her ! Do you think, I
say, I would stand by and know all this, and not warn her of
the fate that hangs over her P "
WhileLord Stanmore spoke,D'Arcy's countenance changed;
he appeared to reflect, and at length he slowly exclaimed in
a softened tone, " And you have loved her even unto this ! "
u
130
VIOLET ; OB,
"And you have brought me even unto this!" rejoined
Lord Stanmore.
" Allow me to observe one thing," said D'Arcy, quickly,
"Admitting your right to interfere to save"-—and D'Arcy
resumed the tone of irony—" admitting your right to do that
if you could, most decidedly you had none to inform her of
what you could not know to be true. Why did you tell her
that I made false love to her ? "
" Your attachment to another woman is a fact so glaringly
known to all London, that I am only glad to be the first, and
not the second, or third, or twentieth person who will tell
her as much, perhaps when it is too late. Be assured, D'Arcy,
that had your infidelity taken any other direction, I am the
last man to trouble myself with anything that so little con¬
cerned me."
" My private affairs seem better known to you than it can
be said that I ever made them—I have permitted no confi¬
dant."
" There are some liaisons too glaring to be a secret to any
one."
" At all events, you could not tell the measure of my affec¬
tion for that person or any other; and could not, with justice,
stigmatize my declarations as false, be they made to whom it
so pleased me."
" The lady is too young and too handsome, otherwise the
world might have surmised you were indifferent while she
was devoted," answered Lord Stanmore coldly.
" This comes of her folly in letting it be seen," said D'Arcy,
passionately, and as if thinking aloud.
" I am surprised, D'Arcy," observed Lord Stanmore, " that,
lax as you are, and even with your principles, your heart does
not fail at the thought of seducing that poor girl. Most men
have some compunction when they fall in with so artless and
so perfect a creature ; for I conclude," continued Lord Stan¬
more, with a piercing look of inquiry, " that your opinion of
her is as good as my own."
" On my word it is ; and I am astonished that you think I
should be'able to seduce her."*
" Grod forbid it! " said Lord Stanmore, burying his face in
his hands, as if the reflection was too much to bear; and
such, in fact, he felt it. It is probable that D'Arcy saw the
emotion of Lord Stanmore, for his bearing ceased to be harsh,
and when he spoke again it was deliberately.
" I wished," said Lord Stanmore, " to tell you that, in
THE DANSETTSE.
131
future, I shall do all I can to save her from you, as I would
from any other man whom I thought she was in danger from.
I would not now, as I before said, seduce "Violet Woodville,
if I could, and I would have married her, I repeat."
" And why not still P "
" Still! No, she loves another, and half her charm is gone,
in my eyes, as a wife."
" Your behaviour is highly chivalrous, Stanmore," replied
D'Arcy, indulging in a slight sneer; "doubtless it would
have its due effect upon Yiolet; but," added he more gravely,
" if all you say is true, I regret the past. I had no idea you
thought of marrying, and, I must tell you, when I first fell
in love I did not discover any reason for supposing I was
supplanting you, in her affection at least: I never thought
she cared seriously for you; and, if you remember, I told
you, the first day we met after you had been to Brighton,
that I had fallen in love with "Violet Woodville. With regard
to you, I positively feel that I have nothing to reproach my¬
self with: I wish I could say as much with respect to her.
But, if I have deprived Miss Woodville of an affection which
was to prove of such advantage, I must endure regret all my
life."
D'Arcy paused, he looked paler, and when he resumed
speaking, it was with rather a nervous voice.
" I will retire," he said, " and I will leave you master of
the field, to which I feel you have a better claim."
" If this conviction is your only motive for so doing, spare
yourself the trouble of naming it," said Lord Stanmore, " for
I am no longer thinking of proposing to Miss Woodville, if
you allude to that; I merely wish by common means to pre¬
vent her future disgrace."
" Your words are wonderfully contradictory," replied
D'Arcy, with asperity; " in one breath you talk of Violet
Woodville's high-flown character, and in the next as if her
salvation only depended on your most arduous efforts. How¬
ever, my resolution is equally taken. On the whole, all that
has passed is, perhaps, for the best. She is, indeed, too good
to become the mistress of any man, and, what is more, I do
not think I could ever have made her mine, even if she liked
me as much as you say she does, but which I doubt. Now,
listen: I am going to leave town, and shortly England, and
I will have nothing further to say to the Woodvilles, unless,
indeed, Violet herself should be the person to recall me :
that is a temptation I could not withstand. We both know
k -
132
VIOLET; OB,
enough, of her to he certain it is a most improbable one. You
are now satisfied, I presume, and I am tired," said D'Arcy,
putting his hand to his forehead.
Lord Stanmore rose, and muttered something, which was
not distinct, as he took his hat and quitted the apartment.
When he was gone, D'Arcy sat with his folded arms upon
the table. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and it was a
deep sense of bodily fatigue that roused him at last, and then
the single lamp was going out. He threw himself on his bed,
but it was long before he slept, and, in the mean time, the
morning was growing old.
It does not always answer to analyze the motives of action—
they are among the mysteries of our being, and are not seldom
incomprehensible. Certain it is that there are times when a
noble mind has the lowest level, and a hardened heart its
moments of glorious aspirations. Is it for us to say tliat
heart is irreclaimable ? The inconsistencies which dignify or
debase our nature have become a barrier into which the
searchings of reasoning cannot penetrate. The bad and the
good get so commingled, that we lose the one when we would
separate it from the other. In some one individual act, per¬
haps, the good predominates unalloyed, but even then, it may
have been the impulse of a moment, and the solely estimable
point in an ill-regulated and unprincipled disposition; whereas
a well-ordered character is never carried out of its equipoise.
Such a one has not the struggles of being extremely virtu¬
ous ; these fall to the lot of the feeble or the vicious, when
the better principle conquers. We should, therefore, admire,
without striving to penetrate all the unknown springs which
have influenced the action. We will only remember that,
while the good may play the hypocrite unto themselves when
they are greatly righteous, he who greatly sins will yet de¬
spise self-deceit when he aims at duty. The good actions of a
bad man are sometimes performed with more humility than
those of the saints of this earth : there is often a simplicity in
the virtuous deeds of a sinner, and, strange to say, as if their
worth was only unappreciated by themselves. I am not talk¬
ing of the Publicans and the Pharisees of the world. I mean
to refer only to the upright amongst us, and the purer in
deeds, and to those whose vice is the deeper because they
have not cared to find it vice, and who sin and like it, and see
not why they should not. I mean no sneer at goodness—I
mean no base allusion to the possible hypocrisy of virtue.
The heart must be bad that would love to detrac t from good-
THE DANSETTSE.
183
ness ; but a lesson may be learnt, if it is true that tbe pride
of tbe good is developed when the humility of the wicked is
so likewise.
I do not know what has suggested these reflections : if the
reader thinks D'Arcy has given rise to them, he is at liberty
to think so ; but I do not say so.
D'Arcy kept his promise, such as he gave it, to Lord Stan-
more, and, whatever feelings or motives induced him to give
it,—if they were good, or if the effort cost him dearly,—he
told no one, for that was not his way ; and, besides, D'Arcy
knew better than most men the infinite compassion we have
for our own bosom's woes, and the infinite contempt and the
slender pity we feel for those of all other people.
CHAPTEE XI.
" a something' all-sufficient for the heart
Is that for which the sex are always seeking;
But how to fill up that same vacant part ?
There lies the rub—and this they are but weak in.
Frail mariners afloat, without a chart,
They run before the wind, through high seas breaking;
And when they have made the shore through every shock,
'Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock."
Byron.
D'Aect could not go out of town, as he told Lord Stanmore
he should, and as he had intended: business obliged him to
remain.
Lord Stanmore, meanwhile, returned to his mother, and
D'Arcy, as he himself thought, was within a fortnight of
going abroad, at the very time when Violet Woodville
wrote to him, and that the Morning Post, with the usual
accuracy of a newspaper, announced his departure for the
next day.
D'Arcy was too acute a judge of human nature to be mis¬
led by Violet's letter. He only saw in it a proof of her soft
and sweet character. But she did not know this, and when
she wrote to D'Arcy she was oppressed with shame. He
reassured her when they met, and then it was she wept with
joy.
D'Arcy was touched. " You love me then ? " said he.
" Yes," answered a low voice that tears were stifling.
D'Arcy sighed. Strange, perhaps, to say, but not to feel,
134
VIOLET; OB,
Yiolet had not asked as yet for any explanation ; neither had
D'Arcy volunteered it; she seemed too happy ; for hers was
love indeed—the love that cannot remember a fault when the
object is in its presence.
" Love is not Love,
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
Oh, no ! it is an ever fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and yet is not shaken;
It is the star of every wandering hark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height he taken."
Shakspeare.
At length, however, D'Arcy told Yiolet of the promise of
not seeing her again, which Lord Stanmore had obtained
from him.
" He also told me of the information he had given against
me. I kept my word with Stanmore ; and, after all he had
been so good as to say, I concluded you would soon forget,
and, probably, despise me. If I ever was generous, or better
than I knew myself to be, it has been lately, while I have
undergone this ordeal, and attempted nothing in my own
favour."
" But was it not true !—Is it false ? "
" What, Yiolet P "
" That you love some one I do not know ? "
" False ! Oh, yes, but not that the world believes I do."
" Oh, Heavens !" exclaimed Yiolet, turning very pale; "I
understand your evasion, Mr. d'Arcy—leave me! " And she
resolutely stood still.
" My sincerity has then lost me your esteem P "
" Esteem ! I did not think you could have deceived me
thus."
" Listen to me—nay, do—you must! You have not heard
me ; in fairness you must listen to me. What, then, have I
done ? I have declared I loved you as I loved no other ; and
I declare it still."
" Then you are highly treacherous to another person."
"Ho, I am not; nothing should induce me to take so
much pains to deceive any one : had I the inclination, be¬
lieve me, I have not the time," said D'Arcy, half sneeringly,
half earnestly.
" The time !—are you now laughing at me, Mr. d'Arcy ? "
exclaimed his companion, while the tears rose to her eyes.
" At you ? Oh, never !—but what I say is the fact."
" Then some one must have been as much misled as to
THE DANSETTSE.
135
your affection for her as I have been. I concluded that it
was an error of Lord Stanmore's—a mistake ; I was foolish
to think so. Lord Stanmore could not have been wrong."
" You can then so easily believe me to be all that is con¬
temptible P " replied D'Arcy.
" I do," answered Miss Woodville, as she again signified
her wish that D'Arcy should leave her. Her cheek was
deeply coloured, and her lip trembled. D'Arcy looked
anxiously to seek compassion in her eyes—
" Eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark vice would turn abash'd away."
" Violet! " he exclaimed with emotion, " what I have said
is the truth ; I have not deceived you, or any one else : can
you not conceive that it is impossible forme to compromise a
lady whose name the busy tongue of scandal has already
connected too much with mine? Even to you there are
things I ought not to betray. But if you are willing to put
faith in me, do it not by halves. I have declared I never
will be insincere with you, I have been so with others—
with many ; but you are worthy of my better feelings ; you
have inspired them, I should rather say : I pledge you my
word—and that I have never broken (even to a woman)—
that I have not deceived you or any one else; and that I
loved and love you better than all I have met with in this
created world. Ah, Violet! if you knew me, you would
believe me. If you knew me as I know myself, you might
esteem me less, but still you would believe me."
" But you give no explanation, and what am I to think ?
A lady would not place herself—her character, at the mercy
of every one, if at least she was not led on by the strongest
belief in your affection P "
" The ungoverned mind of an ill-educated woman, under
no personal control, may lead to anything. It is a character
I have a horror of!—but not later than to-morrow I will
put an end to a connection which gives me no pleasure, and
which may bring disgrace upon one unfortunate person, and
misery upon another. Are you satisfied, Violet?—Then
look at this." D'Arcy drew a letter from his waistcoat
pocket. It was directed to him, and in a woman's hand.
" There ; read the first lines of this, and say if they do not
confirm what I have told you."
Violet read while D'Arcy held the letter.
" I knew I never had your love—you never flattered me
136
VIOLET ; OB,
with pretending that I had; but jour compassion and for¬
bearance "
This was all that D'Arcy thought it necessary that Violet
should read.
" There exist strange people," she exclaimed, while D'Arcy
folded up the letter; " but this lady must be lost to every¬
thing. Oh, Mr. D'Arcy, she must be out of her senses;
have pity upon her, whoever she is, and point out to her the
sadness of her conduct. Is she a young lady or a widow ? "
" Neither," answered D'Arcy, laughing ; " she is married,
and to the very best of stupid men, I believe."
" Her husband alive ? "
" Dearest! I assure you, husbands don't die so easily."
And D'Arcy laughed on in spite of himself, even while he
breathed the influence of Violet Woodville's innocent
character.
" Oh, if you knew how I love you! " said D'Arcy, fondly ;
" there is such a charm in every word you utter. What I
would give to be able to live my life over again, and in the
early part of it to have met with you ! I am sure I should
have been better than I am now; I am convinced my destiny
is linked with yours; I do not know how, but I have a
strange presentiment of unhappiness comes over me; with¬
out you I cannot live, and united to you, misery would attend
both of us. I am not good enough for the difficult position
a marriage with you would place me in ; I have no fortune,
but while I exist my spirit will cling to yours : and the
other day, as I sat alone and thought of you, I half dreamt
—it must have been a dream—that my death and yours
would be at the same time. I felt a strange pleasure in the
idea. If I could not live with you, it would be an exquisite
thing to die with you. Violet, would you die with me ? "
" Ves!"
" She turns and speaks ; her voice is far,
Far above singing! "
" Dearest!" said D'Arcy, softly, lost in the emotion of
his own happiness at the conviction he felt of being so
completely loved,—and they continued for some minutes in
silence.
" Joy like his, like hers,
Deals not in words."
Dor it was joy, the pure and rapturous joy of affection, in its
best, its tenderest, and, above all, its purest moments. Every-
THE DANSEUSE.
137
thing is more ecstatic when it approaches Heaven, and love
has its divinity, but it is only during one short moment, when
itself can be forgotten,—
" And even the spirit of man is divine."
" And now I must again say this, Violet," resumed
D'Arcy, " that when I promised Stanmore to give you up, it
was the most virtuous act of my whole life. Had I loved
you one atom less, or had you been less perfect in my eyes, I
could have abjured the idea ; and while I had the power, I
would have pursued you, and acted differently, far differ¬
ently, from the way I have done," continued he, faintly
smiling; " but I loved so much, that for once I was not
selfish; and yet now you shall not have to reproach me for
everything. I fancy you could marry Stanmore, Violet; do
so, and forget me ! "
" Never, Mr. d'Arcy," replied Violet Woodville, eagerly.
" And why not ? Attend to me while I have the courage
to utter the words. You do wrong, my darling one : he is
excellent, and you are worthy of sharing his destiny. You
could not marry in the class you belong to; you were meant
for something better, and Stanmore offers you the bright
career that should be yours. What would you have,Violet?
He is not old, nor ugly; and is he not intellectual ? I am
not asking you to sacrifice yourself to rank and riches ; but
if you had been born to the fairest happiness, I know nothing
that could insure it more than to marry such a man as Stan¬
more. Had he no other advantages, his very heart, with its
generous feelings, is a treasure on which a woman might
repose for ever in security."
" But I do not love Lord Stanmore."
" But you would, in time."
" No! "
" Yes, you would, Violet," said D'Arcy, mournfully;
"trust to my experience."
" I shall not change; I know I never can be happy ; be¬
sides, this is useless—Lord Stanmore would not now think
of me."
" At this moment he would not; he is too proud, and he
thinks you love me ; but I am—am going ; and his affection
will not be so easily overcome as he may now suppose.
When once I am out of the way, he will be at your feet again;
I am sure of it: so marry him, then, Violet. I will answer
for your happiness, though you cannot! "
138
VIOLET; OB,
" Doubtless you are sure of your own, Mr. d'Arcy," an¬
swered Violet, with some pique.
Her lover looked reproachfully at her, and there was a
sorrowful sadness in his expression.
" Oh, Violet," exclaimed D'Arcy, " if you can give me an
unkind word now, my reward is indeed denied, and I am
punished when I least deserved it! "
" Do not say so, Mr. d'Arcy."
" I must, for it is as I feel; it is hard to be reproached at
this moment."
" Forgive me, then! " cried Violet, hastily ; " was I un¬
just P I care so much for your affection, and it is that I
thought of."
" I never before proved it so thoroughly," continued
D'Arcy; " I have spoken against myself, and it has cost me
an effort that Heaven may remember! "
At this moment the lovers were interrupted by Mrs. Hum-
mings. She had remained at her usual respectful distance
while D'Arcy and Violet walked on together. She now
approached to remind them that they had turned up the
walk a second time, and that her young lady would be
expected at home. ,
D'Arcy and Violet parted without referring to when they
should meet again : both had a motive for this forbearance,
probably.
" So, Violet, what do you think is the news ? " were Mrs.
Woodville's first words on seeing Violet after her morning's
walk. " Wonders never cease."
"Yes," said Mr. Woodville^ "it has all gone right for
them; but it might have all gone wrong. It is only some
folks have luck, and some have not,—that's all; nothing else.",
" And some young ladies play their cards better, and some
will not condescend to play them at all."
"And I think none the worse of those that don't," said 11.
Dupas, emphatically.
" What's the news ? " Violet demanded.
" Oh, only that your friend, Emily Horris, is to marry
Mr. Harcourt, forsooth ! Much good may it do him," said
Mrs. Woodville, with the most evident maternal jealousy, i
" I am delighted ! " exclaimed Violet, with a countenance
that corroborated her words. " Dear mamma, she will be so
happy! Father, do walk with me to the Norrises. Itit
just what Emily wishes; and she is quite fit for it," con¬
tinued Violet, speaking her thoughts aloud; " she will make
THE BANSEUSE.
139
a very good wife; though, she is not born a lady, she was
intended for one."
" Is it joy at Emily's marriage makes you look so happy
this morning, Violet?" asked M. Dupas, after he had
watched her some minutes.
" Oh, yes, I am so glad of it," she answered, without
meaning to tell an untruth. She did not know that seeing
D'Arcy had made her look so radiant.
" I do feel much better this morning. Father, I will put
on my bonnet, and you will walk with me to the Norrises."
" Very well, Violet, dear; but make haste."
Violet did not require the last injunction. The step of the
happy is always quick; so Violet flew.
The Norrises were >at this moment the most prosperous
people, certainly, in the world; that is to say, they thought
themselves so,—and, of course, the true measure of any one's
prosperity must be to judge of it according to their own
view. Mrs. Horris had achieved the object of her secret
ambition; and Miss Norris had so many reasons for being
pleased, it would be impossible to enumerate them.
" Of course, Mr. Woodville," said Mrs. Norris, in answer
to his congratulations,—" of course I feel flattered that my
Emily should make so good a connection ; and I must say I
think she deserves it. It has always been my aim to bring
her up with the best principles, and an idea of conducting
herself with propriety ; it is conduct, Mr. Woodville, which
I have endeavoured to teach her; I have a horror of any¬
thing that gives rise to talking,—there never was a word
against Emily, thank heaven ! and Mr. Harcourt declares
himself to be the happiest of men. His affectionate beha¬
viour towards me is quite delightful; it has touched me to
the heart, I assure you."
" I am glad you iike your son-in-law, Mrs. Norris," said
Mr. Woodville, somewhat bluntly.
" He is a most gentlemanlike young man," continued Mrs.
Norris. " It would all have been arranged much sooner,
according to Mr. Harcourt's own wishes; but I, as Emily's
mother, had feelings of delicacy : Emily having no fortune,
and having been on the stage, I knew were reasons that
Harcourt's relations might allege against the marriage. It is
always necessary to respect people's prejudices, and I am the
last person to wish to force my daughter upon any one ; and
Emily herself would have died at the thoughts of such a
thing."
140
VIOLET ; OE,
" And so, now Mr. Harcourt's friends wisli him to marry
Miss Norris P "
"Yes," said Mrs. Norris, boldly, but colouring a'little;
" yes, indeed,—yes, I may say they approve. He has nd
near relations, which is a good thing ;—no father, you know,
or anything of that sort. Well, Mr. Woodville, and how
soon are we to hear of Miss Violet making a great marriage?
She is so admired, I am sure, by the gentlemen."
"Why, yes, any one that looks at her must admire her,"
said Woodville, recovering his good humour, which, without
his knowing it, had been a little ruffled by the exceedingly
full-blown satisfaction of Mrs. Norris.
" There's a knock at the door," exclaimed that lady, who
was not keeping her dignity in its usual quiescence.
" It is Mr. Harcourt,—yes, it is ; " and Mrs. Norris, with
a rush of ready-made maternal tenderness, flew from the
chair to meet her future son-in-law at the door.
Harcourt looked gay and happy enough; but when he
advanced without seeing Emily, his face betrayed his innate
spoiltness, and he passed his hand through his hair, and indo¬
lently, if not coldly, allowed Mrs. Norris to take his other
hand between both of hers.
"Dear Mr. Harcourt, so good of you to come so early;
Emily will be enchanted ! "
" Why, of course, it's Emily I want to see, Mrs. Norris;
and pray where is she ? "
Mrs. Norris thought fit to look over Harcourt's implied
rudeness, and told Emily's betrothed that she was in the
little boudoir,—"My little boudoir; she has a friend with
her."
" A friend! what friend,—what friend? " said the lover,
sulkily. "Who ever heard of anybody having friends at this
hour of the morning ? Why it's not,—oh, by my JBreguet, I
see it is a quarter to one."
Emily Norris herself and Violet now entered, and when
Harcourt saw who her friend was, he was appeased; for he
could not help thinking what a much worse one his Emily
might have chosen than the sweet and beautiful Violet
Woodville.
She and her father rose to take leave, after making the
most proper apologies for Mrs. Woodville's not having come
with them; the real fact having been, that she could not
undergo the sight of Mrs. Norris's self-gratulation.
THE DANSEUSE.
141
"Well, Violet, what do you think of them all?" inquired
Mr. Woodville, as he walked home with his daughter.
"I like Mr. Harcourt well enough, as far as I have seen
him, and Emily, of course, likes him; and she is quite
pleased,—and that is everything ; and she is so kind to me,
and almost wants me to come and live with her."
"Well, that shows a good heart, at any rate, for the pre¬
sent ; but she will soon get her head filled with vanity, I dare
say."
" Oh dear, no,—I do not think that. Emily is such a dif¬
ferent character from Mrs. Norris. She told me it was, after
all, a surprise, when Mr. Harcourt proposed; for that she did
not know what he meant to do, or which way it would end;
and that she had been so worried lately, she says she is so
glad to feel certain about it at last."
"And now, Violet," asked Mr. Woodville, in surprise at
his daughter's unusual gaiety, " I would fain know what it is
makes you look so much better P and why you are not break¬
ing your heart as much to-day as yesterday, and every day
for the last month past ? "
" I do not know,—it is such a fine day ! "
Violet's father was not a suspicious man.
Violet met D'Arcy again next morning in the gardens, and
she went on doing so nearly every day.
Her happiness at having his society once more was quite
enough to colour every hour of her present life ; and, in the
intoxication in which she lived, reason, without being less
acute, had not the same power. So now she only knew she
was wrong, without any longer staying to consider how
wrong.
Love, with lovers, is such an inexhaustible theme,—and
nothing by them is said so often, but that it is not new when
said again. There was not then any want of conversation
between Violet and D'Arcy ; we may remember, too, how
very eloquent becomes even Cupid's silence.
f)'Arcy was not always the same ; sometimes he was rest¬
less and angry, without a defined cause, and would upbraid
Violet, and not explain himself; and the very distress that
this occasioned her, riveted her affections more firmly to
him. So true it is, that even the faults of those we love,
when not carried too far, do but add to the prestige of affec¬
tion. Diderot has somewhere said, " Cclui qui ne commit
pas la peine nest pas a compter par mi les cnfants des homines;"
142
VIOLET; OE,
and, perhaps, it is in some connection with this principle,
that we are fonder of a faulty being than of one of more per¬
fection. With the former, is it that they are rendered dearer
to us by their similitude to ourselves ?—is it that, because of
their faults, we feel more particularly that they are "a
compter parmi les enfants des hommes ? "
CHAPTER XII.
" 'Tis said that marriages are made in Heaven,
But I have known, at least, some six or seven,
Of which the origin the wise could trace
Most clearly to a very different place.
Not that I mean a single word to state
Against this peerless lady and her mate:
If passion, fancy, bear a holier name,
The effect in this one case has been the same;
The bridegroom doats intensely, and the bride
Can boast of worldly wisdom for her guide."
Anon.
" Hakcouet, I am told you are going to be married," said
D'Arcy, accosting him in St. James's-street.
"Who told you so?" said Harcourt; looking very much
what I once heard said of_ a certain gentleman, that he
had the air of a poacher, conscious that the tail of a phea¬
sant, out of season, had escaped from his coat pocket behind.
" That I forget; but is it true ? because I must congratu¬
late,—felicitate."
"Eor Heaven's sake, D'Arcy, say no more about it," said
Harcourt, taking hold of D'Arcy's arm. " I don't want to
have the whole cursed world buzzing in my ears with congra¬
tulations. I mean to do it,—I have made up my mind.
What's the use of being a man if one is not to have a mind
of one's own ? I know what suits me,—I am essentially a
marrying man; and I hate all those London girls, they have
no freshness about them, none of the innocence of—of—"
" Of Miss Norris ? "
" I don't mean that, exactly; but, in short, I know what
suits myself, and I don't care a d—n for her not having a
sixpence."
" Oh! no,—half ' those London girls ' have not a sixpence."'
"Ah, but I mean, I don't care about her being—having
been on the stage : what does it matter ? A handsome girl,
THE DANSETTSE.
143
as she is! and so well brought up, too!—what does that
signify P "
" Oh, it is entirely a matter of opinion."
"Yes, it is," rejoined Harcourt, as if he was comforted;
"after all, the thing is to be happy, and I rather applaud
myself for not being talked out of my intentions by my
friends. I have no idea of a man who has not the spirit to
go out of the beaten track when it suits him; as if, when she
is my wife, she was not my wife ! "
" What, do they say she will not be ? " asked D'Arcy, with
naivete.
"No, no; but what I mean is, what does it matter about
who she was, when she is my wifeP "
" It is entirely a matter of opinion, as I said before ; at all
events, you are satisfied, and that is to you,—must be to you,
a point gained." And D'Arcy tried to leave his friend, but
Mr. Harcourt took his arm, and hesitatingly inquired,—" So
I have not your approval, D'Arcy,—eh? I see that."
" My dear Harcourt, I shall be too charmed to become
better acquainted with the future Mrs. Harcourt; and I am
the last man in the world to foresee the possibility of disap¬
proving of the wife of my friend."
D'Arcy escaped, and Mr. Harcourt endeavoured to force
away the unpleasant reflections, which his foolish arguments
showed plainly he had to contend with in his own mind. He
soon succeeded, for he went directly to see Emily.
The preparations for the marriage were not long in making :
a special license was procured, and in the presence of Mrs.
Norris, the Woodvilles, and D'Arcy, Emily Norris was
united to Mr. Harcourt. D'Arcy was the only friend that
Harcourt asked to be present, and he was too happy to profit
by the opportunity of meeting Violet.
D'Arcy made some excuses to the Woodvilles for not having
been to them for so long a time; and they in their turn ex¬
pressed their surprise that he had not. Mrs. Woodville could
not conceal her satisfaction at seeing him again; but her in¬
vitations to D'Arcy to come and visit them as before were
not echoed by her husband. However, there was not much
time for conversation before the bride was led in by her
mother, and Harcourt entered the room at the same mo¬
ment. He looked ill, and as if his mind was not at ease; he
gazed at Emily when she appeared, and then, before he went
towards her, approached D'Arcy, and said in a low voice,
"At least she is handsome, I have that excuse."
144
VIOLET ; OR.
" Yes, indeed, if that be one."
"At all events, to the last moment you have dissuaded me.
For God's sake, should this turn out ill, do not reproach me
with your former advice."
" For worlds I would not," answered D'Arcy. " But, my
dear fellow, how comes it that your courage fails you now P"
" It does not,—but it is for life, and I may have been
mistaken."
" None of us are infallible."
" Thank you, D'Arcy. Chance what may," continued
Harcourt, emphatically, "you and I are old friendsand he
walked up to Emily.
The ceremony began. It was impossible not to allow that
if beauty could make Harcourt's strange marriage an excusable
one, it was not deficient. Emily Norris was very handsome,
—it might be called a fine style of beauty, also. There was
something very aristocratic in her finely-formed figure, and
her well-bred manners did not contradict the impression
made by her first appearance. Mrs. Norris had taken pains
to furnish her daughter with every accomplishment, and she
worked upon a profitable soil. So far there was nothing
objectionable, and nothing more remained to be done for
Emily than to leave her in her new station, to acquire, if she
could, the ease of good society, of that society in which Har¬
court lived, but of which Emily, as yet, knew nothing. During
the ceremony D'Arcy stood next Violet Woodville; she
thought much less of what was going on in her presence than
she would have done if D'Arcy had not occupied her thoughts
almost wholly.
He, on the contrary, was graver than usual, and, to judge
by that, and his air of fixed attention, it appeared as if he
was absorbed in the service. Once, when Violet casually
looked at him, she was struck with his countenance: it was
sorrowful, and when his eyes fell upon her, she could have
thought she saw them fullo f tears. Could the marriage affect
him so much as this ? Violet reproached herself for not
attending to it more. Alas ! her thoughts recurred to him,
and she forgot that " thou shalt not make to thyself idols, or
worship them."
D'Arcy walked home with the Woodvilles. It was a beau¬
tiful September day, and he listened attentively to their
summer plans, for even the Woodvilles had their summer
plans; what English people have not? and those who have
not yet escaped from town never think the summer elapsed
until they have.
THE DAHSEtTSE.
145
Violet had some geraniums in her hand, but, by degrees,
the air scattered their red leaves, and, seeing this, before she
reached home she threw their remains away on the pave¬
ment. D'Arcy watched with his eye the useless discarded
flowers.
" To-morrow you must let me come and see you; I have
not been in your house for such a long time,—may I come ? "
said D'Arcy, winningly.
Mrs. Woodville replied by reminding him that she had
already begged him to renew his visits.
" Au revoir, then," said D'Arcy; but as he approached and
took Violet's hand, he looked dejected, and he said something
briefly, and sadly, but what, Violet could not hear.
Alone in the street, D'Arcy retraced his steps until he
reached the spot where the geraniums had been cast away.
There they lay still, on the sunny pavement,—one by one he
picked them up. Ho eye was there to see him, and no one to
repeat the tale, or make a merit of it in the eyes of his mis¬
tress,—yet his lips kissed the dying flowers, and carefully he
took them home.
In a listless mood D'Arcy wandered to his own abode.
The end of September in London is just the time, if ever, that
, nature cries out for the country,—it is the interval between
the end of all things and the recommencement of them,—
which will give rise to a desire for fresh air even in the breast
of the most thorough-paced town-bred gentleman ; and this
was now the case with D'Arcy, or, if it was not, his ill-humour
and the gloomy turn of his mind, as he walked along the
streets, gave testimony to some source of discontent equally
destructive of good-humour.
He envied Harcourt,—how pleased Harcourt would have
been if he could have guessed it,—yes, D'Arcy envied him ;
not his being the husband of Emily, but it was envy of
another's momentary happiness, and a yearning after its pos¬
session. D'Arcy felt irritated against the whole world, and
more so still with himself. He took a fit of hatred against
mankind,—he saw everybody worse than they are,—he
reflected upon the inequalities of fate,—he disliked his own
existence, and contemned and sneered at every other person's.
He thought he was wisely moralizing. " Vu en passant, un
homme blase ainsi qu'un ambitieux de?u, resemble a un
sage."*
He felt weary of life, and a wish for something better, and
* Madame de Genlis.
L
146
VIOLET; OE,
when, he tried to grasp the " lighter than air, hope's summer
visions," and saw, alas ! how vainly,
" If but a beam of sober reason play,"
his mind returned to its bitterness ; and he felt regret and
sadness, and the neant of all things.
" En vain la passion entreprend quelquefois a nous per¬
suader que nous sommes nes pour le plaisir."*
Ideas of a higher import will at times cross the mind of
every man, and what does it signify how trivial the cause
that has given rise to them ?
The reflection will come home as freely to the bosom of a
George d'Arcy as it would to that of the sober-minded philo¬
sopher, who gazes on planets till almost forgetting that he
lives in one.
On reaching his house, D'Arcy's servant gave him a note.
He read it through attentively ; he reflected for an instant, and
then ordered his cabriolet to come to the door. Before he
stepped into it, D'Arcy had carefully deposited between the
leaves of a book the almost flowerless geraniums he had so ten¬
derly rescued. It is curious how ungenerous our conduct can
be, and how tender, how divine almost, our sentiments !
The greater the pity that a bad education should make our
feelings so often the only fruits of a disposition that has
emanations from Heaven, and that the selfishness of a corrupt
life should be the corroder of all.
" That immortal Are,
To human hearts in mercy given,
To lift from earth our low desire."
Byron.
D'Arcy drove to a house in one of the squares at the west
end; he was admitted, and shown by the servant into the
drawing-room.
A lady, and a very pretty one, was reclining upon the sofa;
she was young, not above five or six and twenty, and curi¬
ously dressed—rather theatrically; a style of costume, by the
bye, which would occasion me great uneasiness if any symp¬
toms of it appeared in my domestic circle. She was very fair
and pale, with languishing, overflowing blue eyes—very pretty
eyes, but bearing no resemblance to my wife's, thank Heaven!
or it would be impossible to have the satisfaction of saying*
* Massilon.
THE DANSETJSE. 147
/
like one of Paul de Kock's heroes, " Mon ami, je ne le suis
pas." *
The lady, such as she has been slightly portrayed, started
up on seeing Mr. d'Arey, and flew towards him.
" Heavens ! " she exclaimed.
" Surely you expected me," said D'Arcy, in answer to this
exclamation.
" Yes, but my nerves are so shattered, my feelings have
been so wrought upon; but, thank God ! it is you."
" Why, certainly it is ; did you want me particularly to¬
day F "
" Is that what you say to me ? "
" I really only asked a very simple question."
" I am most miserable ;" and the speaker, in testimony of
her words, dived her head into a heap of sofa cushions.
" Do you want your salts P " asked D Arcy, coldly.
" Monster ! " murmured the lady.
" I had better leave you at present," and he rose.
In an instant a shriek was uttered, and his knees were
clasped by the softest white hands.
" Don't scream so, I beg," cried D'Arcy, looking round
with a most alarmed countenance; " you totally forget that
your servants will hear you."
" You don't think they did, I trust ? " replied the lady, in
a suddenly rational tone of voice.
" There's no telling—I wish you would learn to be quieter
■—you know I hate scenes."
" Be kind to me, then, George," was said by the lady in an
imploring tone.
" Oh ! of course ; but you are so very unreasonable, and
you have no sort of discretion; I cannot stand it—you com¬
promise me as well as yourself, and by your folly you lose
your reputation, and, some of these days, your husband will
be as wise as you choose to make the rest of the world. But
this is not all; I must, in kindness to you, express now, as I
have before done, my determination to give up our intimacy.
The world will talk, and if it would not, you would force it.
The end must be something unpleasant, and I wish to save
you from that, and also myself from being tbe object of your
greatest hatred, as the cause. You never will remember that
the race of Lydia Languish is extinct; that is, they have
long ceased to be the fashion; and as you are particularly a
lady of fashion, this part does not become you at all. I do
* Le Cocu.
L 2
148
VIOLET; OE,
not want to offend you, but you do oblige me to tell you that
I never could see wherein consisted your misfortunes. ^ You
have always dwelt upon them, and out of common complaisance
I would not always contradict you; but really "
"What!" at length exclaimed D'Arcy's companion, "is
it not enough to be married to a man I cannot endure P "
" Then why did you marry him ? "
" I was persuaded into it."
" And allowing you were, then, is your husband's whole
life to be the sacrifice of your weakness of mind ? But who
persuaded you ?—the most indulgent of parents, if I knew
anything of Lady Glanmore: her sole desire was to form
your happiness, so that, I will answer for it, had you pre¬
ferred it in the very least degree, you might still have been
Miss Glanmore, with a very legitimate right to make as many
men unhappy as you could, instead of the one most illegiti¬
mate object of your present caprice."
"You are very severe, Mr. d'Arcy; and from you, at
least, I did not expect "
" If I am, I beg your pardon—I feel I have no right to be
so ; but I can't help wishing, for your own sake, to point out
where I think you exaggerate your miseries ; and you
remember you declared it was against them that you said you
clung to me for refuge. I must observe, then, that the most
objectionable feature which I discover in your husband, is
the very tie which unluckily binds him to you, and that had
you been Mrs. d'Arcy, things would not have been so dif¬
ferent as you imagine; except, indeed, that you would have
had to struggle with poverty, and probably have envied the
lot of the mistress of this comfortable house."
" Do you conceive me to have so base a mind ? And is it
thus I am appreciated P " demanded the lady, indignantly.
" Not at all base; but you interrupt me. What I was
going on to say is, that, with your very peculiar disposition,
you would probably have disliked whoever you had married,
and that therefore it would be wiser to hate less indiscreetly,
and to feel some little gratitude to the man who submits with
so good a grace, and, en revanche, bestows all that both his
fortune can afford, and his kindness dictate."
" Yes, but he adores me; and if he is well behaved to me,
it is to please himself."
"It is an agreeable species of selfishness, however, and of
a kind that may fluctuate. I was going to say, also, that, upon
my word and honour, I do thinknyour husband is actually
THE DANSEUSE.
149
many degrees better than most of that class, and positively
I see nothing in him to justify your unconscionable train of
sentimentality, a little in the falsetto style, and which may
one day meet with a harsher reproof than I could find in my
heart to bestow on so beautiful and young a lady as you are."
" I hate flattery; but what have you been saying all this
time P—wanting me to despise myself?"
" To correct yourself, say rather, and to learn not to under¬
value the advantages you possess. Life is short, and the
season of youth is shorter—the past cannot be recalled. If
there is anything to regret while you are young, it is wiser
to remember it as little, instead of as much as you can ; when
middle age arrives, it is yet time enough to despair under the
accumulated miseries of a life without one solid grievance ;
for, believe me, things are more equalized than you suspect,
and, having seen a good deal more of the world than you
have, if it will be satisfactory, I can assure you I know few
people whose fate seems so happily cast as yours, and that,
throughout my experience, I have not met with one case of
perfect bliss ; besides, if you have small annoyances from
other people's faults,
' Tous ces defauts humains nous donnent dans la vie,
Des moyens d'exercer notre philosophie.' "
" Are you going out as a missionary to convert the Zea-
landers ? " asked the lady, scornfully.
" My dear friend, do not be angry with me; yes, I am
going away, though not as a missionary, and it is the fact of
my departure which makes me try before I go to remind you
of a few sources of consolation, not for my absence, but to
correct the misfortunes for which you originally requested
my sympathy."
" Much have I obtained it! whither turn against the in¬
gratitude of the whole world ? "
" I am certainly not ungrateful," answered D'Arcy, apa¬
thetically ; " if I were, I should not have made myself so
disagreeable during this visit. It is in gratitude for the many
pleasant hours you have enabled me to pass that I have said
these undisguised truths, and which there is nothing so easy
as for you to forget; and if you like to have lovers, who
knows better than I the swarm that would solicit the honour?
I only wish you to make the most of your advantages, or, by
making you feel that you have some, to prevent your impru¬
dence, which threatens to ruin you."
150
VIOLET; OB.
" And you abandon me ? "
"No, there is nothing to justify your putting it in that
light. I am simply obliged to leave England."
" And supposing you were not ? "
" Why ask me that question ? "
" I do, and will have an answer ! "
" In that case—my not leaving England—I wish to remain
your friend as much as you will permit me, but nothing
more."
" In short, you never have loved me."
" It is of no use returning to that old attack, ahd now, too,
especially." D'Arcy rose to take leave, and then the lady,
with a iittle of the dignity she had not hitherto shown,
exclaimed, " At all events, I have liked you—loved you? that
you believe, I hope, or I must be without excuse in your
eyes."
" I do,—that you have thought so, at least; but as I do
not think that, au fond, I am the person, as a lover even,
most likely to suit you, I fear the time will come when you
will wonder over the bygone days of your youth, and at your
aimable condescension towards so great an admirer of one of
the very prettiest persons that exist."
D'Arcy, with these concluding words/hastened to leave
the room.
" Stay, oh, stay one moment! " cried the handsome lady.
" It is better not, you will enslave me still," answered
D'Arcy.
" But you must tell me, do you think me a fool, or de¬
praved, or what P I like to know what people think of me:
above all, are you in love with some one else ? "
" I do not think you a fool, I do not think you quite de¬
praved," said D'Arcy, smiling, " and I cannot help being
much interested in the happiness of one so young, and whose
fate is held in her own hands."
" But if you would guide me ! No. Yet, after all, is it
not worth while to be loved by me ? You pretend to admire
me, and you know my affection for you. Alas ! "
The lady sighed, and played with the rings on her fingers,
and then took up a pocket-handkerchief with Mathilde em¬
broidered in old-English letters, and in gold, in the corner.
Mathilde swept the handkerchief across her eyelids, leaving
them sufficiently bedewed, to touch, if possible, the heart of
D'Arcy. But D'Arcy was not new to scenes like the pre¬
sent, and a long acquaintance had made him perfectly au fait
THE DANSETXSE.
151
with the character of Mathilde ; and he, two or three times
in his life, had gone through the seething cauldron of a lady's
wrath, to whom a man declares, not his eternal love, but the
respectful friendship that for both their sakes he proffers in
lieu of it. How is it that ladies are always so angry when
this very handsome compromise is proposed to them ; for
friendship among themselves they have been known to rave
about: but women are such contradictory creatures !
" You forget," said D'Arcy, remembering himself, so as to
respire a most melodious sigh, meant as a little galanterie to
the half-wiped tears—" you forget I am leaving England so
shortly."
" But you can come back, and in the mean time corre¬
spond,—that is, if you will swear to fall in love with no one
else."
" Oh, no, I will swear nothing; you would then, you
know, think it was out of respect to my oath that my heart
remained faithful, and then love and fidelity, according to
your creed, are so involuntary ; so I will swear nothing, ex¬
cept, to the end of time, that you are a most lovely lady,
with the very dearest eyes ! I will call again—adieu—for
the present I shall be out of town!" And pretending
not to hear her further remonstrances, the ci-devant lover
rushed downstairs, and jumping into his cabriolet, drove
rapidly away.
CHAPTER XIII.
" Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours
Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah ! why
With cypress-branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh ?
As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers.
And place them on the breast—but place to die j
And the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosom but to perish."
Byron.
D'Arcy drove to his lodgings, and was soon lost in the
perusal of a letter he found awaiting him, with a most im¬
portant official seal. It was from the Minister of Foreign
Affairs, to cancel his previous appointment, and to confer
upon him one that he most desired, that of Secretary of
Embassy at one of the foreign courts. Owing to some pe¬
culiar circumstances, he was requested not to lose time, if
152
VIOLET OK,
possible, in setting out for bis destination, as tbe former
secretary bad died suddenly, and tbe principal attacM was'
on leave of absence to attend a sick parent. In abort, tbe
ambassador was represented to be in a most difficult situa¬
tion ; and D'Arcy saw, in return for bis appointment, be bad
nothing to do but to obey tbe order be received to tbe very
letter, and leave England witbin four-and-twenty hours.
There was a postscript from tbe minister—" To save time, as
I shall be at Parsley House, could not you ride down there
by five o'clock ? I could then give you final instructions, and
you will be ready to start as early as may be to-morrow."
D'Arcy looked at bis watch; it was half-past four : be
ordered bis bprse instantly to come round, and muttered to
himself, " As early as may be to-morrow ! " For a minute
be stood still, as a man does, doing nothing, when be is sud¬
denly oppressed with an overwhelming tide of business. A
thousand ideas rapidly crossed bis mind—Yiolet—bis new
appointment — the ambassador — tbe steam-boat — Parsley
House—letters that must be written—debts that must be
paid—sundry articles that must be purchased—bis landlady;
all these, and a thousand other things, persons, and events,
crowded on tbe mind of our hero. Once more be rang bis
bell, and gave bis servant as many directions as he con¬
ceived it possible for him to execute during bis ride to
Putney.
" Understand," said D'Arcy, " that to-morrow, by twelve
o'clock, I shall be on the Dover road ; therefore all delay
must be out of tbe question. My horse is at tbe door, I see;
I shall be back here by six o'clock."
D'Arcy galloped — galloped as fast as the knight who
galloped " away, away, away," although there was no lady
on the tower to wave to him "her lily-white band."
The quick pace at which be rode accorded agreeably with
tbe hurry of bis mind—not that D'Arcy was unused to this
species of mental turmoil: bis life bad been an active one,
and a spirit of recklessness bad led him into many an intri¬
cate path. Some people twice live their lives. Their every¬
day existence is one of romance and novelty; and it is
inconceivable tbe variety of events and interests in which
one person may find himself forced to take a part: there are
others, again, who go through the world so steadily, so un¬
conscious of the very natures of half of those who compose
it, that they may be said to sleep their lives away. Well,
I do not know; I am old now, and I have passed a strange
THE DANSEUSE.
153
and a stirring life; but I have sometimes envied such men
their calmer hours, their absence of restlessness, and the
avoidance of that breathless amount of excitement which
wearies the spirit at last, and gives it a longing for repose—
like the traveller in the desert, desiring the water which
eludes his search.
Pew joys, indeed, can compensate for the endless anxiety
attendant upon a life of excitement, and the mental exhaus¬
tion which is its certain consequence. Like gambling, an
existence of this sort becomes fatal; you cannot return to
quietude: if you do, the ennui of an ill-regulated mind fills
up, and horribly, the vacuum. But so it is ; and some there
are who never repose, whilst others are mere active dormice,
capable of enjoying all things that can be enjoyed, and
getting on in years in a most luxurious manner, refreshing
themselves continually with their own excess of contentment:
then, there are those who are never calm, with whom the
earth is so busy a stage, and their part in it so filled up,
so wearying, so harassing, so variable, so wild, that now and
then they long to barter life,
" To be trodden under foot, and mingled but with dust,"
for the sake of peace and quietness at last!
D'Arcy thought of Yiolet Woodville. She was the one
thing prominent in the chaos of his meditations. What
plan to pursue to see her, if ever, again ?—or, to quit Eng¬
land, and leave her to forget him—or D'Arcy's horse,
and himself, and his reflections were checked in their course
by the turnpike on Putney Bridge, and also by a gig, occu¬
pied by a couple who had precedence of him. D'Arcy was
too near this vehicle not to distinguish its occupiers, and to
discover an undeniable side-view of Mr. Woodville's face, as
he turned to pay the gate-keeper.
" Mr. Woodville ! " cried D'Arcy.
" Why, it's you, Mr. d'Arcy," returned Woodville, making
way with his horse: " I did not hope to meet you on this
road."
" I am riding down here on business. I am going "
D'Arcy hesitated ; it may seem strange; but so it was, that
he had not the power to finish his sentence—he could not
say, " I am going to leave England to-morrow."
"You arc going——"
" Yes," replied D'Arcy, absently ; " yes. But where are
you going ? "
154
VIOLET; OE,
" OK, we—I and my wife are going on a visit, to see a
sick friend of ours."
" Poor Mr. M'Gory, whom you must recollect at Covent
Garden," broke in Mrs. Woodville; " Ke performed Macbeth
and King Lear, and was so famous, you know, for the way
in which he said—
' Blow winds, and crack your cheeks;'
and now, poor man ! he is laid up with the gout, and cannot
live, we fear; and he is an old friend of ours, and I and
Woodville thought we would drive down and see him.
Violet's left at home; for we "
" Violet's at home P " repeated D'Arcy.
" Yes, you see there's not room for her; besides ■"
" Oh, it is no great thing to leave her to amuse herself for
half a day," interrupted Mr. Woodville ; " we shall be back
by ten at night, and it will be such a comfort to poor M'Gory
to see us : he has got the snuggest little cottage at Richmond,
as big as a nutshell, and just the article for him."
" Well, then, I will not detain you," cried D'Arcy. " Good
morning, Mrs. Woodville."
" Good day to you, sir," said Woodville.
" I hope you will have a pleasant ride, Mr. d'Arcy," re¬
joined Mrs. Woodville; " and we hope you will come and
see us soon."
"What the d 1 must you needs add that for?" said
Woodville, sharply, to his wife, as D'Arcy and his horse
vanished from view.
" Don't be cross*" replied Mrs. Woodville; " one must be
civil sometimes—besides, one is not to live without hearing
people's voices, I suppose; he is not a vulture or a hippopota¬
mus, to eat us up, Mr. Woodville. How the wind blows my
bonnet! Bless me! look at all those sheep ; why, what busi¬
ness have they in the high road ? This is the high road, is
it not, Charles P"
" To be sure it is."
" Do, pray, take care; I am so afraid of the horse taking
fright at these sheep. What's the good of all that new
police* if a whole drove of sheep are allowed to be on the
high road, with ohly two boys to look after them—shameful!
Oh, dear ! don't whip him, Mr. Woodwille, for fear."
" Be a peaceable woman for once," ejaculated poor Wood¬
ville, " and never mind the sheep, and I will mind the horse."
THE DANSEUSE.
155
The sheep had not disturbed D'Arcy or his steed. On
they went till they reached Parsley House, and D'Arcy was
speedily shown into the library of the minister, who was in
the act of locking some of the important red boxes.
" Give that to the messenger directly," said the noble lord
to the servant who announced our hero.
D'Arcy was obliged to attend to all that was said to him,
and the alacrity of his comprehension, and his undisguised
intention to make his visit as short as possible, were equally
agreeable to the minister. " He quite understands I have
not time to say things twice over, and that a long visit is a
great private nuisance," said the peer to himself. " I hope
to heavens he does not see what a hurry I am in !" thought
D'Arcy ; " but I shall just have time—or if I could overtake
that messenger, I could get into the chaise—but it is too late
—that mare of mine is touched in the wind—fool that I was
to buy her!—rascal to have sold her to me !"
" You have so clearly expressed yourself, my lord, that I
believe I am already capable of transmitting the sense of
your instruction to Lord ; and now, I shall be able to leave
town by twelve o'clock to-morrow, which will enable me to
reach "
D'Arcy's eye wandered to the large clock on a lapis lazuli
table.
" "Why, I am aware you are not a person to lose time on
the road," said the minister, smiling condescendingly.
A few more words were wasted in thanks and grateful
speeches from D'Arcy, and amiable expressions from his
patron.
Mounted once more, D'Arcy flew as breathless as his horse,
with their mutual speed.
He dismounted on reaching his lodgings, and jumped into
a hack-cab.
" Eun with these letters to Yere Street—there is time yet.
If any one calls, say, in an hour I am sure to be at home. Have
you executed all the commissions? And go to Newman's—
the post-horses must be at the door, and the carriage packed.
Don't forget the books, by ten to-morrow," were D'Arcy's
last words to his servant.
To be sure, if we could but foresee the events of the next
twenty-four hours, how the consumption of breath might be
spared! ... ,
" Drive your best, my friend, and I will tip you double,"
said D'xlrcy to the cabman.
156
VIOLET; OB,
" That's a gemman, sir; you shall see as I knows how to
make him start a point," responded his companion.
The cabman stopped by his directions at the end of the
street where the Woodvilles lived, and he proceeded to the
house on foot.
" Is any one at home, Mrs. Hummings?" said D'Arcy,
insinuatingly, when that worthy woman opened the door to
him.
" No, sir!"
"No!"—D'Arcy's heart beat—"No! but some of the
family?"
" Well, sir—but I am ashamed to let you in."
" Oh, then, she is here," exclaimed D'Arcy, as he gave the
usual fee to this tractable she-Cerberus, and moved on into
the passage.
Violet was sitting alone, busy with her own thoughts, and
they all centred round one point. She was not sorry to have
been left at home by her parents; no one is sorry to be alone
when the mind is much occupied. But the Woodvilles had
now been gone some hours, and solitude always gives a
melancholy turn to our reflections.
Perhaps, too, our ideas become half exhausted, from the
time we study them, and then they assume that fainter hue
which I have before spoken of, when things seem almost
unreal, and we sigh over baseless apprehension and a vague
distrust. Violet thought of D'Arcy, and dwelt upon him
more than ever, for more than ever she loved him. She sat
at the open window recalling the past, and dreaming over
bygone moments.
Sometimes her eyes wandered to the chair, or to the table,
or to some article of furniture which D'Arcy had touched;
and her eye dwelt upon it.
There is nothing like love for bestowing a charm on the
merest trifle. When the eye falls upon the most insignificant
object where a beloved hand has rested, it is the same, as
dear and as sacred to us as if the grave in its solemnity had
closed o'er the parent, the sister, or the fondest friend, whose
form we have remembered as hovering there. Oh, there is
nothing so reverential as the endearing tie that binds to the
commonest spot, if love has trodden there its most unheeded
step !—and the stones of the very pavement are hallowed and
sacred in our sight, if the foot of one we love has pressed
thorn.
The evening was drawing to its close—Violet did not
THE DANSEUSE.
157
choose to send for lights; she preferred remaining by the
open window, keeping watch over the retiring day, at that
hour
" When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car,
Comes slowly on to meet the evening star."
She looked out on the heavens. Her view was a limited one
—to gaze on the stars in a house in London streets does not
sound very romantic, but the blue sky was equally above her,
and its vast expanse is so soothing to a contemplative mind,
it gives so wide a field for thought, and there is so much
hope in that blue vault of an hereafter, dwelling for ever un¬
moved above us, as one thing fixed and immutable! " Shall
I meet him there ?" thought Violet—her mind's eye fixed on
futurity. " There shall we meet, or must I part from him
on earth and cease to hope ? "—
•" If that high world which lies beyond
Our own, surviving love endears,
If there the cherish'd heart be found,
The eye the same, except in tears."
Byrov.
The solitude she was in enabled Violet to distinguish
easily the tread of hasty footsteps,—could it be her parents,
returned home without her having heard them arrive ? She
rose, and the next moment the door of the apartment flew
open, and D'Arcy appeared before her.
" Mr. D'Arcy!" exclaimed Violet, in astonishment.
" Yes, I am come to see you once again; but perhaps for
the last time," answered D'Arcy, as he advanced into the
room.
The evening light was gradually obscuring the apartment,
and to D'Arcy the.only visible object in it w/is Violet Wood-
ville, standing, and uncertain how to act. Extreme pleasure
was the most natural feeling at first beholding her lover, and
it prevented her reflecting upon the impropriety of his visit
at that hour, and when she was alone. Violet did not ask
him to sit down, and she was yet bewildered by his presence,
—when D'Arcy approached, and hurriedly addressed her:
his manner was passionate and eager, and his face was
flushed, although he seemed fatigued.
" Do I offend you," he said, " by being here ? But if I do,
you will forgive me, for I am come to bid you farewell, and
for a long time—perhaps for ever! "
158
VIOLET; OE,
" Oh, Mr. d'Arcy? " said Yiolet, reproachfully, but turning
pale at the same time, " you are joking."
" I wish that I were, but it is no joke ; I am speaking in
sad and sober earnest. So, Violet, you will forgive my
abrupt intrusion, will you not P" continued D'Arcy, with
gentleness.
But this announcement overpowered Violet; she burst
into tears, as she had done once before on a like occasion.
In vain she tried to speak; she sat down, and hid her face
in her hands, and sobbed convulsively.
"Dearest! " said D'Arcy, while he knelt at her feet, "do
not grieve so for me, or if you do, Violet, I cannot bear to
see those tears,—I shall weep too, and I shall suffer more
than you do. Violet, give me that little hand," and D'Arcy
forced away the fingers that were stemming the flow of
Violet's tears. He took the hand and kissed away the
drops.
But even this action passed unheeded by Violet, and her
bosom seemed bursting with its anguish. D'Arcy waited
till she was calmer, and it was not till the violence of her
grief was exhausted that she spoke.
" I am ashamed, Mr. d'Arcy, that you should have seen
this ; my folly is too great, but—but is it true ? "
D'Arcy, in reply to this interrogatory, without circum¬
locution explained the necessity for his instant departure.
" You will return ? "
" No; why, should I ? "
" Is this, then, your affection? " asked Violet, almost with
anger.
" Listen to me," answered D'Arcy, as he still knelt at her
feet. " I am going to leave you, and the bitterness of my
despair will ever be unknown to you; your mind cannot
comprehend the wretchedness of mine now. Your single
regret at my absence will be as nothing compared to ,my end¬
less sorrow, which will live while I live—for life itself is old
with me, and you are all to me—all—my youth—my hope—
my every joy—the only thing my soul desires,—the only one
that I rejoice in, I cannot look forward—I have exhausted
every charm the world possesses, only you are my world—
not this one, Violet, but a better one, and I am going to
resign you ! Do you hear me, Violet ?—look at me, dearest,
and speak to me with your eyes, at least! "
Violet looked at her lover, and his mournful countenance
seemed to give assurance to his words.
THE EANSETTSE.
159
"You have broken my heart," was her earnest and sad
reply, " and you cannot do more ! "
" Do you love me so well? "
" Oh, yes."
" Fly with me, then!" exclaimed D'Arcy, with sudden
fire; " fly with me, give me the only proof of love a woman
can give ; you shall not repent it. I will adore you while
I live; and if I die, I think my spirit would break its bonds
to watch over you! Fly with me, and in the universe—
which will be chaos without you—you will be all in all to me ;
I could not have another hope—I could not know another hap¬
piness. Fly with me, and 1 will teach you the boundlessness
of my affection—fly with me, and be worshipped by a heart
that owns you for its very religion ! Fly with me, dearest,
I will for ever kiss the earth that your foot shall tread upon.
My own Yiolet, dearest, dearest one! oh, have you heard
me, have you listened to my beseeching cry ? "
" Tempt me not," Violet exclaimed ; " it is cruel in you,
and you are becoming my worst enemy." The agitation of
her voice denoted the intense pain of mind that she was
enduring; and- her beautiful face, beautiful still with its
streaming tears, was bent over D'Arcy, with the expression
of an angel pleading for compassion.
"If you know me, as you say you do, could I ever look on
the world again, when I had. known disgrace ?—and my
father, and my mother, to bring them to hear my name with
phame ! My poor father—oh never, never!" screamed
Violet, endeavouring to extricate the hands that D'Arcy
forcibly detained.
" It shall be no shame, then; all should be done," cried
D'Arcy; " you should be my wife—my wife, do you hear
me, dearest?—all shall be sacrificed. Why do I say sacri¬
ficed ?—humbly offered to you ; for you, nothing would be
a sacrifice, did I resign my existence to obtain you—you
cannot doubt I would do it gladly—say you know it to
be so, my beloved ! " said D'Arcy, imploringly'; and at that
moment he spoke the truth, and its powerful evidence carried
conviction to the mind of the unfortunate girl; yet she
answered him with determination.
" Oh, no! young as I am, my experience is sufficient to
save me from that misery—I your wife! you the husband of
an opera-dancer ! No anguish can be so great as to become
the object of your contempt and despisal; and, as your wife,
you would contemn me more for the ruin I had brought upon
160
VIOLET; OE,
you, than, you could if I should forsake my home, my
parents, and my honour, to follow you. No, Mr. d'Arcy, 1
love you so, that I would not marry you—you see I know
you," said "Violet, with a wretched smile.
" Generous angel! believe me, you are mistaken ; you never
have appreciated my affection, and are incapable of probing
the depths of my devotion."
" But, in cooler moments, you have explained all to me ;
your position, your views, your fortune, and I have weighed
well every little word you have ever spoken. If you think,
at this moment, that I am mistaken in my views of what
yours would be, were you to marry me, trust to me, that I
know you better than you know yourself. Is it really to¬
morrow that you depart?" asked Violet, with a faltering
voice.
" To-morrow; but you must go too, indeed you must—
you would not abandon me, Violet? Can I say more? I
have offered all that man can, and now I kneel, and I ask
you for your pity—forsake me not! " cried D'Arcy, im¬
ploringly, and he buried his face in the lap of Violet, while
his quick-drawn breath and broken sentences betrayed his
agitation.
" Do not kneel to me—leave me alone, for God's sake!
D'Arcy, do you hear me ? " said Violet Woodville ; and with
her slender hands she tried to raise her lover from his kneeling
posture.
What a world of misery was tearing the hearts of these
two persons ! What passions were contending in that little
sitting-room, the abode of cheerfulness hitherto, and of family
comfort! How the very furniture of the room, with its air
of locality, was in ill accordance with these striving spirits!
And when scenes like these occur in our own homes, they
seem such a strange profanation ! and, hereafter, the remem¬
brance of them stalks like a ghost across the hearth of our
dwellings.
Oh ! who that has a heart will not lament over the grief
of such moments—the parting of those whose existence is
each bound up in the other's, for at this moment it seems so;
and to feel they may
" Not meet again! what tongue can tell
The pang of hearts that love so well,
At such a chill unwelcome breath,
Like vapour from the shades of death! "
D'Arcy recovered himself, but he saw his advantage. He
THE DANSEUSE.
161
leaded all that passion urged him to—he prayed, he wept,
e adjured her to follow him; what did he not say—for,
" What will tongue not dare
When hearts go wrong ? "
But it is not enough to destroy the force of virtue in a
young and upright mind, guided by an excellent under¬
standing. The feelings may be rent, but the very nature of
a man's violence in such a case alarms the timidity of one
that is pure-minded, and gives the power as well as the
desire to resist such entreaties.
Violet Woodville mildly persisted in her refusal to follow
the fortunes of D'Arcy, but her heart was breaking while
she spoke. And then he changed his tone, and reproached
her with selfishness and with deception : " Yes," he exclaimed,
" you have deceived me. I put your affection to the test,
and what has become of it ? The world's opinion, forsooth,
stands up before it. You wrong no one, but you may wrong
yourself; and where is your boasted love for me ? You say
my absence will grieve you, and to me you prefer your
parents. "What have they done for you more than the laws
of nature have forced upon them ? What if they have loved
you,—do not all parents love their children P—and when they
have lost you, will their sorrow come up to the tenth part of
my despair, when I am alone, with my memory of you for
my only pleasure, and your abandonment for the solace of
my unhappiness ? Oh, that I could despise the heartless-
ness that mocks my anguish! " And D'Arcy, striking his
clenched hand against his brow, paced the room with a
tempest in his bosom.
" But I would brave it all," said Violet, following her
lover's footsteps;—" the world's contempt—I could be pointed
at for you, D'Arcy—I would leave my home, were it neces¬
sary ; I would beg for you—believe me, D'Arcy;" but
D'Arcy answered her not.
" I would encounter disgrace; but my father and his
misery, his affection—to know I had so rewarded it—but, for
you, D'Arcy, I would do it all ;■—and the upbraidings of my
conscience—I would stifle them, for you.—But would my
God ever forgive me if I deserted my dear, dear father ?—
D'Arcy, do you hear me? "
Violet appealed to her lover in a tone of anguish that
obliged him to turn towards her: but the cold sneer, which
M
162
•VIOLET ; OE,
could blight the countenance of D'Arcy, hung in withering
coldness on his features, and that was his only reply.
" And is it you, D'Arcy, who can show so little kindness !
This is worse and worse, and I cannot survive it," exclaimed
Violet, but meekly; sinking upon a seat in utter dejection.
The unkindness of D'Arcy terrified her. He beheld in her
countenance the nature of her feelings, and, restored to
tenderness by this means, he once more flung himself upon
her generosity.
" Do you think," he asked, " my love can do nothing for
your happiness ? How am I to believe you care for me, if
you place so little faith in my affection ? Oh, Violet, can you
not conceive some happiness in having me ever devoted to
you, and anxious to save you from all evil ? Bound to you by
gratitude, and a passion that has not its equal—and watching
over you as if you were my young child, but dearer far than
all human ties could make you ? Can you picture nothing
to yourself but misery, if you go through life with me P My
dearest one,—my love,—my only joy—oh, listen to me, and
think how I have loved!—is it not true ? I would not always
have asked this sacrifice.—Did I not tell you to marry
Stanmore ? Did I not force myself to see you no more : and
if now I am weak, and if I am grown so selfish that I dare
to ask so much, am I not to be pitied ? Oh, I have many
faults, but if I ever knew virtue, it has been while loving you,
fori could go mad., Violet, I will not, I cannot part
from you." D'Arcy seized the hands of Violet, and covered
them with convulsive kisses : "Be mine—my wife—any¬
thing—but be mine. Oh! by what prayer shall I adjure
you!"
By this last appeal Violet's heart was almost vanquished;
but she was still checked by the feminine delicacy which
ruled her character so conspicuously, and which made her
feel that, independently of the laws of duty, the eloping with
her lover was an open act of impropriety that her nature
shrank from. To an understanding constituted like hers, such
a step would have been one (even if to be sanctioned by a mar¬
riage) that she would naturally have turned from with dismay:
but to fly with him to be his mistress only,—no wonder that
her heart, gentle and confiding as it was, and with its deep
tenderness, should require to undergo all the ordeal of
D'Arcy's anguish before it could relent for such a purpose.
She was not misled, or allured by his offer of marrying her:
she never proposed to herself to accept the offer, and placed
THE DAN8EUSE.
163
at once to its right account the sacrifice D'Arcy was ready
to make. Violet had never forgotten his conversation with
Hareourt, at a time when she did not know him.
Subdued, at length, by her compassion, but virtuous to the
last, Violet flung herself at the feet of D'Arcy, and in trem¬
bling accents asked him for his forbearance.
" Have mercy on me ; ask me no more, or, if you do, I
must consent to fly with you; my courage will abandon me,
but do not think that I can live in disgrace—never ; I must
die; but I will go with you, if you require it, now, D'Arcy,"
continued Violet, more tremulously; " I am doing what is
wrong—I shall hate myself some day. Oh ! " continued the
unhappy girl, " would you leave me, and save me from such
horrible disgrace. Think of my parents, and I am their only
child, and they believe me spotless; and they will have to
hear that I have fled from them to wander as your mistress !
Oh, horrible !—Was I born for such a fate as this ? "
Violet hid her face. She was still kneeling at the feet of
of D'Arcy, and, regardless of his endeavours to raise her
from the ground, she seemed almost unconscious of his vi¬
cinity ; but her situation did not move his heart in the way
it might have done. He was reckless then, and could only
pour forth vows and prayers.
" I will go—I will go ! " murmured Violet.
In an ecstasy of delight, D'Arcy would have clasped her in
his arms; she made no effort to prevent him, and then he
discovered that she had fainted !
D'Arcy was horror-struck : all his feelings underwent a
revulsion. Men are not accustomed to see women faint, and
it always inspires them with alarm; but D'Arcy knew that
what he beheld was his work. When he entered that room,
Violet Woodville was there in her bright beauty, his own
beau idSal of woman's loveliness, wanting nothing in his
eyes—
" Ni les lis, ni les roses—
Ni le melange exquis des plus aimables choses,
Ni ce charme secret dont l'oeil est enchante,
Ni la grace plus belle encore que la beaute,"—
and npw he beheld her pale, cold, and senseless !—And he it
was who had stamped those features with the hue of death,
and so bruised an angelic spirit that it had sunk beneath his
violence!
D'Arcy was suddenly restored to calmness: he felt then
the force of his own misconduct, and was dismayed at the
M 2
164
VIOLET ; 05,
ungenerous use lie might have made of the advantage he had
gained. He felt certain that, except under the high-wrought
spell that he had been employing, nothing would have in¬
duced Violet to consent to become his mistress ; and at this
moment, when the fever was over, his very love upbraided
him for his selfishness.
" She is not fit to be betrayed in this way; she may hate
me for it," said D'Arcy, inwardly; " I can now vanquish
myself—be it so ; she shall not be mine at such a cost; she
shall not reproach me with the crime of her seduction. I will
leave her—I will persuade her no more ; the fault would be
all mine."
D'Arcy employed himself in restoring Violet to conscious¬
ness. He took her to the open window, and bathed her
temples with eau de Cologne. She recovered slowly, and
when she did so, he was bending over her, hardly less pale
and cold than she herself was. He was not the same crea¬
ture he had been while lately raving in the delirium of pas¬
sion ; and if his feelings were as deep, they appeared to have
assumed another form. When he thought Violet had nearly
revived, and saw she began to remember the cause of her over-
excitement, D'Arcy led her gently to speak upon the subject.
" I am so very miserable," said Violet; "but you are not
going to leave me for ever ? Surely I have been dreaming
that,"
" My darling love, forgive me," answered D'Arcy. " When
you think of me hereafter, it must not be in anger; and do
not think of me—I do not ask it, love. Be happy, if you can,
it will render me, perhaps, less wretched. You see, Violet, I
am not so bad," continued D'Arcy, trying to smile, and he
kissed her hands fervently; and then, before she was aware
of his intention, he quitted the room.
But when the door had closed upon him, Violet Woodville
cried out—" Gone! " and a wild scream hovered upon her
lips. Her heart swelled with a degree of sorrow which has
nothing in common with words or with tears ; her utterance
was choked, and stifling sobs were heaving her bosom with
their bursting throes. She flung herself upon the floor, and
would have died then, for hers was the grief that brings reck¬
lessness of all things else in the world; her despair was infi¬
nite ! D'Arcy was gone ! Oh, what a burden life seemed!
and how frantic was that wretchedness, unable to struggle
with such an excess of grief!
It was such a helpless, hopeless sorrow—to see no more the
THE DANSET7SE.
165
cherished object of her deep affection. The darkness of a
grave would have seemed less appalling than this curtain of
woe cast over all that so feeling a heart held most dear.
To live but for one, to dream of him, to speak of him with
rapture, to thrill when the music of his name is heard, to
know what heaven is in his presence; to exist by his remem¬
brance, to listen for his very breath, because his breathing is
more to your existence than your own ; to worship his faults,
to know them, and to love them with infatuation; to devote
your whole nature, your aspirations, your hopes, your thoughts,
your whole soul—to surrender all, to cast all at the shrine of
one object, and to know that suddenly it is withdrawn from
ou, and you may never see it more ; oh, reader, if thou hast
een spared such an anguish, think not that thy burden in
life has been great—be not misled, overrate not your afflic¬
tions, or rashly compare them with such as these. In a
different sphere, with more resources, with companions more
suitable to her—with admirers, with parents, with society
more fitted to a mind like hers, which rose above its sphere of
action, Yiolet Woodville would not have experienced the in¬
tense and overwhelming sentiment which shipwrecked her
happiness so utterly. She would have had more causes to
distract her attention; the greater variety, and the more
splendid circumstances of her existence, would have stood in
the way of the single-heartedness of her passion. That, in
higher life, affections like hers are formed, there can be no
doubt; but the great world exercises a command over those
who live in it, which it never relinquishes. We may hate it,
despise it; we often do; but, though we would abandon it,
the world will cling to us ; and with an iron sway, and often,
perhaps, a wholesome one, it grapples with our best and our
worst feelings. We fear its irony, we so dread its pity, we
dare not be unlike all others—for who is exempt from yearn¬
ing to seem as he sees all others are, to rejoice sometimes like
his fellows P and variety, the world's variety, when we are so
situated that we fall in with it, comes betwixt us and'that
vivid, overpowering, uncaring devotion which rages and de¬
vours the springs of life itself, when it finds a home in a bosom
like Violet Woodville's, not counterbalanced by the ten
thousand events of a more selfish existence.
From the relative positions of Violet Woodville and her
lover, all that more immediately concerned her and the occur¬
rences of daily life had become either circumstances of no
import, or grievously irksome ; they were not in common
166
VIOLET; OE,
with D'Arcy, and she could find nothing to destroy the spell
that was gathering round her. Violet literally liked Lord
Stanmore, at last, only because he lived in the same set, and
was one of those with whom D'Arcy associated.
It is always bad enough, under the best auspices, to lose at
last a happiness we have created for ourselves, and in which
we are blindly trusting—" Perdre un bonheur reve, renoncer
a tout un avenir, est une souffrance plus aigue que celle
causee par la ruine d'une felicite ressentie, quelque complete
qu'elle ait ete."* And then, too, when we are young, we
have so much to give, so much energy to prostrate at the
altar of our misery ! Violet's 'affection, without knowing
security, had acquired that sleepy, confiding belief in the
duration of happiness, such as it was, on which we all rely,
more or less. This reliance is part of our nature, and forms,
as it seems to me, one of its mysteries.
" U n'y a point de hasard; tout est esperance, ou punition,
ou prevoyance, ou recompense."f
The lamps were lighted, and it was quite dusk when D'Arcy
left the house of the Woodvilles. About ten doors onwards
this street was intersected by another, and for D'Arcy to pur¬
sue his way it was necessary to go over the cross-road.
It so happened that two hack cabs were at this moment
disputing the pass ; one of the drivers conceived his vehicle
to have been injured by the bad driving of his adversary, and
with a plentiful flow of slang they were blackguarding each
other on the spot.
" Hold your clapper, there, and don't kick up no bobbery
with me, or I'll dish yonr prad nicely for you, my boy; don't
give me your clankers, and sneak on, I say."
The rejoinder being much to the same purport, there
seemed little chance of a peaceable termination of the dispute.
At this moment D'Arcy's attention was forcibly called to
the disturbance, and in an imperious tone he desired the
drivers to move out of the way, in order that he might pass;
at the same minute a man, who was being driven in one of
the vehicles, put forth his head, and mingled his remon¬
strances against this stoppage in the street.
" Settle your quarrels as you will, but if you don't drive
me on, I will give you both over to the police. Did not I tell
you I had not a minute to lose ? drive me to the Burlington
directly," exclaimed the inmate of the cab, most vehemently.
* Balzac. t Voltaire.
THE DANSEUSE.
167
^ " Very well, sir, you shall be bang up in a crack, only I
ain't sucb a woolly crown to let tbat 'ere yelping whisker-
splitter think as I am to be bammed because be is more up in
the stirrups than I, and I am blowed if I don't "
" How long, sir, am I to be detained here by your drunken
quarrel ?" cried D'Arcy, with an angry burst of passion.
The scene, so out of harmony with bis feelings, made bim
give way to bis temper.
"Mr. D'Arcy it certainly is," said the unlucky inside pas¬
senger of the cab, as the light of the lamp fell upon D'Arcy's
face. His recognizer, however, did not appear well known to
D'Arcy, or at all events be walked on without acknowledging
him. He bad matters of business to transact, and, late as the
hour was, D'Arcy felt they must be concluded before the
morning; and in order to write letters, be went to the
Travellers'!
CHAPTER XIV.
" Untaught the useful lessons sadly given
By that time-honour'd sage—Adversity,
The rash, impetuous, and misguided youth
Resents at once the slightest injury—
Unmindful of the consequences, seeks revenge—
Repenting, when too late, the deadly evils
Wrought by the pride that brooks not contradiction."
Old Plat.
" Duels, to be respected, must be fatal;
I am not bloody-minded, but I hate all
Parade of valour—playing with edged tools,
The scorn of brave men, and the boast of fools.
There may be an exception; but at school
We learn that the exception proves the rule."
Anon.
About nine o'clock on the evening previous to D'Arcy's
intended departure, Lord Stanmore was sitting in a room in
the Burlington Hotel. His cabriolet bad been waiting in the
street some time; be was going to join a party of bis friends
who were dining at Richmond, and be knew, although it was
then nine o'clock, tbat be was still likely to find them not
dispersed. For the twentieth time within the last hour Lord
Stanmore rang the bell violently.
"Is my servant not yet returned ?" he demanded of the
waiter.
168
VIOLET; OB,
" No, my lord—stay, my lord, I think I hear his voice on
the stairs now;—Mr. Cramp is here, my lord," said the
waiter, making way for a very smart gentleman in pumps
bespattered with mud, a blue and silver waistcoat, with a gold
chain and a frock coat, some inches shorter in the skirt than
most other people's : his disordered hair, the moisture on Mr.
Cramp's face, and his hurried gait, did not quite correspond
with his degage toilette, and he commenced making excuses
for not being within at an earlier hour.
" Sir ! " exclaimed Lord Stanmore in an angry tone (his
temper was not as docile as it used to be)—" Sir, what is the
meaning of my being detained here because you choose to
disobey my orders ? "
" I beg your pardon, my lord, it has been owing to an hac-
cident, my lord, intirely."
" Nonsense ! I told you to be here by eight o'clock ; you
knew I wanted those cigars ; this is the second time, but it
shall be the last, that I have been disappointed in getting
those cursed cigars, owing to your ill conduct."
" My lord, I assure you it is not my fault; I got into a
cabriolet, and another driversran against the wheel of the cab,
and there was a dispute." Lord Stanmore made a gesture of
impatience.
" I don't believe you. Bring the cigars, if you please, now."
" Certainly, my lord ; but I hope your lordship will be good
enough to credit my word; if not, there's Mr. d'Arcy, my
lord, and he saw me."
" Mr. d'Arcy is not in London."
" He is, indeed, my lord ; I saw him ; your lordship can
ask him," continued Mr. Cramp, disappearing in search of
the cigars. On his return with them he repeated to Lord
Stanmore that Mr. d'Arcy would vouch for his story not
being a fabricated excuse. " It was just up at Bayswater,
my lord, where I have been sometimes with messages that
your lordship was particular in, to Mrs. Woodville, my lord."
"And you did not see Mr. d'Arcy there, sir ?" asked Lord
Stanmore, with a low voice and a flashing eye.
" Yes, it was not above fifty yards from their house," Mr.
Cramp eagerly replied, " when those drunken fellows set up
a row, and I looked out for the police, which made me notice
Mr. d'Arcy coming out of Mr. Woodville's ; I did not know
it was him at first, till I heard his voice speaking to the cab¬
men to let him pass; he will remember it, I am sure, my
lord, and will justify me to your lordship."
THE DANSEUSE.
169
" Are you positive that you saw Mr. d'Arcy coming out of
the Woodvilles' house P "
" I am full positive of it, my lord; if your lordship think,
for the sake of hexcuse, I would tell you a falsehood, why
then, my lord, " said Mr. Cramp, drawing himself up in
a dignified attitude.
" I should like to know how it is" (Lord Stanmore was
trying to speak calmly), " it only being once, certainly not
oftener, that I sent you with a message to Mr. Woodville,
and it is long ago, you should remember so very well which
of those houses belonged to the family—at dusk, too, and
when you were not near enough to read the numbers ? "
" Oh, my lord, why it did so happen that I knew the house
particularly well, because I took the grouse your lordship sent
this very morning to Mr. Woodville; my business lay in that
direction, and John was in a great hurry about a little matter
of his own; so, as I was going that way, to haccommodate
him, I took the grouse into the homnibus with me, and got
out and left it myself at Mr. Woodville's, by which way I
happened to know the house again ; it is a himitation rose¬
wood painted door; all the other doors are different. Mr.
Woodville was not at home or his lady, honly Miss Woodville ;
and Mr. and Mrs. Woodville was gone out for the whole day,
the woman said that let me in, and that they was not to be
home till very late ; and that was true, for I met them both
in a one-horse gig here in Park Lane not ten minutes back."
" What, after you saw Mr. d'Arcy ? "
" Oh, Mr. d'Arcy must have been gone on his way for half
an hour before I got to Park Lane, for when the man did pre¬
tend to be driving me on, the other fellow he had quarrelled
with raced after him; and so then I jumped out and called
the police, and "
" That's enough : you are, however, clear in having made
no mistake about Mr. d'Arcy ? " repeated Lord Stanmore, in
an accent that was almost tremulous.
" The lamp fell on his face, my lord, I could not make a
herror, and I heard his voice, telling the men to get out of
his way. Is your lordship's cabriolet to wait? "
"No, send it away—stay—yes, let it wait."
In about half an hour Lord Stanmore gave orders for his
groom to drive with a letter to Street, and to wait for
the answer.
The letter was directed to G. d'Arcy, Esq.
The groom soon returned, saying he had left the letter,
170
VIOLET; OB,
that Mr. d'Arcy was not yet come in, that his servant expected
him to be late, as he was going to set off for abroad next day
at six o'clock, and had a great many things to do which would
occupy him in different parts of the town.
" Abroad—going abroad ?" said Lord Stanmore, thought¬
fully.
" Yes, my lord, so his servant said."
" Oh, you must have misunderstood him."
"No, my lord; and there was nothing but portmanteaus
and packages in the passage, and tradespeople. There was
Air. Occult, as is your lordship's tailor, and a man with
Hindy-rubber cloaks : it seemed like going somewhere in a
sudden."
" To-morrow, at six o'clock ?"
"Yes, my lord, the servant said so ; it was Mr. d'Arey's
own valley I saw."
" Umph ! you may go, drive my cab round : be in the way
with it, if you are wanted."
Left alone, Lord Stanmore remained lost in reflection. He
considered for a long time, and several times his hand was
upon the bell, but he did not quite pull it. At length he did
pull it, and sent for his cab. He left the hotel, leaving word
where he was going, and that if any letter should come for
him, it must be brought to him immediately.
About one in the morning D'Arcy returned to his lodgings.
The passage gave nearly all the evidence of the departure
that Lord Stanmore's groom had so eloquently described;
only "Mr. Occult and the Hindy-rubber " gentleman, and
several more of that species, had given way to the sugges¬
tions of impatience, and instead of themselves, their foremen
were in waiting as their representatives.
D'Arey's tables were strewed with letters fastened with
wafers ; while boxes and leathern cases covered the floor.
With a tired hand he proceeded to open some of these wa-
fered missives—that is to say, bills ; and to listen, or to appear
to listen, to the details of his servant: " I will light the lamp,
sir—Mr. Occult has left his account with me, and I have pro¬
mised to give it to you—and Mr. Spring said he had made
some little repairs to the case of your new gun, sir, that were
not in the bill, he thought, sir;—and I took the box to have
the Bramah's lock put. Will you have something, sir P" asked
D'Arey's servant, interrupting himself.
"Something! What?" answered D'Arcy sternly.
"You look so ill, sir, I thought you were fatigued, sir."
THE DANSEUSE.
171
" OK ! go on—did you go to the right watchmaker's ? "
" Yes, sir—but he says he ought to be keeping the watch a
day or two, so I brought it back; and I went to Treuttel and
Wurtz, and they are to send the French books this evening,
and if they were not able to get them, they will forward them
to you by the Foreign-office ; and I called at Andrews' about
the Quarterly, and I paid the bill at Hookham's. Oh, and
here are the letter-covers, sir, and I have seen about the
patent lamp ; and I left your message at Tattersall's, with a
man there that I know ; and I have been about the carriage,
and spoke to Barker as well as Hobson ; and all your letters
and notes, I have seen to their being sent, and—oh, sir, here
is a letter from Lord Stanmore; his groom brought it, sir, a
couple of hours back."
"Give me the letter," said D'Arcy; and with surprise and
impatience, he tore off the envelope and began reading.
" Madame Yestris went to Calais yesterday, so I left the
note, sir ; and Lord Arthur is not at Knightsbridge-barracks.
Oh! and the pistols are all right now, sir; and here is the
old road-book I have found, sir, and the map is not torn ; and
all the other things, I need not give you the trouble of men¬
tioning to you, but I think I have seen to nearly everything
—I went into Bond-street about the razors and "
" Leave me, Howell, now," said D'Arcy, " I have some¬
thing to attend to."
"Yes, sir," answered Howell; but he was attached to his
master, and his worn appearance still attracted his notice as
he left the room.
There was nothing very restoring in the letter D'Arcy had
just opened. It was a charge made by Lord Stanmore,
accusing him of having broken his promise in again attempting
to see Miss Woodville, and calling upon him, if he could, to
deny it. In conclusion, he declared himself ready to give the
satisfaction of a gentleman, should D'Arcy think proper to
resent his present interference. It was, in short, a most
angry letter, couched in the cold language of one trying not
to appear angry. If any man could read with perfect calm¬
ness a summons like this to life or death, as it might be, that
man was George d'Arcy. He was endowed with both
physical and moral courage to a most unusual extent,
and was incapable of a nervous pang. In fact, so well was
D'Arcy aware of his own nerves and his moral inaccessibility
to fear, that he rather felt himself gifted with an undue
advantage over his fellow-men, of which he would notjfor the
172
VIOLET; OB,
world have boasted ; and now, at this moment, he felt care¬
less of life, so that there was no hesitation in his proceedings,
as there might have been at a happier period. He wrote two
notes, one to Lord Stanmore, stating, in few words, that his
departure on that morning could not be delayed, that he had no
doubt of both being able to find seconds ; and requested Lord
Stanmore to meet him at five o'clock. D'Arcy named the
spot. The other note was to a friend, an acquaintance rather
—to ask him to be his second. These despatched, D'Arcy
threw himself upon a couch, desired the light to be withdrawn,
and that he might not be disturbed for one hour.
His orders were obeyed; at the expiration of the hour
Howell entered the room.
" Oh;" exclaimed D'Arcy, passing his hand across his
brow, " Bring me a light; and now for the letter you have
in your hand."
D'Arcy read it—it was from Lord Stanmore, who promised
to find a second, if possible, so as to be on the ground at the
hour D'Arcy required, five o'clock—it was then half-past
three.
" Get me some fresh ink," said D'Arcy. " If any one
asks for me, show him up. You may go to bed, Howell, only
leave word to admit any one, with some servant below."
D'Arcy had few near relations ; there was no mother, father,
or brother, to whom to bequeath his final injunctions, or to
whose tenderness he desired to make a last appeal; but he
had some friends. He might be inclined at this moment to
value friendship lightly. Almost his most intimate friend
had requested to have the opportunity of shooting him that
very morning. D'Arcy wrote only two letters, one of busi¬
ness, and one to Violet Woodville. These were only to
be sent in case of his death. A servant ushered in Sir
Lewis G.
The table at which D'Arcy wrote was littered with papers.
Hot choosing that the address of the letter to Violet should
fall under the eye of a stranger, he had intended to inclose it
in an envelope, addressed to Howell, on whom he could
depend, with directions for its deliverance only in case of his
death. But, on the abrupt entrance of Sir Lewis G. (for
the servant remembered D'Arcy's orders, that however late,
any one asking for him was to be admitted) D'Arcy caught
up the letter to Violet, as he thought, and hastily put it under
its cover. At the same instant, his eye fell upon the minute-
hand of his watch, which lay before him; he saw it was past
THE DANSEUSE.
173
four; lie felt lie liad no time to lose—lie sealed tlie envelope,
and did not discover, that instead of inclosing the letter
addressed to Miss "Woodville, he had taken up another which
he had written in the morning to a friend at Doncaster, and
which he had forgotten altogether; it was sealed—he did not,
at the instant, take the unnecessary precaution, as he con¬
ceived, of examining the address.
" Mr. d'Arcy," said Sir Lewis, " you are acquainted, I
know, with the nature of the errand upon which I am come ;
I am ignorant of the cause of this unhappy quarrel, and, in
fulfilling the part which Lord Stanmore has imposed upon
me, I would give a great deal to be the bearer of some expla¬
nation."
" I am much obliged," said D'Arcy, interrupting him;
" but in this instance there can be no explanation. The
aggression was made by Lord Stanmore. I, however, am the
offended party, to a greater extent than he conceives himself
to be ; so that it is impossible to settle this dispute but in one
way. I have written to Charles Crofton, to ask him to be
my second. I know he is in town, for I met him last even¬
ing ; but there is so little time. Have you pistols, Sir Lewis ?"
This question Sir Lewis answered in the affirmative.
" That will do—I told Crofton to procure them, and I fear
it is that which is delaying him. Stay, I hear him now.—
Crofton," said D'Arcy, advancing towards a handsome youth,
who had entered the room, " that's a good fellow—I'll do as
much for you another time."
" I see," said Sir Lewis, " I have only to take my leave.
Mr. d'Arcy, you will find my principal on the ground as soon
as yourself—at least, if he should not be exact, it will not be
his fault."
" Oh, Stanmore will be there, Sir Lewis; I would have
given him longer time, but I am under orders to leave Eng¬
land, and no excuse for my delay would be received at the
Foreign-office, as I could not give the real one. Perhaps
you will be good enough to explain this to Lord Stanmore ? "
" Certainly," and, bowing, Sir Lewis left the room.
" My dear D'Arcy," said Crofton, " what have you been
quarrelling about ? "
" I cannot very well tell you—but I think Stanmore is in
the wrong. However, I cannot explain."
" I never was so sorry for any business in my life."
"Oh—but you do not mind being my second, Crofton?"
" Mind! I would do it for you every day in the week, if
174
VIOLET; OK,
you asked me, D'Arcy; but you and Stanmore were such
allies—something could be done to prevent "
"No, and for that very reason ; when friends quarrel, you
are quite sure the quarrel is an irreconcilable one. When I
have fought with Stanmore, I may like him better than I do
at this moment; but fight him I must. Good God! I have
forgotten to order my cab—we shall be late—never mind, we
may meet with a coach: that chance is better than waiting.
Chofton, we must be off."
To avoid giving rise to suspicion, the two friends went
out of the house by means of D'Arcy's key, and with rapid
steps pursued their way to .
The grey mist of a September morning was still perceptible
in the atmosphere, and there is, even in the vicinity of Lon¬
don, a freshness and sweetness in the air, at that early hour,
which is not in accordance with ugly undertakings of any
sort: I think at early dawn it always seems as if the day
were still too young to be giving birth to deeds of evil.
However, these fastidious observations probably did not enter
the minds of the four gentlemen who were assembled—some
to shoot at each other, and the others to aid and abet them in
so doing.
Lord Stanmore had been thinking of his sick mother, and
of her doting affection for him. He had many near relations
besides to whom he was attached; and though he had met
with offences, he was more angry with the world than hating
it. His conscience, too, told him that he had been precipitate
in the wording, at least, of his letter to D'Arcy. Since he
had heard of his intended departure for the Continent, he
could not feel certain how far his former friend might be
guilty, and whether he was justifiable or not in wishing to
take a last adieu of the Woodvilles. D'Arcy had been his
greatest friend, and now he was on the point of a hostile
meeting with him.
Lord Stanmore was impetuous and spoiled, though noble
and generous at the same time : the more he feared he might
be wrong, the more he desired to assure himself he was in
the right; and when he beheld D'Arcy, he was obliged to
redouble his inward reassurances, for he feared lest his arm
should shake when he held the weapon that might deprive
his friend of existence. " I will not fire in the air," said Lord
Stanmore to himself, " but I will purposely miss my aim."
The seconds measured the usual twelve paces, and placed
their principals on the ground.
THE DANSEUSE.
175
D'Arcy was thoughtful. " If I fall," said he, inwardly,
" I should like this matter explained to Stanmore : he thinks
I have broken my word."
" Are you ready, D'Arcy ?" asked Crofton.
It had been arranged that they were to fire together, at a
given signal, taking aim beforehand, or not, as they pleased.
Lord Stanmore raised his pistol carelessly, wishing to miss
his antagonist. D'Arcy, on the contrary, deliberately pointed
his weapon at the heart of his opponent.
It was an awful moment, for he was either barbarously or
ostentatiously levelling his pistol with a murderous precision.
The instant they stood thus proved sufficient to show their
positions to Crofton, who was a very young man, and to
induce him to break through all rules, and to obey the impulse
of his heart, by rushing up to D'Arcy, and exclaiming, in an
under-tone—
" Stanmore is evidently not aiming at you, D'Arcy; are
you bent on hitting him ? "
"You will see," was D'Arcy's brief reply.
Crofton regained his ground, and the signal for firing was
immediately given.
The time it took for Crofton to speak to D'Arcy was the
' affair of an instant, but it had disarranged Lord Stanmore's
aim—his attention was diverted at a moment too critical, and
when the rapidly-given signal was made, his hand proved
unsteady, and, unaccountably as it seemed to him, he shot
D'Arcy in the side.
D'Arcy was likely to prove more exact in executing his
intentions ; Lord Stanmore was younger, more inexperienced,
and swayed by softer feelings : D'Arcy was a practised shot;
he had before fought a duel, and his mind was previously
more resolved, his sentiments more harshly strung. So,
when he fired in the air, much as it was at variance with his
demonstrations one second previously, there was no reason to
conclude that his design had been changed at the moment of
its execution.
" My wound is not dangerous," were D'Arcy's first words
to Crofton and Lord Stanmore.
A surgeon who was in waiting at a convenient distance was
called for.
" This is horrible ! " said Lord Stanmore, with much feel¬
ing ; " and God is my witness I did not mean it: and you,
D'Arcy—you fired in the air ! "
" I "meant to do so," answered D'Arcy 5 " however, you
176
VIOLET; OB,
Lave not hurt me much. You moved your arm when Crofton
spoke to me."
The surgeon approached, and examined the wound.
" It is not dangerous ; that is, it may not be," said he.
" Thank God for it!" exclaimed Lord Stanmore; and a
load was taken off his mind.
D'Arcy was too weak to move without assistance; he was sup¬
ported to the surgeon's carriage, and conveyed to his lodgings,
and thus for the present ended his departure for the continent.
"Your going up to D'Arcy after I had given the first
signal was contrary to all rule," said Sir Lewis to Crofton, as
they walked to their respective homes after the proceedings
we have described.
"I know it was," answered Crofton, "but what man could
have forborne in such a case ? I thought the devil must have
been injD'Arcy; and if he had hit Stanmore, he would have
been very sorry afterwards. I really thought he was under
some delusion."
" I believe he never intended otherwise than as he did,"
rejoined Sir Lewis.
" Then why choose to assume such a different appearance? "
"I don't know. D'Arcy is singular sometimes. I think he
was very angry with Stanmore, and that he determined to
exasperate him if he could. He saw directly that Stanmore
was not going to shoot him, and he would give him no
encouragement to abstain."
" Well, he is an odd fellow—D'Arcy."
" So I think," returned Sir Lewis, as he and Crofton sepa¬
rated at the end of the street.
Yiolet feigned illness the day following the last eventful
evening. Mrs. Hummings aided her in this deception, for that
excellent woman felt considerable uneasiness lest the Wood-
villes should discover her having so easily admitted Mr.
D'Arcy, when they were not at home.
" I shall send to Mr. Camphor, I think," said Mrs. Wood-
ville to her husband ; " Yiolet seems quite ill."
"You had much better ; but she wants change of air more
than old Camphor. I must see and take you all to Hamsgate or
to Broadstairs ; Margate is more to my taste, but "
" Oh, Margate is so very vulgar! Brighton is the only
place to my fancy. I always think all other sea-side situa¬
tions disagree with me; the air is too keen, and my lungs yet
too delicate with being on the stage."
" Don't talk that nonsense to me, Lsetitia," said Woodville,
THE DANSEHSE.
177
impatiently; " say outright at once that Brighton is a gay
place, and that therefore you like it better than Ramsgate or
Broadstairs. I am sure 1 don't care—you may have it your
own way—only Brighton is dearer. However, I hate screw¬
ing. So, to Brighton let us go. Poor Yiolet! it may amuse
her too. I am often unhappy now, when I look at that child ;
she is not as she used to be. I wish to Heaven not a gentle-
iman in London had ever set his foot in my house," continued
Woodville with a sigh ; and his wife hastened to change the
conversation; she knew that it was taking a turn that often
sufficed to sour her husband's temper for the whole day, and
it was almost the only circumstance that could do that.
" I think Mr. Dupas will go also to Brighton, and we might
take a house together, and be very comfortable. I like the
"West Cliff."
" Have you sent for Mr. Camphor ? "
" Yes ;—I am sending, that is."
" Do it, then, or I shall walk to Mr. Camphor's myself; it is
the only way to get a thing done in this house. "What a
dawdle you are ! The child is ill, and you just tal/c of doing a
thing and with a displeased manner, Woodville quitted the
room.
When Camphor arrived, he proved of more use than he was
in the habit of being; for though he neither knew of, nor
could relieve, the unhappiness that was weighing down his
young patient, still he discovered that she was feverish and
wanted rest, and he therefore gave her some effervescent
draughts, combining an opiate, that would procure her a
couple of hours' repose. Her room was darkened, and Violet
was left alone, by Mr. Camphor's orders ; and under the
influence of his medicine she fell asleep. In about two hours
she awoke, refreshed, and with a little recovered energy,—
enough, at least, to desire to get up, and to assure her parents
she was better,—nay, quite well.
The Woodvilles were engaged this evening to drink tea
with Mr. and Mrs. Augustus Octavian, of the Theatre Royal,
Covent Garden. Woodville desired his wife to go, while he
remained at home,—Violet urged him not.; and the kindly
dispute was ended by Dupas, who came in to pay his usual
visit, and declared that he should stay with Violet, and that,
as she was not well, one person's society would be better for
her than that of two. Poor Woodville made many an inquiry
about her health, and gazed upon his child with the most
earnest looks of solicitude.
N
178
VIOLET; OB,
" You are feverish still, my poor little darling," said he,
taking her hand.
" No, dear father," answered Yiolet, heavily; "no, lam
much better : go with mj mother, and don't think of me,—I
shall be so well to-morrow."
M. Dupas tried to amuse Violet; he talked to her, and
offered to read out to her " Adele et Theodore." This offer
was accepted, because it saved her the trouble of talking, which
she felt quite unequal to. M. Dupas, therefore, emitted from
his lungs, with patient unction, about half a dozen pages of
Madame de Genlis' tiede French sentiment, when he was dis¬
turbed by a sigh. Such a sigh ! a low and quivering sigh;
the sigh that can convey such real evidence of wretchedness.
The old man heard it with a beating heart, for he was
shocked with the conviction of the great unhappiness of one
so dear to him. He turned round and beheld violet Wood-
ville leaning with her arm upon the table. Her face rested
on her hand, and was turned from him ; but there was sad¬
ness in her very attitude, and she was so abstracted that she
did riot even take notice of the pause in his reading.
Dupas waited, in order to see whether she would not
speak; but his silence occasioned no observation, and he was
persuaded that his pupil was unconscious of it.
" Were you amused by my reading?" said he.
" Yes; you are tired, I fear," answered Violet, rousing
herself, with an attempt to smile, and then her lips con¬
tracted again, and resumed their former expression.
It is well known that the muscles of the mouth have more
to do with our feelings than any other feature of the face.
The eye can look clear and bright while we are mentally suf¬
fering. The forehead may not show its marks of care, and
with an effort all our features may seem composed, and with
them we may deceive those who are not close observers;
such, however, will discover in the lips, in the lines of the
mouth, the involuntary evidence of the mind's action. And
when, in the hour of grief, we do smile, what a wretched
smile it is, and how quickly the pale lips go quivering back
to their true expression !
"No, I am not tired, but you, mon enfant, vous I'etes.
There is always consolation when we do that which is right,"
said M. Dupas, slowly,—for he was speaking, not to what
Violet had said, but to that which her countenance was tell¬
ing, while, with a penetrating eye, he watched its workings,
" There is, I hope," answered Violet.
THE DANSEUSE.
179
" We have all our sorrows, or we have had them," conti¬
nued M. Dupas ; " and when they are irremediable, it be¬
comes us to exert ourselves, and to remember, que le bon Dieu
sends only the trials that we ought to withstand,—that he is
the dispenser of all our griefs as well as of our joys, and so,
when we are broken-hearted, il y a toujours Dieu,, et sur lui on
peut se rejjoser : il nous aime quand le monde ne nous aime
pas, et quand nous n aimons pas le monde."
" It is hard to have so much to bear when we are young."
" But it is in the time of youth the lessons of G-od will
make the most impression. They are sent us then to form
our characters, and to steady us for the years that are to
come : Pn tout, et pour tout, la Providence a raison."
" I will endeavour to think it is so," replied Yiolet, in a
tone of the very deepest dejection; " only it would be better
to die, and to be spared our sorrow."
" My child, that may seem true; but without knowing
sorrow would you be fit to die ? you would have given no
proof of virtue."
A letter was brought into the room at this moment. It was
addressed to " Miss Woodville," and in a handwriting she
did not know. She opened it with a presentiment of evil,
which was not extraordinary, for her nerves were shaken,
and were ready to give way to every possible impression of
ill that could be devised ; and women's nerves are wonderful
diviners in that wTay sometimes.
She opened the letter. It was an envelope inclosing a
small folded note, and a letter besides, sealed with D'Arcy's
arms, also addressed to her, and in his hand. On seeing this,
Yiolet grew pale ; she felt she could not conceal her emotion,
and rose to leave the room. M. Dupas observed her without
remark; he felt his interference could hardly be of use;
but, at the same time, there was a mystery hanging over this
child of his adoption which cruelly disturbed the old man.
In the mean time Violet was alone, and reading as follows :
—" You will only receive this in the event of my being
fatally wounded. I could no# leave the world without say¬
ing a farewell to one whom, I fear, I may have injured. If
you loved me, Yiolet, you have had your excuse ; for no man
ever tried more to win a woman's heart; and if in this I have
proved vour enemy, I have had my punishment, for I have
loved in vain,—and I have loved.
" What I have felt, you will never know ; for you may be
the victim of feeling, but not of passion.
n 2
180
VIOLET; OK,
" And now, Violet, forgive me, if, for your sake, I endea¬
vour to destroy the illusion I have helped to create ; it is the
only reparation I have it now in my power to make you.
" Believe me, then, dearest, when I tell you to build no
more upon the romance of life, and despise not its dull reali¬
ties.
" Be certain it is better to esteem fully, than to love fully.
You are young ; time is all before you, and it is your duty
to exert yourself. Eorget me, for my sake; there are better
men than I am ; and I could be contented were I but assured
that your future fate would be in the hands of one of honour¬
able character. Remember this. May Heaven bless you,
my beloved one !
" G. D'ABCY."
On first reading this letter, Violet was so shocked at the
commencement, that she hardly entered into its full mean¬
ing ; when at last she comprehended the force of the opening
paragraph, she rent the air with a wild scream. It was
heard, and the servants and M. Dupas hastened to her room.
She was sitting on the floor, with the most haggard expres¬
sion of despair. The letter was in her hand. On beholding
iier old friend, Violet jumped up, and threw her arms round
his neck.
" Save me ! Save me ! " she exclaimed.
" Erom what, my child? " said M. Dupas, terrified at her
manner.
" Oh, save me ! " she continued, in convulsive accents.
" But from what ?—speak ! parlez, rnon enfant."
Violet sank down, and threw herself at the feet of M.
Dupas.
" He is not dead," she gasped. " Save me from it It
must be that I am deranged! " cried the poor girl, in broken
accents, burying her brow in one hand. M. Dupas saw the
letter she held in the other. He took it from her, and
perused it; while he did so, he knelt down by the side of
Violet, and held her hand ; she gazed up in his face, with a
terrible expression of anxiety.
" Mais il y avait encore une lettre ? " said M. Dupas.
Violet made no answer ; she did not understand him. The
old man discovered on the ground the folded note he remem¬
bered to have seen her take out likewise.
" Ah, la voila ! " he exclaimed, and read it, while his
countenance brightened,
the dansettse.
181
" Eh lien ! " said the old man, with delight; "je vous I'ai
bien dit, il ne faut pas se desesperer. II vit, ma chere—
calme toi."
When "Violet heard these words she burst into tears, and
M. Dupas wept likewise.
The note was from Howell, and couched in the following
words :—
" Madam,—The inclosed was given to me by Mr. d'Arcy,
and forgotten to be sent in time with his other letters. My
master was in such confusion of business, setting off, and
particularly myself, that I have forgotten it sooner. I think,
Ma'm, as you will have heard of Mr. d'Arcy fighting with
my Lord, that I may be so bold as to make free to tell you,
Mr. Brodie thinks master will do well, and is not in no danger.
I hope it is not of consequence my forgetting the letter.
" Your humble obedient servant,
" J. Howell."
Violet's were tears of joy, and M. Dupas's were for joy
too. He was too kind-hearted not to be relieved by ceasing
to behold the distracting anguish of Violet Woodville.
The letter which he had read so opportunely, and which
Violet had totally overlooked, was, as we have seen, from
Howell, D'Arcy's servant.
As soon as the first excitement caused by his master's
disaster was over, Howell, still fearful lest he should be
blamed for previous neglect, aware, as he conceived himself,
of the importance D'Arcy attached to any letter to Miss
Woodville, forwarded this one to her, without additional
delay; and with the amiable desire of relieving her anxiety,
in case the news of the duel had reached her, he inclosed the
specimen of his caligraphy which has been presented to the
reader.
182
violet; oe,
CHAPTER XV.
" The maid that loves
Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank,
And puts her trust in miracles for safety."
Violet met with much kindness from her parents. They
sympathized, in some degree, in her distress, and, being
ignorant of D'Arcy's true conduct to their daughter, they
were willing to be very glad when they heard that he was
likely to recover,—especially as they were then aware that
he was intending to proceed to the Continent.1
M. Dupas alone guessed how deeply Violet's happiness was
involved by D'Arcy. But he knew now of no remedy, and,
with genuine good sense, he wished to spare her from family
reproaches and advice, which are never so unpalatable as
when they have become useless.
Day after day Violet solaced herself by reading her lover's
parting letter, and, day after day, her affection sank deeper
in her bosom.
His duel and his danger had endeared him to her. Her
terror at the idea of his death had almost deprived her of
reason, and she began to have a fear of the force of her own
feelings. So strange and so inconsistent is the human heart,
that, independently of her love for D'Arcy, she began to feel
for herself at last, and a kind of nervous selfishness came over
her. She dreaded the horror of her own mental sufferings,
and often said to herself, in the event of a further separation,
" I could not bear it!"
Then, and not till then, was Violet "Woodville in danger of
falling. It was now that she required a friend to support and
to console her, to rouse her moral courage by assurances of
that great truth,—that we are never called upon to endure
more than we are equal to contend with, and that where
there is weakness there is guilt. But Violet Woodville had
no friend to do this, since her father and mother were in
comparative ignorance of her situation. M. Dupas, if he
understood it better, could scarcely act, for, while she had
received his advice, she had never made him her confidant;
consequently, he knew not of her moral danger.
Violet wrote to D'Arcy,—the letter was wet with her tears.
THE DANSEUSE.
183
She besought him to assure her himself that his life was safe.
Hummings took this letter, and brought her the answer, and
from that day "Violet indulged in a clandestine correspondence
with her admirer.
As he got better, her spirits returned,—she looked happier
than she bad done for a long time,—D'Arcy's letters were the
cure to her mind,—she gave way to the bliss of receiving
them,—and on these letters Violet might be said to live.
Poor Violet! it was so great a relief to her not to be so
oppressed with such an Atlas-like load of despair.
She hoped again!—what she hoped she knew not; but she
did hope, and if in hoping she was sinning, we must believe
her guilty. How often in life should we not call on death to
end our woes, if it were not for the undefined trust that gently
leads us on, and softens all our sorrows ! Man may bless
his God when he solaces him with hope.
Violet was informed by D'Arcy of the origin of his quarrel
with Lord Stanmore. This, likewise, riveted her chains.
D'Arcy, then, had received his wound on her account, and
tears filled the eyes of Violet whenever she remembered this
fact.
Her father now proposed moving to Brighton, and the
heart of his daughter bounded with joy, for, as soon as he
was able, D'Arcy was to proceed thither for his health.
The Woodvilles took one of the small houses on the West
Cliff, in one of the back streets leading up from the shore.
Mrs. Woodville was excessively happy in being at Brighton,
and Woodville was very well pleased likewise. They met;
with some of their London friends, and Mrs. Woodville liked
frequenting the libraries of an evening, and hearing the bad
singing, and putting her half-crowns into a lottery-box, and
rejoicing over the sixpenny article she received, as the well-
earned recompense. Then she liked shrimps for breakfast,—
to be sure, in October they were scarce, but, en revanche,
they had excellent whiting, and the potatoes were so good at
the sea-side, Mrs. Woodville declared. The walks on the
Esplanade, too, had a great charm for her. And then, the
Octavians and Mr. Brown arrived one day, and took up their
quarters at the large boarding-house over Wright's library.
Besides these, it must be owned that their friends of another
kind were scarce. There was, to be sure,- the one London
dandy, who is always to be seen about Brighton. There
never is but one, par parenthese,—two at the same time were
phenomena not to be met with. The present dandy was not
184
VIOLET; OB,
an acquaintance of the Woodvilles ; but they heard of him as
living at the Albion, and frequenting the club, and playing
ecarte with a rich and vulgar Mr. Canterbury, a retired wax-
doll maker; and they saw him occasionally lounging about
with one hand in his pocket, and blowing his nose, when it
blew hard, with a cambric pocket-handkerchief.
The Woodvilles were one day walking on the grass terrace
before the Brunswick houses, when they were first met by
Mr. Brown; and the greeting between him and the elder
Woodvilles was very affectionate.
" Well, you could not have done a pleasanter thing than
this, Mrs. Woodville," said Brown, injuring his boot-heel by
repeatedly knocking it with a thin and elegant stick of painted
black wood, surmounted by a brass knob,—the whole intended
to represent ebony set with gold.
" Why, I am fond of sea amusements," answered Mrs.
Woodville; " and so much of London as we have "
" Oh, yes; but such good taste in you not to go to Mar¬
gate ! TJpon my word, the vulgarity of that place, Miss
Woodville !—Let me advise you never to go there. No; I,"
said Mr. Brown, pompously, "_Z~was going to the Continent
—I like to go occasionally to Europeanize myself; but Spada
wanted to come here.—You know Signor Spada ? "
" What, the second tenor at the Opera?" asked Woodville.
" Yes; he is a creature of great genius."
" Why, Laporte did not think so."
"Oh!" answered Brown, with a gesture of contempt,
" Spada is a man of talent, and of the warmest feelings; but
he abhors England, and, if it had not been for me, would not
have come to Brighton."
" Then I think," answered Woodville, " you had better
have gone to the Continent, Brown, as you intended, and
Spada with you."
" Ah!" replied Mr. Brown, casting his eyes at Violet, " but
I must own to having many little reasons, that were induce¬
ments, I may say laws, to prevent my going abroad."
" I shall be very happy to know Signor Spada," said Mrs.
Woodville. " You can introduce him to us ? "
" I certainly will. His only fault is, that he will copy me.
I often say to him,—' My dear Spada, my style does not suit
your Italian physiognomy.' But he is invulnerable, and will
persist in dressing after me, and acquiring my—my—my
style—ways, you know, peculiar to me. All people have
Baeir style, I believe, and it becomes ridiculous when another
THE DANSEUSE.
185
person endeavours to—but Spada is a very good fellow.
Poor wretch ! he is passionately in love with the most beau¬
tiful woman—a countess. I forget her name—he did tell me
—but who lives at Florence. Her husband threatened to
stab her, and Spada left Italy. She broke her heart, and is
probably dead by this time."
" Time she was, if her heart was broken," said Woodville.
" Oh! of course, I mean figuratively speaking. Spada,
however, does not seem to think she can be alive."
" I suppose you mean to stay some little time at Brighton ? "
" Oh, Heavens !" said Brown, "yes, for ever I would stay,
could stay, if ." He sighed, but the sigh was not heard;
for a puff of wind just then blew it the way it was not meant
to go.
" Well, we make it out very pleasantly. We have been to
the theatre once or twice. There's a pretty good company
here now."
" Mr. Bobbs is coming too, I hear. I own I am sur¬
prised at his thinking of engaging himself at this place."
" He is quite right, if he can make money by it," observed
Woodville.
" The Octavians told me," said Mrs. Woodville, " that the
manager was not at all a gentlemanly man."
"Indeed !—Ah! I am glad you told me," replied Brown,
thoughtfully; "for I had some idea of appearing for a night
or two, but I will not think of it."
" Oh, it would not be worth your while: they have bad
audiences."
" What, then, is it low altogether?"
" Oh, very, I think, for gentlemen like Bobbs and Signor
Spada. Don't say I said so; Mr. Bobbs might not like it;
he is so particular."
" Oh! dear me, no; but I will warn poor Spada, lest he
should think of engaging. I am looking for him now, but I
rather think he is taking a warm bath."
" I am glad of it," said Woodville, who disliked foreigners.
" He looks as if he would be none the worse for it—no offence
to your friend, Brown."
"Oh!" said Brown, "I know your joking ways, Mr.
Woodville."
. " Yes, but I am not joking," answered Woodville.
■' M. Dupas had taken the house at Brighton jointly with
the Woodvilles, and consequently was now living with them.
" I wish," said_ Mrs. Woodville, one rainy day, when she
186
VIOLET; OK,
"was sitting in tlieir small but pretty parlour, and bad got the
vapours,—" I wish Yiolet would grow to be more like what she
was, M. Dupas."
M. Dupas took out his snuff-box, and crossed his legs.
" Charles looks cross about her, as if I could help Mr.
d'Arcy's duel," Mrs. Woodville resumed, after a pause.
" Oh! she was changed before Mr d'Arcy's duel," replied
Dupas.
" Well," said Mrs. Woodville, opening her eyes, "but it
was not my fault."
" C'est selon," answered the old Frenchman, shrugging his
shoulders.
" Why, I am sure I did nothing to make me answerable
for her being in love, or anything else."
To this there was no assent from M. Dupas, so Mrs.
Woodville gave one for herself.
" I did not, that's certain. I am sure it is a most dis¬
heartening thing to do anything for anybody's interest, even
for one's own, for all the reward one gets is to be found fault
with. I have no idea of Charles looking angry at me, as he
did just now, when Yiolet took up that nasty old news¬
paper, and burst into tears, because she fell upon the ac¬
count of that tiresome duel. It was very silly of her; only
I am not displeased with Yiolet, because she could not help
it; but it is very hard if I am to be responsible for such
things as that!"
To this sensible and argumentative speech of his friend's
wife, M. Dupas appeared to listen with great attention; he
did not reply categorically to her remarks, but he expressed
his hopes that in time Yiolet would, recover her former
cheerfulness ; showing plainly that he fully entered into the
anxiety of her parents.
" But it is not necessary for me to assure you of that,"
said the old man ; " I have the same affection for Violet as if
she was my child. I have no children, and all mes petites
epargnes sont pour elle ; ce nest pas un secret, je crois."
" I am sure, M. Dupas, you are a very kind friend to us,
and we feel very grateful if you have any such kind inten¬
tions as those you speak of. As for me, I am sure I always
meant all for the best; I had a natural ambition for Violet,
and perhaps I was not so prudent as I might have been; but
it is just luck. Violet might have married Lord Stanmore,
I am persuaded; and then I should have been all that is
perfect, and Charles would not have given me those sour
THE DANSETJSE.
187
looks that I get from him now. Oh, here is Mr, Brown.
Well, how do you do to-day, Mr. Brown ? "
" Very well, I thank you. Son jour, Monsieur Dupas.
Shall you go to the library this evening, Mrs. Woodville ? "
" Yes, I intend it. Perhaps you will drink tea with us
first?"
" I shall be most delighted. May I bring Spada ? "
" Oh, certainly."
" Poor Spada lost a great deal of money last night. That's
his only failing, poor fellow! he cannot keep from the
gaming-table. He was coming this morning to pay his
respects to you, but he has gone to Mohamed's to be
shampooed; so he will come afterwards. Have you or Miss
Woodville been shampooed? "
" No; is it very pleasant ? "
" It's the most exhilarating thing in the world ; and really
it is not expensive, as Spada says, for it is only half-a-guinea
a time; and there is so much attendance required, and
showers of perfumed waters—it is a luxury quite oriental, as
Spada says. Spada never will go, except when he can be
attended by Mohamed himself. I think, M. Dupas, if you
would allow me to advise, that a course of shampooing would
be of benefit to you."
" I am much obliged to you, Mr. Brown ; but for why ? "
" It imparts a lissomness to the limbs, and gives a renewal
of youth, which is the most charming thing imaginable."
" Ah ! je m'en doute cependant."
" Oh, my dear sir, ask Spada. Spada declared to me, that
when he came here he was dying. The atmosphere of this
country has so hurt his lungs, joined to distress of mind of a
most touching nature, that his whole system was deranged,
and now he is perfectly well! "
" Corps et dme ? "
" Oh, there are some things that a man of feeling like
Spada can never recover ; but except that, I never in my life
saw a man so altered for the better."
" J'en suis bien aise, et quand je suis malade de corps et
d'dme, j'irai pour etre shampooed chez voire Tare, voire
Monsieur Mohamed," replied the old Frenchman, drily.
The Woodvilles were out walking one morning on the
esplanade, about ten days after their arrival at Brighton: a
young man was standing on the beach below the terrace, and
near the water's edge. He leaned upon a stick, and bent
over the waves, as they came washing the shingles at his
188
VIOLET; OE,
feet. His figure was slight and graceful, but thin, and he
showed traces of sickness; his air was remarkable, and his
bearing, though feeble, distinguished ; his features were pale
and attenuated, but finely cut; and the singular expression
of his eyes was visible even while watching the rushing sea-
foam. But, on the whole, there was a dark cast over the
brow, that seemed as if it should have been more open, and
in the corner of the handsomest mouth there lurked some¬
thing cold and contemptuous.
D'Arcy—for the reader will have recognized the portrait,
we think—D'Arcy involuntarily turned round, and began
slowly to ascend the beach, at the very moment when the
Woodvilles passed on the terrace. Yiolet saw him; her
parents did not. D'Arcy likewise beheld her, and when he
did, how brightly flashed the spirit of joy on his pale counte¬
nance ! Oh ! it is beautiful, in man or in woman, when the
soul speaks in the countenance, and the fire of the immortal
spirit is called forth to light up our grosser nature, in testi¬
mony of one overwhelming sentiment. If Heaven's light
shines on earth, surely it is when thus beaming in the human
countenance.
And D'Arcy, too, could he have seen Yiolet when she
first drew in the assurance that she beheld him, might have
cried out with the poet—
" How beautiful the love-light of her eyes 1"
D'Arcy made no attempt to approach the Woodvilles on
this occasion. Some days afterwards he called upon them,
and endeavoured as much as he could to render his manner
such that Mr. Woodville would be forced to submit with a
good grace to his visit.
Mrs. Hummings was now completely gained over, and
through her D'Arcy wrote constantly to Yiolet.
Each day of her life was now adding to her weakness.
Her parting from her lover, his duel, and the alarm for his
life, had overwrought her feelings, and they were yielding,
because they did not possess the same unimpaired strength
as formerly. All the better principles which stood in the
way of D'Arcy's triumph were being sapped one by one.
In prosperity we often sin; but if we do so in unhappi-
ness, the pity of our fellow-creatures should be more freely
given. We know so little of the wiles and workings of our
deceitful nature, and we are so unconscious when our hour of
THE DANSEU8E.
189
weakness is at hand, and we are proud of our strength whilst
on the brink of falling. It is prettily said by Kotzebue,—
" Mit dem ungliieklichen solte der gliicklichen nicht rech-
ten." Bear this in mind, my reader, and believe it is some¬
times better to be merciful than just. Censure, then, but do
not judge too hardly of the erring days of the poor young
opera-dancer; and rather give way to grief than to indig¬
nation at her bending virtue. Let it also be borne in mind
that she had only imbibed an imperfectly taught religion,
and an untaught morality. Her actions were not swayed by
firmly settled principles. Her impulses were not under the
correction of a good education; and when this corrective is
wanting, the chances are that, one day or other, we fall.
Her home had lost all its charm, and in alternate hours of
doubt and sorrow she passed jher time. Occasionally she
shuddered, on reflecting upon the system of concealment she
was carrying on towards her parents : virtue prevailed some¬
times ; but D'Arcy had only to write of parting from her,
and of his love, and she was won again to him.
There was a time when Yiolet Woodville would have dis¬
believed the possibility of her present conduct. D'Arcy
now continually urged her to elope with him : he was getting
well; and, as soon as he could, he was to go to his post
abroad, to relieve the person who had been temporarily ap¬
pointed during his absence.
D'Arcy was too much a man of the world not to foresee
that it would be better that the scandal of Violet's abandon¬
ing her home should take place some time before he left
England, lest a hue and cry should be raised against him in
his official capacity, for the abduction of a young lady of
respectable parents.
On one occasion only could the lover obtain an interview
with Violet. It was on a day when the Woodvilles went over
to Worthing, and their daughter made some excuse not to
accompany them. She then went out to meet D'Arcy, in
those fields which lie at the back of Brunswick-terrace, on the
West Cliff".
D'Arcy did not fail to turn this opportunity to advantage.
He had a wray with him, in talking to Violet, which would
have misled a person of more penetration, and one less pre¬
judiced in his favour than was poor Violet. He showed a
delicacy of language and manner towards her, which, in spite
of her better judgment, blinded her to the truth. He talked
eloquently of Virtue, while he reasoned her into vice; and the
190
VIOLET; OB,
purity of his words imparted so shining a varnish to his ar¬
guments, that their intrinsic baseness was obscured.
" They little guess, who at our acts are grieved,
The perfect joy of being well deceived."
Lord Rochester.
"After all, if you are doing wrong, it is yourself you
sacrifice," said D'Arcy: " I am persuaded that you have
more merit in conceding to my wishes, than if you had
abandoned me, and remained in your home. There are
various sorts of selfishness: in surrendering all to me, you
will have given the best proof that you are not egotistical:
we shall be so happy, too, Yiolet. When I allow myself to
dwell upon that possibly happy future, I feel such a joy
within me, that, if you knew it, you could not have the heart
to overturn such a dream of bliss. Dearest! you would re¬
proach yourself—I know you would—if you were to desert
me now! "
Yiolet Woodville wept, and listened to these and similarly
false arguments. She only felt that she could no longer
struggle against the agonizing fear of losing D'Arcy for ever.
She condemned herself; she thought of her parents, and she
remembered her G-od—but the tempter was by, and he would
not quit her till he had extracted from her a fatal and re¬
luctant promise.
" And now," said D'Arcy, in a low voice, when they parted,
"I know that I may trust you, Yiolet; but should you fail
me, I will end my life. Listen!—I swear it before Heaven!
—and I give you my word, that I live or not, according as
you keep your promise. [Remember! I could not, if I wished,
break my word: my life is in your hands, Yiolet! "
That night Yiolet Woodville passed almost in a state of
distraction. She was seized with the bitterest remorse for
the promise she had given; she despised herself—sleep fled
her eyes, and the tears of sorrow were denied her. Full of
repentance, she wrote to D'Arcy, and told him she could not
keep her promise.
" I will not—I should live to hate myself; I do, as it is.
If you have ever loved, give me back that bad promise; I
must have been sunk in iniquity when I gave it, and even
you must, one day, despise me for it. I implore you to forget
it, and tell me I am free: I insist upon this, for I must not
go on thinking myself so worthless."
D'Arcy's answer was short:—" You are free; but my word
THE DANSETJSE.
191
I shall keep—I cannot live without you!—But is it come to
this? and will you even let me die? -You may relent,
and I will watch before your house : if, at six this evening,
I do not see you at the middle window, my fate is decided."
Who doubts that Violet Woodville was to be seen that
evening at the middle window ? She believed he would kill
himself. To say he would, was the commonest stratagem
that D'Arcy could have had recourse to, and, unless he was
sincere, one of the most paltry. Judging from what was
known of his character, however, at that time, he was likely
to have been in earnest in his declaration of suicidal inten¬
tions ; he had little religious feeling, and not having any
strong ties of affection, his disposition was of a description to
make him capable of ending his life when he conceived that
his desires were irremediably thwarted.
CHAPTEK XVI
" Never let men be bold enough to say,
Thus, and no farther, shall my passions stray;
The first crime past, compels us on to more,
And guilt proves fate, that was but choice before."
" The woman who deliberates is lost."
Those 'Tittle inland streets at Brighton are very com¬
fortable places. You have not the roaring of the sea in your
ears all day, or the eternal glare of its wide expanse in your
eyes. The Woodvilles had, as has been said, taken a par¬
ticularly pretty little house in one of these inletson the West
Cliff, and they and M. Dupas were much pleased with its
snugness. Whenever they did not amuse themselves else¬
where, they used to have parties,—Mr. Brown, and Spade,
and the Octavians, to drink tea; and Woodville had met with
an old friend, who was a celebrated performer on the French-
horn. They would have been the happiest people in the
world if Woodville could have watched less anxiously over
his child. Her want of spirits and her worn expression often
occasioned him indescribable anguish.
Woodville was a man of the warmest feelings, and pos¬
sessed the most generous and affectionate heart. The thing
hp nvizpfl most, fenrlerlv was his daughter: and now he often
192
VIOLET ; OE,
reproached himself as being the first cause of that daughter's
dejection. He thought he ought notjto have allowed her
to go upon the stage, and that he was also guilty of great
weakness in permitting his wife to make their house the fre¬
quent resort of men whose grade in society was superior to
their own.
Woodville, however, at this time, imagined his daughter
was safe from any bad designs of D'Arcy's, but he feared,
and with reason, that her affections were given irrevocably;
and he could not avoid thinking that Brown, and such as
Brown, were not likely to remove a D'Arcy from her
thoughts; and, altogether, he dreaded that it might be long
before he should see his child as he was wont to do,—the
blithe bird that once made his home a little paradise to him.
One evening, in the commencement of November, the
house of the Woodvilles was gay with mirth and music.
They had asked some of their theatrical friends to pass the
evening, and Mr. Brown, who had a fine voice, was singing the
"Captive Knight" and the "Parisienne," and executing
them with great effect.
"I must say," said Mr. Brown, "it is too provoking that
Spada is not able to come here this evening."
" What's the matter with him, then, Mr. Brown ?" de¬
manded Mrs. Octavian, sharply.
" Have you not heard ? " exclaimed Brown, with much
surprise. " He went out hunting with the Brighton harriers,
and was thrown. He is severely hurt. I advised him not to
go; for I said to him,—' My dear Spada, if I were you I
would not go.'"
" Good gracious ! you don't mean to say he put on a red
coat? "
" And pray, why should not Spada put on a red coat, Mrs.
Octavian ? "
" Oh, dear, I wish I had seen him."
" Humph! I don't know why; do you, Mrs. Woodville
"Not I, Mr. Brown."
"Well, Mrs. Octavian," said Woodville, "if you have set
your mind upon seeing him, we will go out and watch for
the Signor some afternoon, when he will be coming home
from the hunt."
"Why, I am sorry to say," observed Brown, "Signor
Spada thinks he cannot stay away from Milan much longer.
He had letters the other day, which he showed to me,—of
course I cannot repeat their contents; but he conceives he is
THE DANSEUSE.
193
called upon to make the sacrifice of his own convenience, and,
for the sake of another's peace of mind, to return to Italy."
"What," demanded Mrs. Octavian, " cannot he get an en¬
gagement with Laporte for the next season, poor man ? "
" Dear Mrs. Octavian, don't ask such questions," said Mr.
Octavian to his spouse ; " people don't like to have their pri¬
vate affairs inquired into in that way."
"But the man himself is not here: I am not asking him,
Mr. O."
" Spada has a genius peculiarly his own," continued Brown,
" and must be appreciated whenever he is understood. Miss
Woodville, may I ask were you not much pleased with
Spada ? "
"Where are you, Violet?" exclaimed Mrs. Woodville,
surprised at not beholding her daughter in the midst of their
little circle.
" I am here, mother," answered the faint voice of Violet.
The company turned round to look, and they beheld Miss
Woodville sitting in a distant part of the room. She was
leaning back in her chair, and her hands were clasped before
her. She was very pale, her eyes looked red, and their
brightness was gone. She did not move on becoming the
object of observation, and seemed almost unconscious of it.
" Why, you look very cold, my dear," said Woodville,
going up to her, " and your hand is like ice."
"Is it, father? I am very cold," Violet replied ; and hei
teeth chattered.
" Come to the fire, then."
She obeyed, but the fire did not seem to warm her.
" Violet, are you ill ? " asked her mother.
"No."
"Are you sure? "
"Yes."
"Perhaps you had rather not hear our talking?" said
Mrs. Octavian, " and we will go."
"My wife does talk so screamingly," observed Mr. O.
"My singing has disturbed you," said Brown.
"Violet, love, what is the matter with you ? " again asked
the blunt but affectionate father.
"Nothing, father—nothing."
" Then it is very odd, for I never saw you look so ill! "
" No, indeed I am well, but I will sit here by the fire—it
is very cold."
" Oh then it is evident she has got a cold," cried Mrs.
o
194
VIOLET ; OE,
Octavian, " or she would never call this a cold night. Why,
it is quite spring weather—so mild, so muggy all day; was
it not, Mr. Brown ? "
" Indeed I thought so. I went this morning, about twelve,
to get a Dante at Wright's for Signor Spada, and the sun
was quite oppressive."
" So it was. Well, if you don't object then, Mrs. Wood-
ville, suppose we encore the ' Captive Knight,' ajid ' The
Treasures of the Deep,' Mr. Brown."
The gentleman did as he was requested, and Violet re¬
mained by the fire. No wonder her father had said he never
had seen her look so ill. She seemed grown suddenly thin,
her features looked pinched, and her lips were very pale;
whilst round her large eyes there was a deep black hollow
line; her hair hung out of curl down her cheeks, and her
figure, instead of its usual uprightness, was bent and drooping.
The very sound of her voice was low and altered, and in the
little she did say, the last word of each sentence almost
seemed as if too great an effort for utterance—the sounds sank
below her breath, and from time to time she shivered.
" Are you better now, Violet ? " M. Dupas presently in¬
quired, with his usual kindness.
" Yes, I am," she replied. " Don't let my father get vexed
about me, I am not ill."
" JVon, ma cherie. Cependant, un pen d'eau de Jleurs
d'orange? En void sur la table. I will pour a little into a
wine-glass of my eau sucree."
Violet accepted the remedy, but her hand trembled while
she held the glass. Afterwards she was, or pretended to be,
better; probably her nerves were a little restored by the
jleur d'orange.
The party broke up, and then, when their friends were
dispersed, the Woodvilles again enjoined Violet to tell them
if she was unwell. She still denied being ill, but only re¬
peated that she had felt chilled, and that M. Dupas's remedy
had done her good.
" Then you think you will sleep P " said her father.
Violet stared wildly, her lips quivered, she turned her face
quickly away, and her emotion passed unnoticed.
Violet Woodville left the room: she presently returned.
Her father was then standing near the piano, helping her
mother to shut it. Violet said nothing, but knelt down at
his feet, and stooped her head towards the ground.
" "What is it, Violet? "
THE DANSEUSE.
195
"I am looking for my needle-case; I have found it, I
think."
On pretence of seeking the needle-case, Violet bent her
head lower still. Her father retained his position, there
being some difficulty in closing the piano. Violet bent down
till she could reach his feet, and she then kissed them ; that
gentle kiss of his child was not felt by Woodville, because it
was not guessed at by him; he felt only that Violet touched
him, and he moved, saying " I am in your way, I fear."
She answered in the negative, and rose, pretending to have
found what she sought, and once more left the room.
On that night Violet Woodville quitted her home. About
one in the morning, when its inmates were wrapped in sleep,
she moved down stairs; and Hummings, her treacherous
ally, opened the door of the lodging-house, and accompanied
her. Violet was clad in her cloak, and drawing it closely
round her, was hurried along by Mrs. Hummings.
She was presently stopped, and beheld D'Arcy. "We
have a fine night, dearest," he whispered. " Give me your
arm; the boat is ready."
"D'Arcy!" said Violet, in a low thick voice, "let me go
back ? "
" Impossible!"
"D'Arcy, I entreat you to let me go back," she repeated,
but in a more faint and a more earnest tone.
" Are you mad, Violet ? What, now ?—not for worlds ! "
And, seeing her irresolute, D'Arcy hurried her on, till they
reached the end of one of the streets leading down to the cliff.
They went down the stone steps to the beach, about half-way
up the esplanade ; a light sailing-vessel was standing off and
on near the shore, and the moon's light shone brilliantly on
its white sails. A boat was hauled upon the shingle, and
several sailors were standing close to it, evidently on the
watch. At a signal from D'Arcy, the boat was presently
launched, and, placing his two companions in it, he jumped
in himself. They were soon alongside the small schooner,
transshipped into it, and the boat being hauled up to her
quarter, the vessel got under weigh for Dieppe.
D'Arcy remained with his unfortunate companion three
weeks at Dieppe. He then returned with her to England,
and proceeded to London, where he placed her in lodgings in
a respectable part of the town. He took the utmost care of
her external comfort, and solaced her with every attention
he could bestow.
o 2
196
VIOLET ; OE,
It was not his intention to keep her in concealment. On
the contrary, he was rather anxious than otherwise that her
friends should discover and see her, if they desired it, before
he took her abroad.
At one time he wished her to write to her parents, hut the
bare idea of such an act, in her fallen situation, Yiolet Wood-
ville looked upon as impossible. D'Arcy had a good many
things to occupy him, but there is no saying how many he
did not neglect at this time for the sake of not quitting his
poor victim. He was going to his post in Italy, and intended
to make Yiolet precede him to Dover, for the sake of ap¬
pearances. He felt that he might not venture to take her
with him in his own carriage, lest such a proceeding should
draw down animadversion in his then position.
When Mr. Woodville discovered the loss of his child, and
felt the assurance of her disgrace, his anger at first rose
above his grief. He could obtain no clue to her place of
retreat, and only went with his family instantly to London,
as her probable destination. He spent three days in fruit-
loss search; and then, imagining she was gone abroad, he
flew to the Foreign Office, to inquire if Mr. d'Arcy was in
England. With much difficulty he procured an interview
with one of the clerks; he could only learn that Mr. d'Arcy
was certainly still in England. The wretched father had
already inquired at D'Arcy's usual residence for some infor¬
mation respecting him, but there, likewise, he learned
nothing. He then wrote to one or two gentlemen whom he
knew, and who were D'Arcy's acquaintances. Erom them
he ascertained that D'Arcy had not been lately seen in town,
possibly he was at Melton. Woodville thought so too, and
to Melton he went, and when in that quarter, as may be sur¬
mised, his researches were equally fruitless. He returned
to his home, to his weeping, wailing, miserable, weak-minded
wife, and to his desolate fire-side : such was now the home
of poor Woodville—the home that D'Arcy had made for him !
Woodville had always said little expressive of his grief,
and he seldom, even for days together, made a remark upon
Violet; and as for D'Arcy—of him, how could he speak ?
But his face was careworn, and, though sometimes flushed
with sudden anger, oftener pale with concentrated sorrow.
He neither went to visit, or admitted any one. His wife felt
an awe of him, and even M. Dupas—the sole exception to
his rule of exclusion—dared offer no consolation.
Perhaps it was almost more touching to behold the silent
THE DANSEUSE.
197
wretchedness of this benevolent old man: he was unprepared
for the blow, having never calculated upon Violet's elope¬
ment. He was not, however, angry—he pitied her most
deeply, and not the less because she was erring—either his
nature was a gentler one than most other people's, or the
world, such as he had found it, had made it so. He, too, was
seeking for the lost girl, and as fruitlessly as her father, but
he did not give up the point, and would say, " Attendons, la
pauvre enfant nous donnera de ses nouvelles."
One day when Woodville was out, wandering he knew not
whither, he caught (as he thought) a distant glimpse of
D'Arcy; nor were the bereaved parent's eyes mistaken :
D'Arcy had then been in town four days. Woodville was
full a hundred yards from him at the moment he first saw
him turn down Portland-place'. He hastened his pace to
keep him in sight, but not to run after him ; for, said Wood¬
ville to himself, if I get up with him, I shall knock him down,
perhaps I shall murder him, and, out of spite, he may not
tell me where she is, and that is what I want first to ascer¬
tain. It was about five on a December afternoon, and getting
darker each minute, and D'Arcy was hurrying home to Violet
Woodville on foot, which was somewhat unusual with him,
but so it happened on this occasion.
He reached his house, and, entering, flew to Violet's room.
She was sitting bent over the fire, pale, and the tears still in
her eyes, as they ever were when she was alone, but they
seemed to disappear when she saw D'Arcy, and a smile of joy
glittered over her countenance.
" Dearest," exclaimed D'Arcy, with gaiety, and rushing to
her, " I think I am never from you but that I learn to iove
you—no—not better, that I could not—but more and more
to learn how unhappy I am without you ! "
" Oh ! " said Violet, " I am so glad to hear you say so ; for
I am always dreading lest you, too, should grow to despise
me, as others must do."
" Why do you wrong me with such a thought ? In all
that can concern either, should I not much sooner hate myself
than you? Let me kiss away those naughty tears, and let
me whisper to the eyes that weep them, that, for Violet's
sake, and D'Arcy's too, who loves her so with all his heart,
those tears must not falland, as he sat at her feet, D'Arcy's
hand bent her head towards his lips, and he mingled his kisses
with the long, smooth, curling tresses of poor Violet's hair.
The lovers were disturbed by a hasty footstep on the stairs.
198
VIOLET; OB,
" My God!" exclaimed Yiolet, with shaken nerves and
instinctive terror.
" Be calm, love," said D'Arcy, starting tip as the door of
their room flew open, and Woodville stood before him !
The servant attempted an explanation of this abrupt intru¬
sion, but D'Arcy made him a sign to absent himself. There
was a bright flame from the fire (although there was no lamp
in the room), which was sufficient to render each person
clearly distinguishable to the others. Woodville, for some
seconds, remained standing in the middle of the apartment.
He stared upon his child, who, on his entrance, had sunk
upon the floor in an attitude between shame and terror. Her
hands were clasped upon her knees, and her face was very
pale; she ventured not to raise her half-closed eyes to her
parent's face, who, she felt, had fixed his gaze upon her.
Woodville suddenly burst into tears.
" My child !" he exclaimed, in a voice of the deepest
emotion.
" I am here, father," said Yiolet, inarticulately, and cower¬
ing lower and lower ; " I feared that you never would speak
to me again."
Woodville advanced towards her, and, raising her from the
ground, embraced her with burning tears.
" How you are altered," he suddenly exclaimed, and he
looked upon her countenance, as if horror-struck. Yiolet
was, indeed, altered: her face had grown very thin, her large
eyes were sunken, her brilliant complexion had totally van¬
ished, and in her dress and person there was an air of negli¬
gence.
Woodville, hitherto, had seemed solely occupied with
Yiolet; but when he made this observation upon her changed
appearance, it seemed to recall him to a recollection of
D'Arcy's presence ; for, quitting his child, he advanced to
him fiercely, and striking his clenched hand on the table
before him, he exclaimed in a voice of fury—
" And you have done it.—Yillain ! do you know, I could
take your heart's blood for this bad work of yours. Unfeeling
man! my child—my only one—that beautiful innocent!—my
poor little Yiolet."
Woodville's voice faltered at the mention of his daughter.
"Was there nothing but my child to content you?—to
ruin her, to make us all miserable ? "
Woodville paused—he was totally overcome.
D'Arcy, since his entrance, had remained leaning against
THE DANSEUSE.
199
the fire-place ; but, at this moment, if the flickering fire-light
had crossed bis face, the moisture would have been seen
gathering beneath, but not passing, his darkly-fringed eyelids.
"I cannot contend with your sense of injury, Mr. Wood-
ville," he observed, in a low voice; " and were I to ask your
forgiveness, you could not grant it me."
"Wretch!—you can now talk to me as coolly as when
you cajoled my wife, and made her the witless pander to
her child's seduction. Man! I tell you again, I would
murder you—could I by that means restore my lost girl's
purity."
Violet rose up, and throwing herself before D'Arcy, with
outstretched arms, she cried, "Father, if you would not have
me die, do not say such words as those ! "
" Unfortunate creature ! do you not feel conscious for what
a thing you are pleading ? "
" He has been kind to me—at least, he loves me," mur¬
mured Violet Woodville's angel voice.
" Violet," said D'Arcy, " leave us, my beloved: it is better
that you should."
And so saying, he led her into an adjoining apartment, and
returned instantly to her incensed and heart-broken father.
" Mr. Woodville," said D'Arcy, " I make the utmost
allowance for your angry—your justly angry feelings; but
permit me to speak—you shall interrupt me in an instant—
but will you consider that the evil which is done to you,
though effected by me, would, and might have been done you
by any other man, who was preferred by your daughter ?
This is no extenuation of my error, but there were tempta¬
tions ; greater precautions should have been taken—why were
such facilities permitted to me, or to any one? and was it
reasonable to expect that the feelings of your child should
prove invulnerable, when so little check was put upon
them P "
" Ay—ay, there you are right," said Woodville, bitterly:
" God forgive me for my folly, and her mother too! "—He
hesitated, and as if lost for a moment in a train of unhappy
reflections, but he resumed: " Say what you will, you basely
took advantage of the hospitality of my house, such as my
house was; you have injured thereby a whole family—your
fellow-creatures—beyond reparation. Do you think an hour's
happiness will ever be mine, or my wife's, again ? and if you
can feel compunction, do you not experience it, when you
look on the poor, faded, miserable being, to which you have
200
VIOLET ; OE,
reduced my once bright, beautiful child ? Had you robbed
me, aud devoted me and mine, by some rascality, to penury
for our lives, I might have pardoned you—had you tried to
take my life, still I might have forgiven you—would you even
have murdered my child—as a Christian, I think, on the day
of your death-warrant, I might have forgiven you; but as
her seducer," exclaimed Woodville, " no! I could not forgive
you; not even if I could behold you dying at my feet, and
imploring mercy !"
D'Arcy appeared to preserve his self-possession during this
stern address from the injured parent; but at his last words
he looked at him, and was struck with the wild and ferocious
expression of Woodville's countenance: it was almost that
of a maniac, and the unnatural glare of his eyes contrasted
strangely with the haggard paleness of his features, streaked
with one bright spot of red—the hectic flush of a frame which
had been so long agitated and overwrought. His figure, too,
looked strange and attenuated ; he had grown so much
thinner, that his clothes hung upon, rather than fitted, his
person. It might have been the dying fire-light which threw
its unsteady glare upon his menacing attitude, and rendered
the picture more sombre to D'Arcy's eyes. This idea seemed
to occur to him, for he stirred up the embers, and lighted a
lamp which stood on the table. Could a few weeks have
wrought this change? he inwardly asked himself.
"Mr. Woodville," D'Arcy resumed, "I am submitting
with all the patience I possess to your abuse, for I know I
merit it fully, in your estimation. How much longer I may
do so in my own house, is another thing; but some finale
there must be to this discussion. Endeavour, if it be possible,
to speak more calmly, or, if not, leave me now, and come
again : or write and tell me what you in future desire, or ex¬
pect from me."
" Give her to me again—give me back my child! such as
she is," cried Woodville, " and then I will pray that Heaven
may rain its curses on you ! But give her to me first, lest
your misfortunes should in any way affect her ! "
Woodville paused, as if unconscious what he was going to
say ; he sighed, and looked wildly round the room : his man¬
ner grew unnaturally calm—he appeared half forgetful, and
breathed hard, like one exhausted.
" It is useless and cruel to require your daughter to return
to you now, Mr. Woodville; she herself, having once been
under my protection, must desire to remain with me," said
THE DA.NSETJSE.
201
D'Arcy, mildly. "You must yourself feel that to ask her to
quit me now, would be to condemn her to a life of wretched¬
ness. The past cannot be repaired—why seek, therefore, to
make your child unnecessarily wretched ? You had better at
present leave me. I give you my word as a gentleman, that
when you next inquire for me, or for your daughter, you
shall not be denied."
"I am ill," said Woodville, with a hoarse voice, " and my
strength fails me—otherwise—but I will return again, and
shortly too. As for you, Mr. d'Arcy, the worst wishes of a
dying man—if I am one—follow you !—may the vengeance of
Heaven overtake you! "
Woodville, half-absently, quitted D'Arcy's presence with
these words.
D'Arcy instantly ordered a servant to follow him, and, if
he desired it, to call a coach.
Apparently unconscious, the unhappy man got into one,
and was driven home.
He found his wife, and M. Dupas sitting with her. At once,
and differently from his usual reserve, he began vehemently
speaking of the occurrences of the last few hours. But while
he was talking he was interrupted by a choking sensation,
and began to spit blood violently. Mrs. Woodville went into
hysterics, while M. Dupas sent for the nearest surgeon.
In the mean time, if Yiolet Woodville was suffering keen
remorse, she had an eloquent consoler. Her impulse was to
write to her father, to implore his forgiveness in the most
humble manner, and, if both her parents permitted her, to
return to their protection. This intention D'Arcy combated
with vigour, and he further gave orders to his servants, that
no letters should be sent from Miss Woodville without first
passing through his hands. One was accordingly brought to
him addressed to Woodville. D'Arcy, without breaking the
seal, put the letter into the fire ; and, in so doing, his motives,
perhaps, were not bad; for he argued—what a life of weary
penitence and regret would be consumed by Violet's return¬
ing home, and fulfilling the destiny she was proposing to her¬
self!
He felt it rather to be his duty to rescue her from this
miserable fate, and by every means in his power to endeavour
to reconcile her to the sacrifices he had induced her to make.
In the mean while he was surprised at seeing no more of
Woodville ; and when Violet, miserable at hearing nothing,
obtaining no answer to the letter she imagined she had sent,
202
VIOLET; OB,
lamented over it witli despairing accents, D'Arcy consoled
her as well as he could ; but he himself could not divine the
cause for the apparent abandonment of her family.
In the depth of his heart he could not help surmising, from
the wretched state in which he beheld Woodville, that illness
was the true cause of his non-appearance. But that he should
have sent none of his family, or M. Dupas, argued that he
must be very, very ill indeed. D'Arcy shuddered. Hitherto
he had not chosen to see his seduction of Yiolet in any light
beyond the injury done to her. But could he deny having
seen the extreme affection these poor Woodvilles had evinced
for their child ?—and in earlier days had not the delicate and
touching tenderness of the father towards his daughter been
displayed in a way that had gone home to his heart ? That
the Woodvilles had been imprudent in their conduct, and that
Violet's mother was weak and worldly, was true ; but even
with her it arose from a foolish anxiety for her child's aggran¬
dizement, and D'Arcy was forced to acquit her of harbouring
for a moment the suspicion, much less the desire, that her
daughter might be seduced even under the most splendid
auspices. And Woodville, had he not shown repeatedly his
determination to get quit of the visitors who came to his
house, and whose presence might prove dangerous ?
Woodville's faltering words, " My child !—my only one!—
my little Violet!" rang long and sometimes horribly in
D'Arcy's ears ; and he could not turn within and say to
himself, as he had to Woodville, "I have done that which
another might have effected;" for he felt a profound convic¬
tion that none but himself would, or in all probability could,
have ever effected the ruin of the pure-minded Violet Wood¬
ville.
D'Arcy was not a man to submit to more annoyance than
necessity forced upon him. Finding Woodville did not
appear again, after some further days had elapsed, he made
speedy preparations for his own and his intended companion's
departure for Italy.
They proceeded separately to Dover, and D'Arcy saw her
embark for Calais under the escort of one of his friends, and
with a respectable foreign maid-servant.
Mrs. Hummings, by the bye, D'Arcy thought proper to
dismiss, with a becoming gratuity for her past service.
The change of scene was of use to Violet Woodville, but
she never felt happy. D'Arcy treated her with the utmost
indulgence: in short, he proved all that a man can be to a
THE DANSETJSE.
203
woman with whom he is passionately in love. But Violet,
assailed by constant remorse and by shame, soon became dis¬
enchanted. She began to understand the nature of D'Arcy's
love, and the illusion that his eloquence and her own purity
had assisted to create, vanished.
D'Arcy was a sensualist, like most men, and when that
conviction once forced itself upon her, she became doubly
alive to the nature of her conduct. The truth was, that
Violet found herself in a situation which could not fail to he
revolting to her native disposition. However, D'Arcy did
not, at first, discover this turn which her feelings had taken.
It must not, in the mean time, be supposed that the severity
of her compunction and her grief were not apparently lessened.
Violet possessed too much tact to display a sorrow which
must act as a reproach to D'Arcy.
For his sake, therefore, she entered into his plans for her
amusement. She was touched by his solicitude, and the
peculiar tenderness of her nature rendered her alive to all the
charm of being loved.
No intelligence was received respecting her family.
D'Arcy secretly continued to wonder that neither her
mother nor M. Dupas should write, if Woodville could not,
or would not.
Violet always imagined that they were too deeply incensed
to intend ever taking further notice of her. When she was
alone, if anything, by chance, recalled England, or her home,
the tears would roll down her cheeks in heavy drops, and
sighs would burst from her bosom. Oh, my poor father—
if he would but forgive me ! " she would inwardly exclaim ;
and her heart would yearn to behold again the fond parent
she best loved.
Still she trusted to their both being well, and looked for¬
ward to returning to England, and then hearing of, if not
seeing them.
This return was delayed much longer than D'Arcy desired,
or than she expected; and Violet Woodville was able to
number by years her absence from her own country.
204
VIOLET; OK,
CHAPTER XVII.
" We take no note of time
But from its loss—to give it then a tongue
Is wise in man."
?.Iy readers must suppose a few years to have elapsed since
the events we last recorded; and allow me to open anew
scene, by introducing them to a ball at Almack's, at a time
when Almack's was thought much more of than it is in these
days ;—only then, as now, were to be seen the same descrip¬
tion of persons collected for the purposes of business or
amusement.
There were the chaperoning mammas, with anxious hearts
and watchful eyes ; and the ennuye seeking to forget himself.
There, too, was the weak woman hovering on the verge of
crime; there the bolder sinner, hardened in the commission
of evil,—the insignificant dandy, and the boys who aped
him.
One of the lady patronesses was looking attentively through
her glass at some object which the movement of the dancers
occasionally hid from her view. Lady Colemore at length
beckoned her son, a handsome youth of seventeen, and asked
him if he knew the lady whom she described, as being one
whose dress and appearance were remarkable.
"Ask some one, my dear Augustus, if you are ignorant."
Augustus promised, but he did not keep his word; and
Lady Colemore looked round for a better informant.
The lady who attracted her attention was advancing up the
room, leaning upon the arm of a political character of some
celebrity, and who appeared much engrossed with his charge.
She was strikingly handsome, and equally well dressed.
She appeared young, and no fault could be found with her
tournure, which might be called distinguished ; though at
times she looked as if she had entered upon a new scene:
but the shyness consequent upon a debut was more strongly
manifested in her countenance than in her demeanour.
" Can you tell me who that is ?" said Lady Colemore,
turning to a gentleman who stood near her: he was a man
about thirty—that is to say, he had one of those slight and
well-proportioned figures which do not tally with their pos-
THE DANSEUSE.
205
sessors' being beyond thirty, whether they are or not. In
this instance the pale complexion, the steady eye, and the
cold but forcible expression, were symptoms that the fire of
youth had subsided ; but, in recompense, there was the mark
of talent imprinted on a countenance so handsome as to
interest any beholder who viewed it closely.
"Who is that?" said Lady Colemore, addressing this indi¬
vidual.
" Harcourt's wife."
" Dear me !—what, that person ?"
" Yes. Harcourt has been abroad these three years. They
are come from Paris."
" Did you know them abroad ?"
"No: Harcourt is an old acquaintance of mine; but we
only met again since our mutual return to England."
" Then what is she ?—do you know ?"
"I was staying with them at Easter. She has good man¬
ners. Her conduct, I believe, so far, is irreproachable."
" Oh ! what was she ?"
" An opera-dancer. Harcourt married her three or four
years ago."
" Ah, yes !—I recollect—an uncommonly foolish thing.
It was very, very much talked of at the time. I don't
remember seeing her before."
" They have been abroad ever since they married. At
Paris she was much admired."
"Do you like her?"
" She is agreeable and very piquante ; and I believe she
has shown some merit, considering what she was."
Lady Colemore's inquiries were terminated by the answerer
taking an opportunity of disappearing from her vicinity, and
in quest of Mrs. Harcourt, too—for lie was soon to be seen
talking with her.
" I never know whether I like Mr. d'Arcy or not," said
Lady Colemore to a middle-aged, caustic-looking man, who
stood near her. " His manners are cold ; and there is some¬
times a superciliousness about him, which he may not mean,
but which is highly disagreeable."
" It is not easy to be very certain as to what Mr. d'Arcy
means; his manner is often unpleasing. I have heard him
say the severest things to those against whom, in their
absence, I never heard him proffer an opinion. He is a
scorner of trivial abuse, and so much the better. George
d'Arcy has friends as well as enemies ; and I have prognosti-
206
VIOLET; OB,
cated tliat lie will, some day, discover how much he is a man
of talent. He is elected for C , and will have an oppor¬
tunity of showing himself in the House of Commons."
Harcourt and Emily had now been married long enough to
he thoroughly acquainted. They had passed most of their
time on the continent, particularly at Paris. Before this
period Harcourt had made no attempt to introduce his wife
in London. Now, however, he was willing and anxious this
should be done; but not at the expense of any trouble to
himself; for that, in any shape, was always the thing that
Harcourt continued to hate most.
Mrs. Harcourt soon learned to understand her husband's
character. She discovered that he possessed more vanity
than affection. He was spoilt and capricious ; and capricious
to her; for he sometimes regretted the sacrifice he had made
by so unequal an alliance.
Emily felt a little in awe of him when they were much'
alone, and she was not very sorry when the distractions of
society caused them to be more separated, and relieved her
from attending to every turn of a selfish husband's summons.
By the aid of a few of his friends, she began to make her
way in what is called the exclusive society of London. Her
beauty, her dress, and her natural quickness, did much for
her in a circle always gasping for novelty. The dandies pro¬
tected her, one and all; and, with them, Emily, it must be
acknowledged, felt more at her ease than with ladies, whose
reception of her she occasionally disliked, and always feared.
The Harcourts and D'Arcy returned from the continent
about the same time. They had not met for ages, and
D'Arcy, being idle, accepted the invitation of his old com¬
panion to pay him a visit at Easter. A few days spent in a
country house make us soon acquainted with its inmates.
D'Arcy and Mrs. Harcourt thought each other mutually
improved; and when both met again in town, he became a
frequent guest at her house.
D'Arcy was desirous of quitting diplomacy, and of coming
into Parliament, if he could find a prospect of doing so,
which was at this time held out by a connection of his own
—Lord G .
Lord G had no direct heir to his property, and, during
his life, he was fond of dispensing it indiscriminately to those
he liked. He remembered having known D'Arcy when he
was only an Eton boy : he remembered having thought him
clever then ; and though he had afterwards lost sight of him,
THE DANSEUSE.
207
now that they met again, he thought sufficiently well of him
to offer him a seat in the House as the representative of the
borough of C .
D'Arcy declared frankly that he would gladly accede to this
proposition ; but he doubted whether he could afford to
renounce his appointment, in order to attend to what are
pleasingly termed " parliamentary duties."
Lord G , in the handsomest manner, offered to make a
settlement upon D'Arcy for life.
D'Arcy was not very much surprised at this generous pro¬
posal ; for he knew his kinsman G 's character. He
refused it, however, with great decision,—adding, notwith¬
standing, that he found the borough of C too great a
temptation, and that he would accept it, and take his chance
for futurity.
" Mr. d'Arcy," said Mrs. Harcourt, slightly colouring, " I
know I have not said as much to 3rou as other people have
done, but do not suppose that I admire your talents less. I
have only felt shy of offering my humble congratulations on
your success."
These words were one day spoken by Mrs. Harcourt dur¬
ing a morning visit which D'Arcy made her. They alluded
to his recent fame in the House of Commons ; for D'Arcy, on
taking his seat, lost no time in displaying the vein of eloquence
which he possessed in an eminent degree. He was suddenly
cried up, and many were the prognostications of his future
career. To great quickness, D'Arcy joined a hardihood of
manner and a boldness of sentiment, which, in many cases,
are allied to genius, and which always give promise of it. His
speeches became the general topic of conversation. In short,
there was that sort of moonshine celebrity instantly attach¬
ing itself to him, which is always in store for every debutant
who distinguishes himself by striking out something new.
D'Arcy smiled, and appeared pleased with Mrs. Harcourt's
acknowledgment of his fame. She spoke, too, with some¬
thing like embarrassment, and with a hesitation D'Arcy could
not account for ; although she had just made professions of
shyness, he had not felt at all inclined to believe them.
" At last," continued Emily—" at last you will be appre¬
ciated."
" At last! at last, Mrs. Harcourt. The world just now is
kind enough to flatter me, perhaps without foundation ; but
you say at last, as if you thought this should have occurred
sooner."
208
VIOLET; OK,
"And so it might."
" Have you, then, been one of those who were kind enough
to suppose me something better than I may have seemed."
" At least in one sense I have, certainly, for I have never
forgotten an act of kindness I received from you long ago,
when I knew you slightly, and when I did not like you, pro¬
bably because I thought you disliked me: it was feeling as I
did towards you that made me the more grateful that day
that " Emily paused.
" I remember what you refer to, but you overrate a kind¬
ness which would have been equally shown by any gentleman.
Do you know, I was curious to learn to whom that letter was
addressed ? "
" Surely you read the address ? " exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt.
" No ; for, if you recollect, the letter was stolen from me
before I could have seen the superscription."
" Upon what little circumstances the most important events
of our lives may turn ! " said Emily, musingly.
" I imagined the letter was for Harcourt," observed D'Arcy.
" That was not the case."
" Indeed ! " answered D'Arcy with surprise; " for some one
whom you liked better P "
" I must confess that it was. I was attached to a person
who would have been a suitable match, if the ambitious
views of my mother, and my own too, for I will be just, had
not made me determine, if I could, to marry Mr. Harcourt.
I received at that time a letter from M. Larray, offering me
his hand. In a moment of pique against Harcourt, and of
returning feeling towards Henry Larray, I wrote to accept
him. I knew that with my mother's consent I could never
send this letter—she had already endeavoured to prevent my
receiving his proposal. It was you who so unexpectedly
came to my assistance. Afterwards I made up the quarrel
with Mr. Harcourt, and once more I listened to my mother's
arguments ; and I fear, when I heard from you of the singular
fate that had befallen my epistle, I was not as sorry as I
ought to have been.
" But your kindness on that occasion I have never forgot¬
ten," continued Mrs. Harcourt, with animation.
" I am much flattered by this recollection : I feel consoled
also for having lost the letter, since I might not otherwise
have had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Harcourt so frequently."
"Ah, say nothing very civil to me, pray, Mr. d'Arcy,"
THE DANSEUSE. 209
replied Emily very archly : " I shall think you dislike me if
you begin to compliment."
" Why so ? "
" You used to make me speeches formerly, when, though
you were so kind to me on one occasion, I know you did not
like me."
" And you have not forgotten that, all this time ? "
" You see I have not."
D'Arcy, when he took his leave that day, inquired of Mrs.
Harcourt if she was always at home at the same hour ?
CHAPTER XVIII.
" I hate inconstancy. I loathe, detest,
Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast
No permanent foundation can be laid;
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest,
And yet last night, being at a masquerade,
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan,
Which gave me some sensations, like a villain."
Byron.
" Must I have always tears to kiss away ? "
Fazio.
" Oh, George, I thought you never would come home!"
exclaimed a gentle and familiar voice to D'Arcy as he entered
his sitting-room.
It was the voice of the beautiful Violet Woodville, and the
mistress of D'Arcy!
She was changed from the period of her first introduction
to the reader. Her complexion was much paler, and her
beauty had altered its character, but beautiful indeed she still
remained.
She had been sitting up, late as it was, waiting the return
of D'Arcy. Books were on the table, the pianoforte was
open, and a guitar was lying on a chair, but yet Violet had a
listless look, without any appearance of having employed
herself.
" Is it late ? " said D'Arcy, carelessly. " Why did you sit
up P You are very pale ; you would have done better to have
been asleep."
1 cannot sleep," answered Violet, in a tone of despair,
p
210
VIOLET; OR,
"What is the matter, my dear Violet? Have you heard
anything of your parents, at last ? "
" No, D'Arcy, worse than that, for I can hear nothing of
them, and I give it up. Oh God! "
"Nonsense, dearest; you get nervous, and you exaggerate
everything. Whom did you send ? "
" Howell went, and he found our old house, hut the
people who were in it had lived there a twelvemonth, and
they had taken it of a family called Jones. They had heard
of no one of the name of Woodville having anything to do
with the house. Then I directed Howell to go to my father's
landlord, in the city, who was a merchant; but he is dead,
and his nephew, who is his heir, knew nothing of the tenants
or hardly of the house; however, he directed his clerks to
look over his books, and from them it could only be ascer¬
tained that before his uncle's death my father must have left
the house, for these Joneses were the inhabitants at that
time, and there was a note of the receipt of the year's rent up
to last October two yeifrs."
" It is most strange," said D'Arcy, thinking aloud, " that
neither Dupas, nor your mother, should have taken any
means to communicate with you."
" Why not my father, as soon as either of them?" de¬
manded Violet, hastily. " My father would have been the
first, not the last one, to forgive me."
" I don't know what to advise you," answered D'Arcy, eva¬
sively ; " but I must say, that if the conduct of your relations
is so very unnatural, you need care very little about them."
" You forget that I have deserved it all. How did I repay
their goodness, especially my father's! Can I ever forget
his affection?—D'Arcy, you never appreciated my father;
you did not know him enough, and you cannot understand
my misery. Oh, Father, which' art in heaven!" cried
Violet, with sudden grief, and sinking on her knees, with
upraised hands and eyes,—" grant me but to see him once
more, were it but to hear him curse me. My God,—my God,
hear my prayer, and punish me as I deserve ; let me die in
wretchedness, but this desire—let it be granted unto me !"
" This is shocking!" exclaimed D'Arcy, pacing up and
down the room.
He must have been moved by the scene before him, and
his heart must have been sensible of pity, and perhaps of
remorse; but these sentiments were mingled with displeasure
at their being called forth, and his love was lessened at that
THE DANSEUSE.
211
moment in the same ratio that he felt his moral comfort
disturbed.
" This is a great bore, and very unpleasant for me," com¬
posed the sort of idea that pervaded D'Arcy's mind, without
defining it to himself in words.
" Yiolet," said he, after a slight pause, " you must not vex
yourself in this way. You exert your energies too violently,
and you exhaust your strength; to-morrow you will be ill.
As it is, your health is anything but what it used to be. The
circumstances that ought the most to reconcile you to be in
ignorance of the abode of your relations, seem to have
exactly the contrary effect. Calm yourself, my dear Yiolet,
and pray remember that these scenes distress me, and that
really I cannot help In fact, it is their fault entirely. I
think them highly to blame. Surely, however, there must
be some of your father's friends, whose name you know, and
who can inform us of him P "
" You know the inquiries I have already made, and that I
can I learn nothing more than that they went abroad two
years since ; and that my father was ill. If he got better, he
talked of going to America. TheOctavians and Mr. Brown
are gone to America—the people with whom my mother was
most intimate. It appears strange, that in three years I
should have lost all clue to such near relations; but it
seems as if everything about them was forgotten. Can you,
then, wonder that I am profoundly miserable P "
" Those are strong words—I might have hoped to have
been cared for, and deemed by you as something—am I to
be considered as nothing ? "
" Ah, D'Arcy," answered Yiolet, in a tone of reproach;
" why do you say this to me P—Those words should not come
from you—so futile, too, at such a moment. You not cared
for!—You considered as nothing! Nothing! My God," she
a second time ejaculated, as if again in prayer.
" Your parents, in abandoning you, love, behaved very ill,"
continued D'Arcy. " I can only say, put it to any one and
he will agree with me, that they have no claim to the grief
you show about them, to the total destruction of your peace
and of mine, if this is to go on. Now, dearest, let us talk of
something else. You never told me how you liked the new
opera?" _
D'Arcy's fame did not rest upon a momentary celebrity.
He followed it up with other triumphs, and he was soon
p 2
212
VIOLET; OR,
looked upon as a rising star amongst the competitors for the
honours which ambition holds out.
D'Arcy was not surprised at his own success, because he
always felt the secret consciousness of talent; he.did not feel
very much elated by it either. Lady Colemore would have
said that his frigidity caused him to take so sober a view of
his success ; whereas it was a natural consequence of having
lost all the freshness which gilds the feelings of our youth—
beautiful even in their fleeting brilliancy.
D'Arcy nevertheless was ambitious. A political career
seemed the one most suited to him now; and it offered the
chance of some illusions as yet unproved by him, of disgust
and disappointments of a nature as yet unfelt. It was to be
the means of turning over another leaf in the book of life,
and of learning some of those extraordinary contradictions in
mankind, which offer such fields of speculation to those who
like to philosophize on human nature.
D'Arcy, therefore, employed his hours busily; and in his
lounging moments he resorted to the house of his friend
Harcourt.
He felt interested in noting the progress of Emily Norris,
who was gradually fixing herself in the world as a beauty of
high renown, and a woman of fashion into the bargain.
Harcourt, although he was well pleased that this should be
the case, was not the less ennuyZ at home, or less inclined to
be out of humour whenever he felt in the mood. Emily
managed him with a tact that amused D'Arcy.
He began to have an opinion of her sagesse, for, with a
great many admirers, not one was distinguished by her.
Once or twice it occurred to D'Arcy how curious she must
be to learn of him something of her former friend, Yiolet
Woodville—but only once or twice did this idea arise ; for it
was in the society of Mrs. Harcourt that D'Arcy approached
the nearest towards forgetting the existence of Violet Wood¬
ville.
If she had not lately made him uncomfortable with him¬
self ; if her tearful eyes, her pale countenance, and her
unjoyous manner, had not been so many means of inflicting
reproach upon him, Violet would not have lost any of
D'Arcy's love.
Few men stand the trial of being bored. Ill-treatment
of any description, manual and moral, they will bear with
infinite patience and infinite love; but to be bored, to be
roasted by means of one person [in the slow fire of self-
THE DANSEUSE.
213
reproach,—no man's love will stand that, or woman's either,
I fear.
The man or woman who subjects the other to this ordeal,
depends solely on the goodness of heart of the person on
whom the trial is made; and Yiolet was beginning to render
herself dependent upon the goodness of D'Arcy's heart.
"Is that a new guest of yours?" asked D'Arcy, one day
that he was paying Mrs. Harcourt a morning visit. His
question had reference to a smart and indolent-looking lady
who just quitted the room.
" x es ; I met her at dinner the other day. She was very
civil in wishing to make my acquaintance, and has since
called upon me."
"Do you mean to cultivate her? "
" I have not thought about it, but it would be unwise in
me, who am such a decided parvenue, to decline her over¬
tures."
" But you may shun a person, more or less."
" Oh, certainly. But what is your objection to Mrs. Fitz-
morris ? "
" I think her a dangerous woman."
" Tracassiere ? "
" Yes ; and also always ready to to do anything, however
extraordinary, if it suit her purpose."
At this moment Harcourt entered the room, and flung
himself upon a sofa.
" What a confounded hot day it is ! Where is one to get
good ice? Tuccio is so out of the way. Good morning,
D'Arcy! Whom have you had here, Emily P"
" Mrs. Fitzmorris has just left me."
"Ah! what, D'Arcy's old flame?—and you were here,
D'Arcy P What do you think she is grown into? "
" A lady is never the better for wear; but, upon my word,
I still think her a pretty woman."
" Oh ! Emily would be jealous if I made love to her," con¬
tinued Harcourt, who was in a very affable humour that
morning.
" And I, all this time, did not know she was a flame of Mr.
d'Arcy's! " exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt, in a tone of surprise.
" How do you get on with Mrs. Fitzmorris, D'Arcy ? "
" We are excellent friends, I believe. Did it not strike
you so, Mrs. Harcourt ? "
" I cannot say that; but I see you know her well, and any
advice I get from you on that head I shall attend to,"
214
violet; ob,
D'Arcy liad a house in one of the terraces facing the Re¬
gent's Park: he had taken care to have it prettily furnished ;
and the sunny aspect and enlivening green expanse, on which
the eye could dwell from the windows, rendered it a cheerful
abode, and one in which Violet would have lived most con¬
tentedly if—but there are always ifs.
D'Arcy had really taken pains to secure every comfort for
her. She had a carriage at her command, and his servants
were taught to respect her as their undisputed mistress. He
endeavoured to make her preside at his table, and wished at
once to introduce her to all his male friends—but this she
refused. Abroad, she obliged him willingly in this particular;
but in England, where she had once been so well known,
Violet shrank from such an exposure—for such she deemed it.
" You must have a box at the Opera for the alternate
weeks, at least, Violet," said D'Arcy to her one day; "and
the Drench play is good this year. Pray take a box when¬
ever you like, dearest. I only wish I could induce you to
enter into more society."
Pleased with his efforts to render her happier, a smile
something like contentment beamed in Violet Woodville's
eyes, and she exclaimed,—
" While I can think you love me as much as you used to
do, I cannot be quite miserable! "
"Well, then, you might be always happy if it depended
on your security of my love, my own little Violet!—is it not
so ? "
At this moment the servant entered with two three-cor¬
nered notes addressed to D'Arcy. D'Arcy gave one to
Violet, telling her to read the contents, while he perused the
other.
Violet read as follows : —
" Pray dine with us to-day. I have a great mind, if you
say ' yes,' to invite a dangerous friend of yours: she would
be delighted. " Yours,
"E. Haecouet."
"Emily,—Emily Worris! " said Violet, letting the note
drop from her hands,—" I did not know you were so inti¬
mate with her that, and she is able to ask you thus to her
house! Oh! what a difference there is between us ?—tell
me, D'Arcy," she asked with sudden impetuosity, " do you
think, after all, that woman is better than I am ? "
THE DANSETTSE.
215
"No,—neither so good, nor so handsome ; but you know,
I stayed with the Harcourts in the country, and of course I
must be pretty well acquainted with her."
" That's true, but I have not heard you speak of her."
" I did not know you wanted particularly to hear about
her, and I have not encouragement to tell you anything con¬
nected with the pomps and vanities, &c. &c.; you are always
out of spirits now when I come home."
Yiolet gave a gentle involuntary sigh, but still she con¬
tinued : " Then do you see Emily very often now ? "
"No,—yes, I go there when it suits me,—when I have
time," answered D'Arcy, rather impatiently.
Yiolet felt rebuffed, and thinking, hoping that she was to
blame, and not D'Arcy, for this impatience, she playfully
turned the subject by asking whom the other note was from,
which he held in his hand, written on pink paper, and sealed
with green wax.
" Yes," said D'Arcy, " exactly like a " he stopped
short.
" Like a what P " asked Violet, innocently.
"Nothing, my love,—like a fool, as she is ? " amd he threw
the coloured note on the table.
"May I read it? " Yiolet demanded.
" I must see you. I have something very particular to say
to you. I will be at home for you till four o'clock ; you will
come, bad as you are, riest-ce pas ? "
" Shall you go ? and who is the lady, for I cannot decipher
these illegible initials ? "
" Mrs. Eitzmorris. As for going,—yes, if it will amuse
you to hear what I am wanted for."
" Oh, pray go," answered Violet with sweetness : for she
had not lately seen D'Arcy so good-humoured as on this day.
Having, therefore, nothing more urgent to call him else¬
where, towards four o'clock, D'Arcy went to pay the desired
visit to Mrs. Eitzmorris.
I have described this lady before. She was the identical,
languishing, pale, blue-eyed Matilda, to whom D'Arcy had
been obliged to give her cong6, in a morning call, some years
previous to the present era. Time had altered her a little,
and Matilda was grown to look older, which is not a thing of
course, because there are actually many with whom time is
the means of effacing himself. Who has not occasionally
216
VIOLET; OB,
seen a lady at forty, comparatively young and good-looking,
who, at thirty, contrived to seem aged and dowdy ? Mrs.
Fitzmorris, however, was grown to look a little older-, she had
adopted a stronger shade of rouge, and was more elaborately
dressed, and with more affectation ; in short, she looked more
decidedly like a very foolish woman than formerly. We
seldom with our years correct our foibles, whatever may be
the case with great failings ; and thus the imbecility arising
from a trumpery vanity increases, if possible, when a woman
has once been its wholesale victim.
" Ah ! " exclaimed Mrs. Fitzmorris, when D'Arcy entered
her drawing-room, " it is kind of you to come; but why have
not you been to see me before ? "
" I have tried, and you were always out."
" Oh, of course, when you call at six o'clock."
" But I am so often engaged."
" Yes, yes, you are becoming an orator ; well, I am glad of
your success."
D'Arcy bowed; made some pretty speech in return, and
then said, " Tell me, did you really want to see me about
something in particular this morning ? "
" You vain creature!—Did you think I made the excuse
for the sake of vos beaux yeux ? " And so saying, Mrs. Fitz¬
morris had very much the air of such being the case.
" By no means ; you know I never was vain, and besides
" Besides, you are otherwise occupied, I am well aware."
Mrs. Fitzmorris played with her rings, and looked down.
" Indeed! who has told you so P "
" As if I could remember, or should tell you if I did.
Well, but isn't it true that you have quite forgotten old
times P" asked Mrs. Fitzmorris, with a most coquettish
expression.
" Best assured, as much as you can possibly desire that I
should do," answered D'Arcy, promptly.
" I did not say I desired it;—that's your version, not
mine."
" Then," said D'Arcy, " you see I have forestalled your
wishes."
The way in which this was said betrayed at once that
D'Arcy had no intention to renew the old affair with his
companion, and betrayed a coldness, if not dislike, easily seen
through, and severely felt by Mrs. Fitzmorris. She bit her
lip, and coloured with anger.
THE DANSEUSE.
217
" You need not say things so pointedly. I have eyes as
well as others; and was not going to make love to you, as
you seem to be so much afraid that I should. In common
with all the world, I am quite aware that the ground is taken.
How do you find Mrs. Harcourt ? "
" Is that the lady the world is so obliging as to couple my
name with ? "
" The poor world is not to blame ; it can hardly help itself,
I think."
" It both can and shall," said D'Arcy, indignantly.
" Oh, don't be angry. Silencing the world must, of course,
depend upon yourself. You have only to give her up. Ii
you care for her reputation, there is no time to lose."
" So as to leave it to choice, whether it shall be said that I
am defeated, or only tired of the lady."
" Once, when I was considered the object, they said the
latter, I remember. The chances are equal—no, that would
be too good-natured. The world will say that you are tired
of her: she is the woman, and the weakest 5 and when was a
favourable construction ever put where a bad one could be
given ? Still, as the notoriety is only in the bud, it will be
talked of for two days, and then forgotten. Shall 1 begin by
denying it, and stand up as the champion of Mrs. Harcourt ?
Come to my Opera-box to-nigHt, instead of hers, and I will."
" That would be too sudden a retreat."
" Oh, I see!" answered Mrs. Fitzmorris, impatiently.
" Do you think her handsome P "
" Exceedingly! "
" Undeniably vulgar P "
" In saying so, you discover your usual originality of
opinion. I entirely differ from you. But why do you hate
her P "
" I hate her P—Not I! "
" You forget," said D'Arcy, " how well we know each
other; and that I am aware you always see people black or
white, according to your prejudices."
Some credit was due to Mrs. Fitzmorris for the apparent
good-humour with which she bore the uncivil observations of
her quondam lover. She was, in fact, naturally good-tem-
perea, but also very spiteful,—a union of qualities not unfre-
quently witnessed.
" What has become of that beautiful girl you seduced and
ran away with P " she asked ; and, observing D'Arcy hesi¬
tated, she added—"Oh! it was no secret, and affects no
218
VIOLET; OB,
one's reputation, except the poor girl's, which you destroyed
so long ago. So, as we do know each other so well, I
thought I might ask that question. I know she lived with
you abroad. Does she still P"
" She does."
" Poor thing !—Do you care for her ? "
" I really do. Why do you inquire P "
" And is she constant, well-behaved; or does she make
3'ou jealous ? "
" She never has, hitherto."
" She is beautiful, is not she P I am sure you like her,"
pursued Mrs. Fitzmorris, and looking curiously in D'Arcy's
face, as if to read there a true solution to her inquiry.
" She is beautiful; handsomer—far handsomer—than any
other woman I ever met with in my life," D'Arcy replied,
rising to take his leave.
He felt it a secret reproach, that such a woman should be
able to speak profanely of Yiolet Woodville. He was glad
to declare her beauty, and to convey, in that respect, his
opinion of Mrs. Fitzmorris's inferiority,—but he was more
glad to escape from speaking at all with reference to a
subject that galled him; and D'Arcy quitted the presence
of Mrs. Fitzmorris more than ever disposed to avoid her in
future.
It is the most useless thing to define the character of a
person; because, if you were to do so with the utmost exacti¬
tude, it is almost a certainty that if their entire history
should be written, in some one circumstance the practice of
the individual would be found at variance with his or her
moral attributes.
For instance, Mrs. Fitzmorris was about as heartless, as
frivolous, as worthless as any woman could well be; yet,
such as she was, she had once loved, had felt herself capable
of sacrifices, and had shed tears of extreme sorrow at the
time when she saw that she was neglected by a man she pre¬
ferred. She did not love well—I mean heroically ; but still
her love was an improvement, compared to anything else she
was capable of either doing or feeling.
D'Arcy, too, after a fashion, had seemed to like her once.
She was then young and pretty, and very lively; Bhe
afforded him amusement; added to which, he saw he was the
first possessor of all the heart she had to give. The advances
were rather on her side at the beginning ; but she succeeded
in captivating D'Arcy for a time. After a while he was
THE DANSEUSE.
219
inclined to grow tired of this liaison, and, from the excessive
imprudence of Mrs. Fitzmorris, was alarmed lest even her
patient husband should be exposed to the absolute necessity
of discovering that secret known to all the world, which
M. Balzac so pithily declares since the memory of man it
has never betrayed.
In the pursuit of Yiolet Woodville, D'Arcy often forgot
Mrs. Fitzmorris altogether; then, when she upbraided
him for his carelessness, she had to bear with coldness and
fault-finding,—condemned to discover the most painful of all
truths,—that your lover has not only ceased to love you, but
that he leaves you in doubt if he ever loved you at all.
Mrs. Fitzmorris bore numerous mortifications proving this
to be her case with more calmness than many women would
have done. The reasons were, that she was, as has been
said, possessed of an inherent good temper; and, secondly,
she was devoid of the delicacy of sentiment which would have
made any other person deeply sensible to half her provoca¬
tions.
She did not go to one ball the fewer, or spend one half
hour the less before her looking-glass, nor, even in thought,
did she deny herself the consolation of looking forward to
repairing his loss.
She soon heard of D'Arcy having fallen in love with Yiolet
Woodville, and of her being his mistress ; but this fact did
not distress her, as a ten minutes' flirtation would have done,
if he had been seen to have one with a lady in her own set.
Finally, when, after the absence of years, D'Arcy returned
to his country, and began, in worldly parlance, to throw him¬
self at the feet of Mrs. Harcourt, he gave Mrs. Fitzmorris
the utmost annoyance it was in his power to inflict.
Mrs. Harcourt was a young beauty, invested with the
charm of novelty, and, consequently, with a whole cloud of
admirers hovering about her. It was quite natural that Mrs.
Fitzmorris should envy her beyond measure, and that she
should try to do all she could to take D'Arcy from her.
She did try to effect this ; and, as D'Arcy said, she was
always ready to do anything, however extraordinary, to suit
her purpose. She had what the French designate as " une
mauvaise tete."
In obedience to D'Arcy's wishes, Yiolet went frequently
to the Opera : with what mixed sentiments she went there at
first it is impossible to say, still it was the only amusement
that gave her pleasure. New operas and new ballets had
220
VIOLET J OK,
started into existence since she had last visited the King's
Theatre ; and Yiolet was exceedingly fond of music.
D'Arcy very often stayed part of the time in her box. If
he told her he was not likely to come at all, she seldom went.
As a sort of chaperon, Yiolet took with her a Neapolitan
maid, Marietta, an ugly, stout, good-humoured Italian girl
of five-and-twenty. She drew the curtain of her box as
closely as possible, and endeavoured to escape the observa¬
tion of every one.
One night, when she was more than usually absorbed in
the acting of Malibran, she discovered that she was an object
of notice to a lady who sat in the third box from her, and
almost fronting her. Yiolet could not avoid perceiving that
she was watched by this person, and she wondered who it
could be. She was, apparently, a full-blown personage, with
more rouge and more boldness than any lady (off the stage)
she had ever seen before. Her whole appearance, in short,
denoted her character to be equivocal.
After being stared at some time, Yiolet was dismayed by
the lady's eyes suddenly emitting sparkling gleams of recog¬
nition, combined with all the gestitulation with which
foreigners can distort their features. It may be supposed
poor Yiolet made no signs of reply, and was lost in wondering
dread who the stranger could be; when, all at once, it flashed
upon her that it was a face she had formerly known. Yiolet
longed for D'Arcy to enlighten her, if possible; but he had
already been to her box that night, and did not come again.
On the next morning, about one o'clock, as she was pen¬
sively inhaling the fragrance of the mignionette, at her
pretty drawing-room window, the servant unexpectedly an¬
nounced a visitor ; and, almost before she was aware of her
presence, Violet found herself embraced by the stranger who
had recognized her the night before.
It was not for a few succeeding minutes that she was able
to recollect the features of Mademoiselle Celeste. Our
readers have, perhaps, likewise forgotten her. But Yiolet
Woodville's want of memory was excusable. From a co¬
quettish French-girl, pert-looking, but very pretty, Celeste
had spread out into a fat, coarse woman. She was rouged
immoderately ; her once clear brown skin was painted white,
and her eyebrows appeared to have been rubbed with a
blackened cork. Her dress was of the most outre fashion ;
and short petticoats being then worn, the shortness of those
of Mademoiselle Celeste was positively alarming. Altogether,
the danseuse.
221
her person displayed the appearance of a lengthened appren¬
ticeship in vice, and that, too, not of the best order.
Violet was struck with dismay at being familiarly accosted
by such a personage.
_ The coldness of her reception Mademoiselle Celeste either
did not or would not see. She drew a chair, and left Violet
to recover her surprise, while she talked for both ; and while
she did so, her eyes seemed to be walking round the room, for
the purpose of taking the minutest cognizance of everything
in it that they could.
" Est-ce que le rez-de-chaussee est a vous aussi, made¬
moiselle 1 "
Violet bowed an affirmative, on which Celeste made large
eyes, and exclaimed,—" Oh! la maison est toute a vous done ?
Ah, vous etes hien, ga se voit; mais c'est [toujours Af.
d'Arcy qui vous met dans vos meubles, n'est-ce pas ?"
Violet Woodville never felt a stronger feeling of disgust
than that she now entertained towards this woman, and her
distant manner would have been tantamount to a dismissal,
if the brass of Mademoiselle Celeste had not been proof
against everything. She went on talking unconcernedly, she
made answers for herself, absolutely astounding Violet by
her behaviour. At the same time, it was now and then im¬
possible not to smile at the strange light in which she exhi¬
bited herself, and, while she went on talking, it more than
once occurred to her unfortunate auditor to question whether
mademoiselle was most knave or fool.
Celeste recounted her own history since they had been
last in presence of each other. She said she had been very
ill used, and had suffered severely from la jalousie brutale of
Lord W. " JEst-il jaloux, lui ? " said the fair one, interrupt¬
ing herself, and illustrating her meaning with a jerk of her
head and a turn with one eye.
" Whom do you mean, Mademoiselle Celeste P "
" Mais ! M. d'Arcy P "
"II n est pas jaloux, madame."
" Vraiment ? II a I'air tout au contraire. C'est ce que je
dis, la phisiognomie dit toujours faux. Mais que disais-je
tout a, I'heure ? But what is it I talk French for dat speaks
English P Would you credit comme j'ai ete maltraitee ?
Lord Villiom s'avisa to he jaloux of a cousin of my own, un
jeune homme charmant, and perfect the gentleman in his
principes; and one day he was visiting at me, Lord Villiom
put him from my house by de vhole flight of steps, from top
222
VIOLET; 0E,
to bottom. I bad fits, des evanouissements effroyables. Ah ! le
souvenir de mes malheurs m'est bien penible,"—and Celeste, at
this period of her narration, sunk her voice down to a soprano.
Yiolet maintained silence, and again hoped she would go ;
but she hoped in vain. Violet Woodville, in the mean time,
sat before her, her cheeks dyed with a blush of mingled
shame and anger, caused by the cruel necessity of enduring
the presence of such a character. She persevered in making
short replies to her communications, but this only encouraged
Mademoiselle Celeste to talk the more, and to lengthen the
details of her own history. Perhaps she imagined she was
amusing her victim.
" I was carried to a hospital, tinking to die ; I had not
money nor friends: dat young brute, my Lord Villiom, be¬
haved so scandalous unto me.—Oh, cet homme doit etre bruU
vif. Bah ! "
" But your cousin, madame, should have taken care of
you," Violet condescended to interpose ; for she felt rather
interested, in spite of herself, at this climax of Celeste's mis¬
fortunes.
" Ah ! lui ! mais il etait obligS de retourner en Bretagne
rejoindre ses parens ; c'est un jeune homme qui a des amis
tres illustres. But I tell all in short. After dat I got veil.
But my confessor talk very much to me ven I was ill. He
persuade me to lead unquiet life, tres retiree. He very kind
old man to me, and did make me tink all sorts of disagree¬
able tings. And he was means of getting me a place vith a
noble family in the provinces, as English governess,—you see
I speak de English quite fluently ; and it was not people dat
knew Baris; ancienne noblesse tres roccoco, extremement
roccoco. Cependant mon malheureux destin, helas! ma
poursuivi.
" I was not a Vabri to the unfortunate passion that the
brother of my pupils conceived for me. I said all I could to
induce him not to molest me. Enjin, au moment de se noyer
il ma arrache despleurs. Sa mere barbare nous a decou-
verts, cest-a-dire mes pleurs. Et elle s'est indignement con-
duite avec moi. I did leave their house. I did arrive in
England—j'etais sans ressources—de Opera was over, de town
empty, de men all gone—aussi j avais des principes, j'avais
toujours peur du diable depuis ma maladie affreuse. I did
get into a Scotch family to teach de French. I was to join
them in Scotland : c'etait encore des gens de province. Eh
bien, concevez mon horreur! I go to dese people, and find
THE DANSEUSE.
223
myself relSgtiee in an old tower in de nord of Scotland. Sain
continuel—never cease,—on vat dey call fine days was only
small rain, vat dey call mist. Then noting to eat, des
legumes crues et soupe maigre—no fire—c'etait defendu par
leur religion, je crois, jusqu' au mois de Novembre au moins.
On Sundays they go to church, and hear one man speak in
de Gaelic, langage des Druides—des gens qui existaient avant
le temps de Louis de Quatorze. This last three hours, and
then was translated for defamille.
" My pupils had all red heads, and spoke with voices
tearing away my ears ; with hands and feet, and une tornure
si affreuse, que je nose vous en faire la description. Puis
pas un seul homme ! Enfin je me suis sauvee aprhs trois
mois de prisonparmi ce peuple sauvage ; c'itait avoir goute
du purgatoire d'avance, aussi a cause de cela j'ai obtenu
absolution de tous mes peches pendant six mois. Lesormais
jamais—je ne songerai jamais a me placer ; et voila deux
ans deja, que je me trouve tres bien. Pas comme vous, ma
chere, cependant," said Celeste, once more casting her eyes
round the apartment. " You very comfortable, here, I see.
Est-ce que les meubles sont entierement a vous? "
" I don't understand you, mademoiselle ! " answered
Violet, with a look of astonishment.
" Oh ! moi aussi j'ai un joli appartement, mais M. le
Comte m'a donne les meubles, c'est que je trouve cela fort Men :
$a nous reste toujours, mime quand on deminage," and the
French woman winked and laughed. " Connaissez-vous,[mon
ami, le Comte Pooby ! jeune homme tres galant, et facile a
vivre ? M. d'Arcy doit le connaitre."
"I beg your pardon," said Violet Woodville, rising from
her seat with burning cheeks, and unable any longer to bear
the presence of her companion,—" I beg your pardon, made¬
moiselle, but I have an engagement, and am obliged to leave
you."
This could not be misunderstood, even by Celeste, and she
rose to take her leave, declaring, however, she would come
again another day.
As she went out of the room she turned round with
a knowing look, and observed, "II faut t&cher de se faire
donner les meubles. C'est un grand avantage, croyez-moi, ma
chbre."
" What am I come to ! " thought Violet to herself, when
she was alone, " that this wretched creature should venture
to obtrude herself upon me thus."
224
VIOLET; OB,
The door burst open, and D'Arcy entered.
" My God, Violet! " he exclaimed, " what society have
you learned to keep all at once P How did that woman,
that painted French devil, get into my house P "
" Oh! D'Arcy, she has been with me all this time; I
could not help it."
D'Arcy rang the bell. On the servant entering, he said,
"Let the person who is just gone away be refused in future
all admittance to this house, on any plea whatever."
" You cannot be angry with me that I should have been
forced to see her. You may suppose my horror of her," said
Violet, deprecatingly, for she saw that D'Arcy was angry.
" I was surprised that you, who are so very inconveniently
particular sometimes at seeing my friends, should be receiving
a morning visit from such a woman—the boldest one even of
her kind, I think."
"Well, she thought she had, nevertheless, a right to visit
me."
" Psha! " answered D'Arcy, coldly, and coldly his manner
struck upon the heart of poor Violet.
She could not forbear saying, " I told you, D'Arcy, that
I should live to be despised. What is it that has brought
this woman upon me P "
" Spare me this sort of side-winded reproach."
" 1 beg your pardon, if I have offended ; it was impossible
to help expressing my disgust at that coryjpMe from the
Palais Poyal!" >.
D'Arcy spoke without feeling, and then withdrew, for he
was bored; and Violet remained alone, to be preyed upon by
the mortification occasioned by the events of the morning.
'• The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue,"*
was utterly wanting. She felt herself an outcast, and that
he who had reduced her to be so considered, on a sort ofy>as
with Mademoiselle Celeste, was himself angry with her that
this should now be proved to be the case.
The injustice of the world is proverbial, yet Violet Wood-
ville had not counted on being so soon exposed to its evil
chances.
Campbell.
the danseuse.
225
CHAPTEK XIX.
" jealousy
Belonged not to her noble nature.
Humble she was, unconscious of the charms
Which might have turned the heads of half the world.
But she was trusting—full of confidence.
And now—what devil is't that makes men's hearts ?—
She is forsaken—and, oh, Heavens ! for whom ? "
Old Play.
One day, at the dinner-hour, D'Arcy did not appear.
Violet fancied she must be mistaken in understanding that
he had intended to dine at home.
" Do you know if Mr. d'Arcy has any engagement to-day? "
she inquired of the servant.
" Don't know, ma'am. Mr. d'Arcy dines, most probably,
at Mrs. Harcourt's, ma'am."
" Why most probably at Mrs. Harcourt's ? "
" Master dines there most days that he does not dine any¬
where else, ma'am. If he does not dine there, he is sure to
be intending to go there, or he will be to be heard of there,
ma'am, if you have any message to send."
It was an under-servant who spoke. Howell would have
had more tact.
Violet Woodville returned no answer; but she sat, for
nearly half an hour afterwards, in a profound reverie.
Eor some time past she had seen that D'Arcy was less at
home, and that he was far less kind to her than formerly.
But, not being of a jealous disposition, Violet, with her usual
amiability, had attributed this change to herself alone. She
was aware that she did not receive him with a smile, as for¬
merly, and that she had not the power of amusing him.
The depression of her spirits increased so much, that she was
sometimes glad of D'Arcy's absence, at the same time that'
her existence hung upon him. She was like a plant that
requires the sun, but withers if too much exposed to it. She
could not always endure the restraint of appearing happy,
while her heart was profoundly miserable; and she could
neither conceal her grief, nor bear that D'Arcy should have
the pain of witnessing it.
On the plea of the change within herself, she excused
D'Arcy's frequent absences and occasional instances of un-
<Z
226
VIOLET ; OE.
kindness in liis manner. She had not grown to think that he
actually loved her the less ; and if she had, it was still another
thing to think that he had learned to love some one else
better.
Many women might have jumped to this conclusion more
readily ; but then Yiolet was not naturally jealous, and
always felt inclined to think favourably of every one. She
was fearful of wronging D'Arcy, even in thought, for it
would have been the means of destroying her last illusion.
Nevertheless, the clouds of sorrow were gathering over her
head more and more heavily each day. Alas! for this fair
young creature ! She was a beautiful, but too frail a plant
to resist the most pitiless storm to which she could be
exposed.
On a certain Tuesday evening, whilst Yiolet was sitting at
home, endeavouring to read, and secretly worried in a way she
would not allow to herself, at not having seen D'Arcy the
whole day, the servant entered, to say that the box-keeper
from Ebers' wanted to speak to her. Yiolet desired he might
be shown up.
The ex-officio of Mr. Ebers came with a proposal to induce
her to change her box for a smaller one on the other side of
the house. " If you will give it up to us, ma'am, for this
night only, we will deduct it from your nights, and charge
you nothing for the smaller box." Yiolet acquiesced, and
added, she would always be willing to give up that box for a
smaller one, at a less price.
"It is larger than I want, and I am quite indifferent as to
what side of the house my box is on; indeed, I always
thought it larger and more expensive than I required."
"We made Mr. D'Arcy, ma'am, the offer of the box you
will have to-night, but he did not see it, and took the larger
box, because it was the only one we had left on that side."
" I will speak to Mr. D'Arcy about it; and if you are
willing to make the exchange, I think it would answer much
better for me to do so."
Mr. said he had no objection ; he could at any time
let the box she was in possession of with advantage. " A box
like yours, ma'am, pays us well, and better, on the whole, in
letting it by single nights, when we have already one sub¬
scriber for the alternate week."
Yiolet Woodville depended on seeing D'Arcy that day,
before the time for going to the Opera; but eight o'clock
came and he had not been home. She then remembered to
THE DANSEtTSE.
227
have heard that a division in the House was expected. It
was a new opera, and Violet, who had not yet seen it, was
anxious to be there at the commencement. She knew how
useless it might be to wait for D'Arcy's return, and she
departed, leaving with the servants the number of her box, in
case he came in time to join her.
On this evening, Violet Woodville felt rather happier than
usual; a sensation which we all experience at times without
comprehending the means by which this variation of our
spirits has been wrought; being unwilling to allow that the
air we breathe, the very aspect of the street we inhabit, or,
above all, our own health, may be the sole cause of the
change. > On such occasions, we much prefer indulging in the
belief of presentiments of good and evil, as if there was not
enough mystery in our being, without extending its influence
to things so trivial. But this is very natural, for it is flatter¬
ing to the " pride that apes humility."
The house was nearly filled when Violet entered her box.
She placed herself as usual, so as to be seen as little as pos¬
sible, and her maid, Marietta, was obliged to follow the
example of her mistress.
The house on that evening presented one of its most
brilliant coups-d' ceil.
Violet's box was on the tier above the dress-circle. There
happened to be only one vacant box in the whole row, and
that was exactly opposite. During the interval of the first
and second act, a lady entered, and took possession of the
seat nearest the stage.
She was young, strikingly handsome, and beautifully
dressed. Violet recognized her as Mrs. Harcourt; but how
different, how improved, since she last beheld her !
Violet Woodville contemplated her former friend, not with
envy, but with a mixed sensation of surprise, curiosity, and
undefinable melancholy. She had never before been struck
with the amazing chasm that fate, or conduct (as my readers
will have it) had placed between them. There was such an
air of satisfaction about tire one—there was such a distinction
between the honoured wife of Hugh Harcourt, Esq., and the
mistress of George d'Arcy, Esq. The one, courted, admired,
and respected—the other, conscious of disgrace, and only
anxious to avoid notoriety !
Is it because she has been virtuous, and I have not ? was
the question that obtruded itself upon Violet Woodville; and
then she thought of the past, and was lost in reflections, all
Q 2
228
VIOLET ; OK,
tending to make her remember that time was, when their
chances had been equal; and when, if either might have
envied the other, she had been the person to be envied. On
one side, everything had been gained: worldly honours, and
a good character withal. On the other, all had been wrecked!
These thoughts, and such as these, occurred to the mind of
poor Violet, as she sat mournfully contemplating the brilliant
Mrs. Harcourt.
One dandy after another entered, and disappeared from her
box; to all she appeared to give the same reception, but she
wrould not have looked so handsome, if the triumph of grati¬
fied vanity had not lighted up her countenance, as Violet had
seen it do in days of yore. She could not abstract her obser¬
vation from her old companion, and her attention was finally
riveted upon her, when she saw Mrs. Harcourt suddenly
turn her head from the stage, for the purpose of saluting
D'Arcy, as at that moment he entered her box. One or two
other persons then left it, and D'Arcy, taking a vacant seat,
appeared to have much to say to Mrs. Harcourt, and to be
troubled with no desire of attending to the Opera.
In vain did Violet watch, hoping that D'Arcy, after a
reasonable time, would withdraw, as the previous visitors had
dene ; but no ; he stayed.
She watched his countenance ; it was gay and smiling.
She observed Mrs. Harcourt; she was radiant. They talked
earnestly ; D'Arcy more particularly so ; and he kept gazing
at his companion in a way that was quite unnecessary. In
short, the most unpractised eye would have suspected a
fiirtation.
Tor the first time in her life, Violet Woodville felt really
jealous. How can I describe the nature of the sick and sink¬
ing heart with which she adopted the conviction that D'Arcy
loved another ?
There are some moments so painful in their endurance, we
would gladly forget that they belong to human existence—
moments in which it would have been better to have been
sleeping the sleep of death, than to have lived and suffered
their anguish.
No tears rose to the eyes of Violet, for jealousy despises
the relief of tears; but she turned faint—no incident, at that
moment, could have affected her. The earth might have
rolled beneath her feet, but, while life remained, she would
have experienced but one sensation.
But I will not dwell on this theme : I will rather say, in
THE DANSEUSE.
229
the words of a beautiful writer—" Das Herz thut ihm dabei
allzuweh, denn er hat ahnliche Dinge erlebt, und scheut sich
iu der Erinnerung auch noch von ihrem Schatten. Du
kennst wahrscheinlich ein ahnliches Gefiihl, lieber Leser,
denn so ist nun einmal der sterblichen Menschen Geschick." *
She who suffered remained for a while like a person in a
miserable dream. A sound of mirth, a song expressive of
human joy when most triumphant, then burst upon her
hearing, and awoke Yiolet from her trance of despair.
She listened to the music: it was so acutely in contrast
with her feelings, that she exclaimed, almost aloud, " Could
there be, then, so much happiness ever known upon earth! "
The duet was encored, and then the curtain fell; and, while
the pit bestowed its deafening plaudits, Yiolet Woodville
sank back in her chair, and all but fainted.
While Yiolet was hastening home, to indulge in her misery,
D'Arcy remained at the Opera, unconscious of the anguish
he had occasioned, occupying these idle moments in criticizing
the ballet, and in admiring, with his eyes, the beautiful face
and figure of Mrs. Harcourt.
"Where is Harcourt to-night? " he inquired.
" At Crockford's, I suspect. I wish you would persuade him
not to go there so much. I know he will be induced to play."
" I have put him on his guard once or twice, when he has
been disposed to listen to me; but why not exert your
influence ? "
" Oh, Mr. Harcourt seldom allows me to advise him—and
he is so easily irritated," Mrs. Harcourt exclaimed, and then
stopped short in her sentence.
" Surely not with you ? He must be as much your captive
as ever."
" Mr. dArcy, you must know better than that," said Emily,
in a half-reproachful voice.
"I cannot understand any man not being at your feet—
but then—he is he is not worthy of you."
" He is a spoilt child, and every now and then regrets
having married me. I should be wretched if I did not know
that whoever had my place, Harcourt would not be in the
least happier."
" No, indeed. Heavens, what man could complain if he
possessed you!"
DArcy was enabled to hazard these fadaises, and made
aware that they would be tolerated, by their forming the
* De la Motte Fouque.
230
VIOLET ; OE,
accompaniment to Mrs. Harcourt's abuse of her husband;
and he put so much unction into his manner, that the matter
was not ridiculed. However, Mrs. Harcourt thought it time
to interpose with—" What nonsense ! I am not better than
others ; but I talk to you as I would to an intimate friend,
who understands Harcourt as well as I do myself •, you must
not make me speeches—I don't like compliments."
" I don't wonder at that, you must be sick of them,—you,
who have so many admirers."
" Well, if I have, you may suppose I know how much they
are worth."
" True; but it may happen that you may be admired,
and create a lasting impression where you don't intend it."
"No, no, men are so vain, it seldom happens that they
bestow their serious attention upon a married woman, unless
they think they shall be well received."
D'Arcy thought this was very true, but his acquiescence he
forbore to pronounce,—he only went on enlarging upon the
involuntary passion Mrs. Harcourt was capable of inspiring.
She listened and smiled,—for she was vain, and she liked the
language of admiration, especially from D'Arcy. She did not,
however, listen at her ease, because she was afraid of being
said to flirt with him. She did not quite know how far her
position would exempt her from the remarks of those on
whose fiat she placed her dependence. In short, poor
woman ! she could not consider herself to be sufficiently
established to feel assured that she might flirt to any extent,
and still be deemed infallible. So she desired the world
should see that she was courted by D'Arcy, but at the same
time, she thought it wiser, being only a parvenue, that she
should not give rise to criticisms upon her conduct, which
spiteful, but omnipotent, and perhaps jealous, gods and god¬
desses might render the instruments of her destruction.
Mrs. Harcourt had already learnt, that the toleration of the
world was not impartial; she remembered, therefore, that
time was passing, and that D'Arcy had been seen during
a considerable interval in her box. The ballet was all but over.
" Mr. d'Arcy," she said, therefore, half in joke and half in
earnest, " people who have no discrimination will say that I
am flirting, if you stay here any longer."
D'Arcy took the hint, and departed. He perfectly under¬
stood the policy on which she acted, and was quite willing to
humour her.
" Yiolet," said D'Arcy, next day, " I was very sorry not to
THE BANSEtTSE.
231
get to you at the opera last night, but the House sat so late I
could not manage it."
" You went to the Opera P " said Violet, interrogatively,
and trembling while she spoke.
" Yes; but I knew it was past your hour of staying, so
I did not go to your box. How did you like the new opera?"
D'Arcy scarce heard the answer to his question, and he did
not in the least observe the dejected air of Violet Woodvillu.
He was just then thinking over the speech of a political
adversary, against whom he meant that very evening to pit
his own eloquence in the ensuing debate.
On her part, Violet ascertained that, not having previously
returned home, D'Arcy had gone to the Opera without bearing
of her having exchanged her box, and she learnt, besides, that
when at the Opera, he had not taken the trouble of finding
out whether she had attended it or not,—at least not until he
quitted Mrs. Harcourt, and then, indeed, it was " past"
Violet's usual hour for retiring.
Violet saw that at this present moment D'Arcy was pre¬
occupied by politics, and that he was thinking more of public
than of private affairs.
"He is caring more for his ambition than even for Mrs.
Harcourt; and as for me "
She left off thinking her sentence, but she garnered up her
feelings, and gathered strength from his indifference to dis¬
guise them carefully. There is nothing which so effectually,
or so disagreeably checks the exposure of our sentiments, as
the finding another person as unmindful as he is unprepared
to receive the communication.
While she felt so unhappy, perhaps D'Arcy had never, at
any period, been more contented with his existence.
He was occupied in a way that suited his disposition, and,
above all, the activity of his mind. In younger days he had
been too dissipated, too roving, too independent likewise, to
bend his thoughts systematically to the course of ambition.
When younger, he was too arrogant to reason wisely, and too
keen-sighted to belong to any party. But D'Arcy was exactly
the person to become, intensely, a man of the world, in con¬
duct more than in feeling. Our feelings-remain as they were,
much longer than we suppose; but the difference is, that our
actions cease to be governed by them ; we acquire, as D'Arcy
did, " l'esprit du monde, et l'esprit du monde est uu esprit de
souplesse et de management."*
* Massillon.
232
VIOLET ; OE,
D'Arcy had 110 immediate desires to gratify, and no affec¬
tions unfulfilled. The creature he had loved the most was
Violet; but she was no longer a novelty, and now that she did
not enter into his pursuits, he was willing to be absorbed by
them, and, for the sake of diversion, to flirt' with Mrs. Har-
court, to the prejudice of the unfortunate being whose happi¬
ness he had taken into his own hands ; and he made but
small allowances for the melancholy that was overcasting her
existence. He could say to himself, " She should consider
that this air of woe must be very disagreeable to me ; it makes
me prefer something else;—I must go where I shall escape
this sort of ennui"
It was undoubtedly a want of calculation on the part of
Violet, who should have reflected that D'Arcy would be dis¬
pleased by her continual inclination to grieve. Nevertheless,
she endeavoured, and imagined that she had succeeded in
concealing her grief from him, on the subject of her parents,
—in the same way as she strove to hide the pangs of jealousy
which devoured her now. At all times, and at any cost to
herself, she would have spared him pain, for there did not
exist a more generous heart; but Violet did not herself know
how easily her mind could be read. Besides, her health was
failing, and she was losing her bodily strength.
While she remained abroad, the neglect of her parents did
not so much surprise her. She thought it was merited, and
she lived in hope. But when, on her arrival in England, 3he
found that they had left it, and gone no one knew whither—■
when she could discover no means of ascertaining their fate,
she was seized with the most vivid affliction. At first, D'Arcy
had entered into her distress, till by degrees the subject
tired him, and she was left undisturbed to commune with her
grief.
That they might have suffered misfortunes,—that they
might have died, believing her careless of their destiny;
these, and all the imaginings that follow in the train of
regrets, which we are led to fear are come too late, harassed
her mind. Then it was that Violet Woodville recalled every
act of kindness of her parents ; above all, the thought of her
father's goodness, and of her having been his greatest joy,—1
of the simplicity of his blunt affection,—of his honest pride in
her beauty, and his spoiling love and tenderness in the days
of her childhood!
She cherished such recollections as a feeling mind is wont
to do—those that are the most painful. She would not spare
THE DAKSEUSE. 233
herself a single agony, and she, who would fain have been so
kind, so considerate, towards anything that was human,
became a prey to deep remorse! And, more than all, she had
begun to doubt of D'Arcy's love; that love for which she had
sacrificed everything!—herself, and her parents !
CHAPTER XX.
" Oh! 'tis a fearful thing to feel,
In this cold world, alone."
Capt. D. L. Richardson.
" You will go to the Breakfast, of course ? " said D'Arcy, one
morning, in Mrs. Harcourt's drawing-room.
" Certainly, as I am invited. Shall you go ?—but it is no
use asking, as it is not to be for a week."
" I will go, at all events, if you will take me ? "
"Very well—yes—only—no 1 am to take some ono
else, I believe."
" But in your barouche there is room ? "
" There is," said Mrs. Harcourt, with some embarrass¬
ment. " But the world is so ill-natured. I think I had
better not take you."
" You are very much afraid of the world ! "
"If I am, am I wrong?"
" No ; it is wise to fear the world, even if it interfere with
your friendships !" answered D'Arcy, drily.
" If you really required me to take you to the Breakfast, I
would do it with pleasure; but I know, well enough, a hundred
other people will be too glad to do so, and no remarks will be
made about them ; whereas I am not a privileged person."
" I see," said D'Arcy; " but whatever cavalier you take,
will belong to you for the day. I shall, therefore, not go at
all."
Mrs. Harcourt hesitated, blushed a little, and then said,
"You can join me in the evening: after dinner, people dis¬
perse about the garden. I will take some one whom I can get
rid of."
Upon hearing this, D'Arcy's eyes grew rather brighter, and
his manner better humoured, as he graciously assented to a
proposition which was assuredly very flattering.
234
VIOLET; OB,
" Will you go to the Horticultural Gardens to-morrow P"
he presently demanded.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Har court.
" At what time ?"
" Any time : I have not thought of the time."
" Say at four, then P"
" Very well—only "
"What?"
" Why, if you are going—shall you go ?"
D'Arcy laughed.
" What I was about to say is, that if many people are there,
don't join me at once—I shall walk to the further end."
At this moment the door opened, and Lady M was an¬
nounced—the last person Mrs. Harcourt wished should have
seen D'Arcy at her house, cautious as she was of giving um¬
brage to the world, and having always in view the obtaining
a steady footing in that society in which, at first, she was only
suffered.
Lady M was a lady whose suffrage Mrs. Harcourt
eagerly desired to obtain, and one whose verdict against her
she would have greatly feared. Lady M had ceased to
be young. Her manners were dignified, and she might still
be called handsome and magnificent in her appearance ; alto¬
gether, it must be said that she was an imposing person, both ■
in character and in demeanour. She went with the world; but
she did not give her individual countenance to its vices. She
blamed no one ; but she had never been known to accord her
protection where blame could be justly applied. Her under¬
standing was too cultivated, her breeding too polished, to
render her disagreeable ; but still she was an alarming person
to those who were not intimate with her.
In Lady M 's collected manner of addressing Mrs. Har¬
court it was impossible to discover whether D'Arcy's presence
had made an impression upon her for good or evil. He soon
rose to take his leave, and as he did so, Mrs. Harcourt care¬
lessly addressed him, saying, " I will give your message. In
general Mr. Harcourt is always in and out of my drawing-
room during the morning,—where he is to-day I don't know."
This little speech might serve as a blind to Lady M ,
but, otherwise, it was not politic in Mrs. Harcourt to allow
D'Arcy to be in the secret of the ready meanness of invention
it displayed on her part, and, accordingly, his mouth was still
curling with a sneer as he rode down St. James's Street.
It may be fairly asked whether D'Arcy seriously designed
THE DANSEUSE.
235
to seduce his friend Harcourt's wife. All that can be said is,
that he despised Harcourt's character, and was more allied to
him by intimacy than by friendship. Then, D'Arcy was
habitually careless of others, and confident in himself. If his
intentions were not really bad, he was still in a tortuous path,
and no one ought to have known its dangers better than he
did. There was safety in his not being in love with Mrs.
Harcourt,—a fact he disguised from her, but not from him¬
self ; and, under false colours, he endeavoured to fathom her
sentiments.
At first he had only been surprised by observing her trans¬
formation into a woman of fashion ; but she had the art of
rendering herself agreeable, and had spared no pains to make
D'Arcy like her,—he was, of course, flattered. He liked her
house, and gradually began to admire its mistress ; he sought,
perhaps, a compensation for the languor of his own home.
By degrees D'Arcy was piqued into wishing to know more of
Mrs. Harcourt. He began to think he was in duty bound to
make love to her. The occupation pleased him, for he saw it
pleased her, and she was much too handsome for him not to
feel obliged to her for this. D'Arcy was spoilt—he had never
acquired self-correction,—and he had not the weakness or the
tenderness of disposition which leads to forbearance, and
sometimes supplies the want of it.
One day, about this time, Violet Woodville was astonished
by receiving an anonymous letter, the contents of which
smote her like a death-blow.
The letter informed her of D'Arcy's "devoted passion,"
for such were the words, for Mrs. Harcourt. She was warned
to separate him from her, if possible, and to beware of Mrs.
Harcourt, as her greatest enemy.
Some misfortunes become doubly certain when they are
repeated by the world, which we had not taken into our con¬
fidence. So Violet Woodville felt it now, and she sat (like a
person who has been stunned) for an hour with the letter in
her hands.
Ho woman at such a moment is a competent judge of the
best mode of acting ; but, in some cases, impulse supplies
the place of judgment, and a jealous woman always, I believe,
acts upon impulse, if she can. Had D'Arcy been in the house,
Violet would have flown to him, shown him the letter, and
have been contented when he had told her that all it said was
false. Perhaps, too, moved by the sight of her grief, D'Arcy
would have held himself bound to make his assurance true.
236
VIOLET ; OK:
But, alas ! D'Arcy was not there, and long before he returned
to his home, which was not till very late the next morning,
from the House of Commons, Violet had settled her plan of
conduct, and determined to communicate with him by writing.
If I speak to him (she argued), I shall only embarrass my¬
self by the anguish I cannot disguise: neither will I inflict
any scene of this sort upon him,—if D'Arcy has ceased to
love me, perhaps it is my own fault. I know I am not what
I used to be. I have become a clog to him. I will abstain
from all upbraiding : whatever I suffer, have I not deserved
it ? So argued Violet Woodville. Her spirit was incapable
of revenge, and she preferred blaming herself to blaming an¬
other : besides, she began to fear that all her misfortunes had
been merited by her.
Violet could not guess from whence the anonymous letter
came, but concluded, at all events, that it was written by an
enemy of D'Arcy's. I have neither friends nor enemies, she
said to herself.
By the next day, Violet had written a letter to D'Arcy,
which she intended should decide her fate. She would have
given it on this morning, and was summoning resolution to do
so, when D'Arcy addressed her, by saying he meant to go
that afternoon to Putney.
The Harcourts had taken a villa there,—and in saying he
was going thither, D'Arcy meant that he was going to their
house. Violet did not know this, however, and timidly she
asked whom he was going to stay with. Timidly she spoke,
for she was broken by sorrow, and, now that she imagined
D'Arcy could be inconstant, she felt an increased sense of
humiliation.
The little pride that remained to one so lowly, and self-con¬
demning, was that which she derived from the affection of the
person to whom she had deferred every sentiment, and sur¬
rendered all but her conscience. His love proved vacillating,
—so, therefore, must be her mainstay in life.
D'Arcy's sense of right and wrong unavoidably gave him
a disagreeable sensation, at Violet's inquiry,—and he there¬
fore chose to imagine it was made on purpose.
" I thought you knew. The Harcourts have taken a villa
at Putney. What is the matter, Violet? " inquired D'Arcy,
suddenly ; for he beheld her turning very pale, and on his
inquiry she hid her face in her hands.
D'Arcy felt shocked, and approached her, saying, " What
is it dearest ?—tell me everything ? "
THE DANSEUSE.
237
" Oh, George ! why do you ask mc?" Violet Woodville
exclaimed, bursting into long-suppressed tears.
D'Arcy had not the dissimulation which would have in¬
duced him to feign total ignorance of the cause of her grief,
and he said at once, " You surely are not so foolish as to be
jealous of the Harcourts ? "
" Indeed I am. D'Arcy, have I no reason to be so? "
"None, none, dearest!" D'Arcy replied, hastily ; and, at
that moment, he said to himself, " I will have done with that
woman : what is she, compared with this one—who has loved
me for myself alone, and who has none of the worldly-mind-
edness I have seen so much of, and which I despise so tho¬
roughly ? " So thought D'Arcy, but it did not enter into his
mind to give up going to Putney that day ; he had engaged
himself, and he never dreamt of sacrificing twenty-four hours
of amusement;—and to appear uncivil besides.
There was a point of difference mutually misunderstood.
D'Arcy persevered in going to Putney, because he knew it
was of no consequence to his new resolves, whether he spent
a day more or less in the society of Mrs. Harcourt. Violet,
who knew not how little he cared for her rival, deemed his
going of serious importance.
D'Arcy thought it wise to treat her feelings lightly; con¬
tenting himself, therefore, with an assurance that she wronged
him, and that his heart was hers alone.
"No, George," said Violet, "you do not love me now, as
you loved me once. It is not your fault. I don't blame you,
D'Arcy."
" My dear Violet, you shut yourself up, you grieve over
past events, and then you get fanciful. You must trust more
to me, and, above all, you must seek more amusement."
In saying this, D'Arcy was not unreasonable; for, as he
was ignorant of the circumstances that rendered her jealous,
he imagined her surmise to be wholly founded upon the
knowledge of his frequent visits to Mrs. Harcourt, and that
her low spirits had fostered the painful idea.
Violet hesitated, whether she should undeceive him, by ex¬
plaining on what grounds her jealousy was founded; but while
she was yet thinking whether she should tell him all, or leave
it to her letter, D'Arcy had observed the clock. " I find,"
said he, " if I intend to go at all, there is no time for delay;"
and he took her hand, evidently to bid her farewell. Violet
no longer doubted about what she should do.
The very manner in which D'Arcy spoke chased all expla-
238
VIOLET ; OB,
tion from her lips. She felt that he had not then time to
think of her. She composed herself, and asked how soon he
would return.
"Probably, to-morrow."
" And you are not going to the Breakfast, to-morrow ? "
"No, I think not,—at all events, instead of going from
Putney, I will come to town. It will be out of my ivay,—
but what does that signify ?—I shall see you."
"Oh! if you would come back!" exclaimed Violet, with
sudden energy, "if but for a moment! You can still go to
the Breakfast so easily from town. I don't know wh}r, but I
am sure I shall be miserable, if I do not see you to-morrow.
I shall fancy I know not what; and you must only pity me,
and not be angry, for indeed there are moments when we
cannot command ourselves." Violet pressed her hand to her
aching brow, and she looked very ill.
" Take care of yourself, dearest,—go out and dissipate
these ideas which have seized hold of you. As if I did not
love you!—at present, I have no intention of going to the
Breakfast; at all events, you will see me at four to-morrow.
" Good bye, my love, and don't be silly," D'Arcy added,
in a tone of mingled carelessness and kindness.
Violet smiled through the tears which were still hovering
on her eyelids, and tried to look as if she would obey.
She felt a little re-assured when D'Arcy seemed so certain
of his return next day ; but, as he was closing the door, she
called to him, in a tremulous tone, " George, I hope you will
not disappoint me. Pray come back to-morrow: I don't
know why I desire it so, but I feel very unhappy."
" I shall certainly be here by four. Order the carriage.
Try and amuse yourself. Is there anything I can do for
you ? "
" Nothing—nothing."
"He is gone!" Violet involuntarily exclaimed, the next
moment.
D'Arcy, before departing, would have endeavoured to
soothe her more effectually, but he was afraid of encouraging
her to give way to emotion, and he hardened his heart, by
trying to think he was taking the best course in treating her
grief lightly. Still, as he rode down the street, his mind
misgave him, and he regretted that he had not attempted
to penetrate more fully the motives of Violet's jealousy of
Mrs. Harcourt. Certainly his leaving her, without a thorough
explanation, was not the way to diminish her suspicions.
THE DANSEttSE.
239
Her looks of suffering, too, taunted him: D'Arcy had not
been so struck by it till now, when the vision of her sor¬
rowful face remained in his mind's eye; and the impression
became at length so strong, that he was turning his horse to
gallop home. At that moment he was arrested by a servant
of Mrs. Harcourt, who gave him a note, which, the man
said, he was ordered to lose no time in taking to him.
_ The note contained a few lines from Mrs. Harcourt, beg¬
ging D'Arcy, if he conveniently could, to be at Putney by
six o'clock, as she wished to see him before her husband
should come home.
D'Arcy knew that there could be no time to lose, if he
meant to obey Mrs. Harcourt's wishes. He, therefore, rode
quickly on, and Yiolet Woodville, if not forgotten, was at
least neglected.
CHAPTEE XXI.
" We know not the amount of misery
The heart can bear, when, one by one, the ills
Of life steal on us; but, alas ! there are
Calamities which overwhelm at once,—
Crushing' the spirit by a sudden blow,—
And leaving the poor victim ppwerless,
Without a chance of struggling with his fate."
Anon.
In the mean time Yiolet sat at home, a prey to that gloomy
depression, which is one of the most pitiable states of the
mind.
. She felt all the additional suffering arising from ill health;
for, almost unremarked by herself, and quite uncared for,
mental anxiety had long been preying upon her constitution,
but, though delicate, being naturally healthy, the injury was
slow in manifesting its symptoms. She grew weak, however,
and became often restless with the fever of debility.
She felt ill, but not comprehending the cause, and not con¬
sidering that health, or the want of it, could possibly add to,
or diminish, her unhappiness, it is not wonderful that she
took no care to check the growing evil.
Now, however, as Vilolet sat alone, she made an effort to
dispel her low spirits, perhaps from feeling how overwhelm¬
ing they were becoming. She tried her pianoforte, but the
first notes she struck called forth painful recollections, and
210
VIOLET ; on,
renewed lier tears. She endeavoured to read, but at the end
of half an hour she found she had only been studying the
same page without comprehending a single line.
She flew to the open window. The sun was shining brightly
over the green surface of the Regent's Park. It was a charm¬
ing afternoon in the month of June. Violet heard the rattle
of carriages, and watched the britschkas of the London ladies
as they rolled on to the park. Their appearance, as they
dashed along, in their brilliant attire and their open vehicles,
conveyed an idea of gaiety, and of minds at ease, which the
reality, if known, might have failed in proving.
Violet gave a sigh, and said, inwardly, " All those people
cannot be happy,—but they are not as wretched as I am ; "
and she looked about for some object more in unison with
herself.
A poor and ragged old woman was tottering along the
pavement, and once or twice addressed the passengers for
relief. Violet sent her some money. The mendicant looked
up at the window, crying out, " Many thanks to you, lady; I
am a happy woman to what I was, and my poor dear only
son, who is dying of the fever, will want for nothing now, till
it please God to take him. May God bless you, and pour
the joy into your heart that you have given to mine, by your
bounty; " and, with a countenance expressive of real content,
the beggar departed.
" Her only son dying !—and that woman is rendered com¬
paratively happy! She has no feeling, and I cannot pity
her," exclaimed Violet; and she turned away, when an organ-
boy struck up, " Portrait Charmant," and Violet paused to
give way to the associations the street-worn air conjured up
in her mind.
An old romantic air, like that of "Portrait Charmant,"
has, sometimes, from its very commonness, a more powerful
effect than the finest song out of the " Puritani."
With the former we are so familiar; in our happy hours
we have so despised it, as that eternal thing; in our busy
moments we have so contemned the tiresome Italian boy, with
his one tune ; and, as we have driven along, and at the turn
of a street have caught the weary notes of an organ, one has
said, " How sick I am of that old French air! " and then we
have pursued our way, and forgiven and forgotten the anti¬
quated romance. But in the time of sorrow, of inactive sor¬
row, then, if such an air as " Portrait Charmant" be heard
mingling with the vulgar street sounds, it will strike you as
THE DANSETTSE.
241
it never did before, and in listening to the notes you find it
is, somehow, taking a gentle revenge for all the contumely
you have cast upon its hackneyed sounds in days gone by.
So now was it the case with Yiolet; and when the music
had died in the distance, her mournful feelings seemed unac¬
countably revived in strength by the passing notes of an old
hand-organ.
' Yiolet ordered her carriage. She was fearful of remaining
longer in her present mood, and the idea occurred that if she
did not exert herself, her reason would be impaired; her
mind was growing morbid,—even much more so than she
suspected.
At the moment the carriage was ready, a servant brought
up a card, the owner of which requested to see her if she
should be at leisure.
" Monsieur Larray,
Professor of Music,"
was printed upon the card!
Yiolet rose from her sofa, and, in excessive agitation, was
going to rush down the staircase. She recollected herself,
and desired that the gentleman might be shown up stairs.
Henri Larray, for it was indeed he, had grown a more
staid-looking man than at the period of his introduction to the
reader at the commencement of this story. His vivacious
countenance had acquired that subdued look which, somehow
or other, the face of a married man always does acquire.
Henri had not broken his heart entirely on Mrs. Harcourt's
account, and he had married a pretty Englishwoman, with
whom he enjoyed domestic happiness.
On finding himself in the presence of Violet Woodville, he
testified embarrassment, and more gravity of demeanour than
he might have done had he met her under different auspices.
But he must have seen at once that she was the same in out¬
ward seeming. An erring course had not in her, as it does in
so many others, led to corresponding manners.
Violet flushed on beholding her old acquaintance; and her
heightened colour, which remained by her, prevented Larray
from observing in her an appearance of illness, which, at ano¬
ther time, he would have easily discerned.
On his entrance, Violet Woodville held out her hand, with¬
out speaking, and it was some minutes before she could utter
a word.
" You must be surprised," said Larray, " at my abrupt
E
242
VIOLET J OR,
visit, but it is business that makes me have the honour of
calling ; should it be inconvenient to you now, pray allow me
to come another day."
Yiolet assured him that she had no engagement, and
expected no interruption. This she said in a marked tone,
glad to intimate that he needed not fear the arrival of
D'Arcy.
Larray then repeated that he was come on business,—
family affairs of her own, of importance to her to be
acquainted with.
At this announcement Yiolet trembled violently. She felt
certain she was going to hear tidings of her parents, and
inwardly she was almost overcome by a rush of feeling,
strangely compounded of joy and terror. Visibly agitated,
she attempted to essay an inquiry, if he had news of her
nearest relations, but the words died away upon her lips ; at
length she articulated:—" My father ! my mother ? "
" I am come from France, from Tours," said Larray,
" and an office has devolved upon me, which I am anxious to
execute to the best of my abilities. M. Dupas has been
living at Tours the last few years, and "
" But my parents ? my father P" interrupted Yiolet.
Larray looked anxiously at her, at the same time with an air
of curiosity, as if there was something he wished to learn. A
sigh escaped him as he said evasively, " Yes, part of the
time your father was with M. Dupas at Tours."
" And my mother, how is she ? "
" Mrs. Woodville is quite well," replied he, in a lighter
tone.
So far, the conversation had indirectly tended to reassure
Violet Woodville, and, to avoid immediate interruption, she
allowed her companion to resume speaking, without further
interrogations, trusting to hear all she desired from his lips.
Larray proceeded to state that M. Dupas had been residing
at Tours, but latterly had gone to Bagnieres, on account of
his declining health.
" Has he been ill, then P " exclaimed Yiolet, " the dear,
good old man! Has he ever deigned to cast a thought upon
me,—who have proved myself so unworthy? I was his
favourite once, you know, M. Larray," she added, with a
forced smile ; and then she swallowed the tears that rose,
and almost choked her.
" He never forgot you,—be assured of that,—and he
always retained his affection for you.
THE DANSEUSJ5.
243
" Oh, then why have I been abandoned by him, if, indeed,
he did not think it best to forget me ? " and Yiolet clasped
her hands and wept.
Larray waited till her emotion had subsided, and then
resumed the conversation by saying: " Do not think you
were neglected. M. Dupas made inquiries about you
through various channels. All the time you were abroad
he knew where you were residing, and that you were well.
He had wandered so much in his youth that he has
acquaintance in many cities of Europe, and — and Mr.
d'Arcy's official capacity rendered it easy to ascertain at all
times where he resided, and "
"Yes, yes, I see,—he could easily learn where I was;
but why not write me one line of consolation? Did he
think I had no desire to learn some intelligence regarding
my family? He could not suppose that I had suddenly
become dead to all human ties! Did it not occur to him
that I had no means of obtaining any information con¬
cerning my father ? He must have known that my parents
did not write to me. Erom him they concealed nothing.
It would have been most charitable to have told me any¬
thing concerning them:—and M. Dupas, too, who was
always so kind and so considerate. My father! — Oh,
Monsieur Larray, you cannot imagine what have been my
feelings at times! To have had to bear, without any alle¬
viation, the sense of continual remorse, till my heart has
longed to burst!—to have thought of my poor father and
mother as I have done,—to have inquired for them fruit¬
lessly, and to have gone on without seeing a period to such
misery !—to have lived on, in uncertainty of their existence,
—to desire only to die, even if I were unforgiven by them !
If you could feel as I have felt, you would pity me ! Yet do
not think he has been unkind," added Yiolet, fearful lest
D'Arcy should be censured; " far from it. It is only myself
I have to blame, and for everything.
" And now, where are my parents ; and are they both
quite well ? "
Henri Larray changed countenance; he appeared greatty
embarrassed, and continued silent.
"Where are they?" demanded Violet again, while she
fixed her eyes upon him.
" I have nothing to communicate that will not be pain¬
ful for you to hear," said Larray, nervously, and as if
making an effort with himself.
K 2
244
VIOLET; OE,
" I was not aware how uninformed you have been of the
events that have taken place Nay, listen to me—do not
interrupt me, dear Miss Woodville, for your sake and for
mine. First, let me say, banish from your mind all idea
of neglect or unkindness ; nothing of the sort was contem¬
plated towards you. M. Dupas looked forward to seeing you
himself some day, and communicating to you all his kind
M'ishes and intentions on your behalf. I was residing a long
lime at Tours, and he trusted me with his confidence; and,
at his death "
" Is he, then, dead P My God!"
" He is dead; but he died happy, and at a good old age
—he was seventy. Let us rejoice that his end was tranquil,
and that, till within a week of his death, his health had been
good : he thought he should be able to re-visit England at the
period of your return, and to see you again—his dearest
child, as he always called you."
" God's will be done ! " said Yiolet, after a pause, and in
the resigned tone of one who is accustomed to suffering.
" And my father ? "
" Ah ! what shall I say ! " exclaimed Larray. " Mine is a
cruel task, and one I almost shrink from, now that I see its
extent."
" Don't keep me in suspense—I can bear anything—I am
prepared for anything. Do you not know we only come into
the world to suffer?—and, therefore, it is all right and as it
mould be."
" God grant you to be happy some time. You must not
despair—you must hope always. You would have heard
from our dear old friend concerning your father, but that it
became unavailing, and then he thought it better not to
write."
"Unavailing!" exclaimed Yiolet Woodville, with force.
" Unavailing!—then now I understand you. What could
make it unavailing, except that—he is dead? "
Larray bent an affirmative in silence.
" He is dead ! " repeated Yiolet.
She changed colour alarmingly, but she did not faint.
Her previous state of excitement subsided, and this had the
effect of rendering her apparently resigned. Larray was
exceedingly relieved by her unexpected composure. In a few
minutes she requested to hear further.
" Mr. Woodville's health, when he came to Tours was
THE DANSEUSEo
245
greatly impaired, and lie was still under considerable ex¬
citement. He bad a friend, however, who never lost sight of
him ; and when at last it became necessary to place him in
confinement, M. Dupas engaged for him to live in the house
of a physician whom he knew. The hearing of this is pain¬
ful, but perhaps Mr. Woodville suffered less in consequence
of this bereavement than he otherwise might have done;
and his death-bed was undisturbed by anxiety. M, Dupas
intended more than once to write to you, to tell you all
this ; but he was deterred, by fearing the impression that
would be made upon you, by learning the state in which your
father died : latterly, he fully intended seeing you again him¬
self, and doing all he could to soften such cruel intelligence
—his death prevented this : he has left you his heir, and I am
his executor. I acknowledge I trusted not to find you so
completely unprepared for all my fatal intelligence." .
No ; no one would tell me that I drove my father mad ! "
ejaculated Violet; and she spoke in a tone that was harsh
and unlike herself.
Larray endeavoured to speak words of comfort, but was
met by no encouragement; he hardly knew if she heard him,
and felt at a loss to comprehend the nature of her sensations.
Violet appeared to be more absorbed in deep thought than in
grief, and, when he spoke, his words seemed to be unnoticed
by her. Larray was glad when he found an opportunity of
saying that he had a letter for her from her mother. This
seemed to recall the unhappy girl to consciousness, and she
said, inarticulately, " My mother, then,—my poor mother !
Is not her heart broken ?—I have done that, too! "
Larray actually coloured, as, in producing the letter of
Violet's mother, he still withheld it, and with great embar¬
rassment, began to remind her that two years had elapsed
since her father's death, and that Mrs. Woodville, in short,
had, about six months since, married a rich manufacturer at
Tours, and, consequently, it was to be presumed that she
was no longer inconsolable for her family misfortunes.
Violet's astonishment, and even indignation, were suffi¬
ciently visible, although she said nothing. She opened the
letter of Madame Nicoise (her mother's present appellation)
with a trembling hand, read it, and tossed it upon the table,
muttering words which Larray could not catch,—but her
gesture was expressive of contempt. Then, recollecting her¬
self, she abruptly exclaimed, "But that is nothing,—and
246
"VIOLET ; OE,
then my father does not know it, perhaps, for there is no
saying,—none of us know that; " and Yiolet relapsed into
abstraction.
Her mother had written to acquaint her with her mar¬
riage, to lament over " her dearest child's " unfortunate con¬
duct, which had been the means of destroying her father;
and concluded by saying that she (Madame Nicoise) not
having informed the Sieur Nicoise of Yiolet's undutiful
derelictions, she thought it would be most prudent for them
not even to correspond: inasmuch as, on account of M.
ISteoise's extreme respectability, he could not possibly ac¬
knowledge a connection with her " sweet Yiolet," the cir¬
cumstances considered, &c. &c. But that, the fortune of
M. Dupas rendering her independent, if she chose to quit
Mr. d'Arcy, many plans were open to her, and Madame
Nicoise hoped that, if she had not lost her beauty, it would
be very possible for her to meet witli some one who would
marry her, and then she would be quite restored to a posi¬
tion rendering her worthy of being acknowledged by Madame
Nicoise, and which, she declared, she should then be most
happy to do.
Larray now thought it time to take his leave. He wished
he knew more of Yiolet's domestic life, that he might have
ascertained how much the kindness of D'Arcy was likely to
console her.
He asked permission to call again at three o'clock the fol¬
lowing day.
At these words, Yiolet appeared to recall some idea foreign
to her grief, and she answered, hastily, "At three—no, not
at three."
" I fear I shall be engaged before that hour," observed
Larray ; " will you permit me, then, to name the day after?"
" Be it so," was the reply ; and Larray, after again endea¬
vouring to say kind words, withdrew.
On leaving the house, he bethought himself of inquiring
if Mr. D'Arcy was staying in town and living at that house.
The answers were in the affirmative. Either D'Arcy's being
gone to Putney was forgotten, or the circumstance did not
interfere with the footman's notions of his master being resi¬
dent in town, and thus Larray was not disturbed by fearing
that Yiolet would be left too long to grieve in solitude.
When Violet Woodville was left alone after the dreadful
communications she had been receiving, a sense of misery
stole over her, which was so stunning that for a long time
THE DANSEUSE.
247
she remained almost insensible; that is, insensible to the
frightful turn her own thoughts were taking, as they brooded
over past scenes, and her imagination revelled in recollec¬
tions that were the most harrowing.
When the servant entered and announced dinner, Violet
appeared to misunderstand him, and the man's astonishment
\vas immeasurable when finally she exclaimed, "Never!"
Her foreign maid came to her to make the same inquiry, and
then Violet, with more composure, only said she wished the
dinner to be removed, and that she was not well.
The evening drew on, and still Violet sat alone in her
drawing-room, while one thought more terrible than another
crowded on her brain.
She wished to die, and could have exclaimed with melan¬
choly earnestness, like Massinger's heroine in the play,
" Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble—Death,
To stop a wretch's breath,
That calls on thee, and offers her sad heart
A prey unto thy dart ?"
The twilight was drawing on; the distant hum of voices
and of carriages was subsiding; the chirping of the birds in
the small surrounding gardens and the park trees came more
loudly on the ear, and the dying sounds and the comparative
silence of an evening in that part of the town where Violet
resided, succeeded to the noisy gaiety of a London summer's
day in the season.
This additional external repose was not beneficial to Violet
Woodville, and the stillness, as well as the growing obscurity,
painfully encouraged the ideas that were breaking her heart.
By degrees the room became peopled with phantoms, and
the furniture and the shadows became images of her lost
parent, till at last she fancied her father's form was distinctly
visible at the end of the room, and she rose to approach it
with staggering energy: the door opening, and the servant
bringing in lights, occasioned a powerful and very necessary
revulsion to these horrible conjurations of an excited ima¬
gination. i
Restored to a better comprehension by seeing another
person, and the bright light of the argand lamp, Violet was
then in a condition to feel more reasonably, if not with an
anguish less intense.
At length she threw herself upon her bed, and might have
slept, perhaps, from exhaustion and fatigue; but she was
24,8
VIOLET ; OB,
also under the keenest nervous irritation; and, besides,
sleep,
" Like the world, his ready visit pays
Where fortune smiles! The wretched he forsakes !
Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear."
The next morning Violet was ill enough for her maid to
urge her to send for medical assistance. This was positively
refused, however. Marietta, nevertheless, was surprised and
alarmed, and asked if Mr. d'Arcy would be home that day.
" At three o'clock," replied her mistress ; and Marietta
argued to herself, that if D'Arcy were to return so soon,
Violet would not lose much time in being under his authority
and care.
No wonder that Violet attracted the observation and the
compassion of her maid ; her manner was unusual, and her
cheeks crimsoned with fever. She had eaten nothing for
four-and-twenty hours, and she still continued without food,
although she accepted some tea.
It was not easy to comprehend what was passing in her
mind; but while she still could think that D'Arcy loved her,
if but a little, one small white speck dwelt, no doubt, upon
her dark horizon.
At three o'clock that afternoon she sent for Marietta, who,
on entering her mistress's presence, was glad to see her
smile; and, in a cheerful tone, she pointed to the clock on
the mantel-piece, exclaiming,
" It is three o'clock! He will be home directly."
And then, waving her hand, Violet dismissed her maid.
In the midst of her misery, Violet Woodville clung to
the recollection that, at three that day, D'Arcy had promised
her he would be home. Sometimes, in great unhappiness,
we attach an apparently unwarrantable anxiety to a slight
circumstance, which, trifling as it may be, is yet agreeable
to us. It can hardly be called hope that leads us to cherish
this, but the inherent propensity born with us, of clinging,
to the last, to the faintest shade of happiness that can yet
possibly be ours.
D'Arcy was then indeed the sole remaining tie to Violet
Woodville ; and the desire she manifested for his return, and
the confidence with which she expected it, showed the yearn¬
ing of a human heart towards the only event that could occur
which might confer upon it a consolation: that consolation,
however, in this instance, was denied.
Three o'clock passed away, but D'Arcy returned not!
the dansettse.
249
CHAPTEE XXfL
" That very day
A feast was held, when, full of mirth,
Came, crowding1 thick as flowers that play.
In summer winds, the young and gay,
And beautiful of this bright earth."
" And I forgot my home; my birth
Profaned my spirit, sunk my brow,
And revelled in gross joys of earth,
Till I became—what I am now."
Moore.
Let us revert to D'Arcy's proceedings on the previous
day. As he rode along towards Putney, he grew curious to
learn why Mrs. Harcourt had ventured so particularly to
request his presence before the arrival of her husband.
He found her beautifully and becomingly dressed, reclining
upon a low ottoman placed near the window of her pretty
drawing-room opening upon the lawn. The room was
scented with the perfume of large boxes of mignonette, with
heliotrope and verbena, and the blinds of the apartment more
closed than usual, for the day had been uncommonly hot.
The rays of the evening sun, as they fell through the chintz
curtains, bestowed a softness and mellowness on each object
that was shared by Emily herself; at least D'Arcy thought
he had never seen her look so truly handsome. Her dark
curls were drooping over a branch of red Camelia Japonic;'.,
which had been carelessly thrown on her little work-table of
inlaid Sevres, and the flowers tinted her cheek with their
brilliancy, whilst, mingling with her hair, they contrasted
with its shade of ebony.
" I am glad you are come," she exclaimed, with an appear¬
ance of anxiety, " for you can tell me, perhaps, if what I
hear is true. Has Harcourt lost a large sum at Crockford's
within the last three days ? "
" I have not heard of it;—who has said that he has P "
"Thank heaven, then, it may not be true; for I think if
my husband had been in difficulty, he would have gone to
you for advice. Two or three persons have suspected it,
however, and have told me of it, which has made me very
uneasy."
" I am sorry for that, as it may be the case; but why not
speak yourself to Harcourt about it ? " asked D'Arcy.
250
VIOLET; OK
" Oli," replied Mrs. Harcourfc with a smile, which was
followed by a sigh, "I have never found my interference
answer. I would fain play the part of the good wife, and do
everything that reasqn could suggest to please or to be of
use, but nothing of the sort is within my range. I have
discovered this at last, and therefore, although I am anxious,
I venture upon no inquiries, in order to avoid discomfort,
and something more—a taunt perhaps—that I should have
the right to offer advice. I am kept in due submission, I
assure you," added Emily, in a tone between disgust and
sadness, while she looked at D'Arcy with a look that seemed
to say, " Have I not your compassion ? "
The eyes that put this question were answered silently,
but very eloquently, by other eyes—and eyes that sought to
penetrate even more than to respond.
" As Harcourt's friend, why does she abuse him to me ? "
thought D'Arcy. " Does she desire me to be her friend, and
not his ? " D'Arcy was clearly arguing that to be the friend
of both had become incompatible.
" I believe my husband to have lost a great deal of money
lately," continued Mrs. Harcourt, " and I feared that this
might be some new affair of the kind, which would be more
ruinous than all the rest. He has been out of spirits, and I
judged a little from that; from you I thought to learn the
truth."
" Depend on doing so the moment I ascertain it. What
lamentable folly in Harcourt to perservere as he does in all
his caprices; and with you for his wife, to fancy he has a
reason in the world to be discontented ! "
" Is it Mr. d'Arcy who says that ? " asked Emily, smiling
and slightly colouring.
"It is I who say so. I am not blind to your beauty or
your charming character."
" I am no better than others. If I care little for the world
and less for admiration, it is because experience has taught
me how to value both," was Mrs. Harcourt's modest re¬
sponse.
D'Arcy had an odd mixture of sincerity in his disposition ;
with him, in fact, it was rather a kind of pride which made
him refuse to allow his understanding to appear subservient
to any of the subterfuges with which people sometimes ven¬
ture to impose upon others ; so as he had not yet arrived at
believing in Mrs. Harcourt's despisal of the world, or the
world's admiration, he could not help replying by saying,
THE DANSETJSE.
251
" You are mistaken, you are indifferent to neither; how I
wish you were, and how I should like to make you feel, far
more than you do, the wide distinction that exists between
one that would study your welfare with carefulness, and the
admirers—the thousand and one would-be lovers that hover
in your train, and whom I sometimes see you regard, when
those who really care for you do not venture to interrupt
them."
"Venture ? and why should you not, if you wish it ? "
"I often wish it."
" Since when ? "
" Since I grew to like you very much, and since you must
have seen that I have done so."
" I am not so vain as to have thought that I had attracted
your regards. I have always deemed myself the last person
who could have done so."
"Be more honest with me, and acknowledge the truth;
you must have seen how, each day, I have been growing
more and more—anything but indifferent to you."
" You are amusing yourself with me, Mr. d'Arcy."
" Then I have chosen very ill the time to do so," answered
D'Arcy, in a winning voice, "when I find you worried by
domestic annoyances which I cannot alleviate. Why do me
the injustice to suppose this? You do not suppose it, I
think," continued he; and he took the hand of Mrs. IIar-
court, and retained it, long after she had made a feeble effort
to withdraw it. " You say this only."
The conversation was interrupted, for the door opened, and
Mr. Harcourt entered.
Harcourt expressed himself delighted to see D'Arcy, and
begged he would always come and dine with them when he
could get away from town.
" I almost wish I were you, D'Arcy," said Mr. Harcourt,
when they sat alone after dinner ; " you have a happier time
of it than I have. You have become a politician, and have a
pursuit, whereas I have none."
" But you have a home, a wife and children, and a fine
fortune, if managed well."
" I don't care about children, and I am always bored—
there is something d—d unsatisfactory in the existence I
lead," continued Harcourt, with a sigh—not from the depth
of his heart, but the depth of his ennui. " I tire so of every¬
thing—the House of Commons does not interest me, I am
not Sufficiently keen about politics ; and, except when I am
252
VIOLET; OE,
at Melton, I hate the country. I am not a county man; as
long as my rents are paid, I cannot interest myself in farms
and ditches, roads and haycocks, militia reviews, and those
eternal quarter-sessions and assizes—to me all these things
are positive nuisances. Then I am sick of the continent
—of Paris especially; the French women are so affected—
the men are such coxcombs, they irritate my bile, as I can¬
not knock down nine out of every ten of them. I live, too,
with people that do not suit me ; I feel that I am losing my
best years, without any satisfaction—and I see no remedy,
as I cannot live over again the greater part of my life,
so as to act differently in some matters that are now irremedi¬
able."
It was evident that Harcourt was alluding to his marriage
—an event which, in D'Arcy's opinion, had answered much
better than he had prognosticated it possibly could. D'Arcy
never felt less in a humour to bestow consolation on his
friend, and much preferred that task when his wife was the
object of it.
The following morning, Mr. Harcourt went to town early,
having engagements, but he recommended D'Arcy to remain
at Putney, and to go from thence to the Breakfast ; that
Breakfast to which Mrs. Harcourt had so particularly inquired
of D'Arcy, some ten days previously, if he should go—to
which inquiry, it may be remembered, he had replied in the
affimative.
D'Arcy spent the morning in loitering about the garden
with Emily, and in endeavouring, more plainly than he had
ever done before, to give her the impression that he was
deeply in love with her. He was not repulsed by Mrs. Har¬
court, as a better woman would have repulsed him; and
D'Arcy might flatter himself that he had gained ground.
" It is two o'clock," said Emily, turning towards the house;
" I must dress."
" Not yet, surely ! " exclaimed D'Arcy.
" Indeed I must," said she, smiling. " You forget that a
lady never dresses under an hour ; as it is, I shall only get
there by five o'clock." And so saying, Mrs. Harcourt stepped
into the drawing-room.
" I really did not think it was so late," said D'Arcy; " I
must bid you good bye, then, I find."
" How !—you are going ? "
" I am afraid I 1 think I cannot go to the Breakfast,"
replied D'Arcy; for he thought of Yiolet.
THE DANSET7SE.
253
" Yery well," said Mrs. Harcourt, with the coldest manner
she could assume.
D Arcy was standing so that he had a view of her features,
reflected in the large glass before which Emily was then
untying her bonnet; and he saw at once her angry counte¬
nance, flushed with sudden displeasure. He stepped towards
her, and could not forbear saying,
" If there is one to be there to-day who will own that my
presence is cared for, I will go."
" You are the best judge of that—no one does, that I am
aware of," answered Mrs. Harcourt, with pride, and rather
passionately ; for she felt deeply offended.
D'Arcy possessed a bad heart, I fear: it was not love, nor
even vanity, which prompted him instantly to determine on
going to the Breakfast. If he liked Emily, he felt that he
should like, better still, to crush the woman's pride which so
naturally induced her to show some resentment at his appa¬
rently capricious disregard of her society. Nothing had
subdued in D'Arcy that arrogant despisal of the feelings of
all others, whenever he could extract something from them
on which to feed the sneering disposition ever latent in his
character ; and Emily Norris, not Mrs. Harcourt, stood before
him then, daring to show him that she could be cold and
haughty.
He said nothing, but he went to the Breakfast; and I doubt
if his promise to Violet, of returning to town at three, stood
for five seconds as an obstacle to his going ; for, by losing a
little tijne, D'Arcy might have ridden home, and thence have
gone late to Park from London.
This Breakfast was certainly one of the prettiest fetes of
the season ; and the spot in which it was given, in itself
extremely beautiful. The day, soft and enjoyable, extended
its influence to the minds of the guests—no crowd, no vulgar
press or hurry annoyed them—nothing, in short, to destroy
that illusion of luxury and refinement which is essential to
please those whom satiety has rendered fastidious.
D'Arcy was becoming a rising star among the host of
modern politicians, and was consequently courted and flat¬
tered by all the women. I own myself to have been unable
to avoid feeling a little contempt for my fair friends, whom I
have often seen lavish in their attentions to some politician
of celebrity, but whose politics they perhaps hate—whose
public conduct they abuse, and whose private character they
will blacken with all the petty spite arising from idleness,
254
violet ; on.
prejudice, party-spirit, or total ignorance. Yet, in society,
these very women will develope their frivolous vanity, by
attempting to attract the notice of, and to have the air of
flirting with, the great man of the day; and this how often,
notwithstanding all the faults they charge him with, and all
the superabundant errors they can discourse upon with so
much patriotic zeal, and of which he may or may not have
been guilty ! How often is not this veiy man the dupe of
the seeming kindness and the winning smiles of fair ladies,
in chip hats, looking very lovely with their fine skins, their
soupgon of rouge, and their white teeth displayed in speaking
the honeyed words of flattery, which so completely succeed in
making the object of them suppose that he is appreciated,
ay, worshipped by these artless Delilahs of fashion !
D'Arcy, to do him justice, was not easily flattered in this
way ; his nature rather prompted him to place too small a
value upon the notice or the esteem of any one.
Mrs. Fitzmorris was one of the guests, and saw D'Arcy
bestow on Mrs. Harcourt the attention which she had so
perseveringly endeavoured to regain; and, beholding the
admiration he displayed for another woman, she could not
conceal from herself that she could no longer win one look of
regard from him, or elicit any feeling beyond his merited
contempt. This idea acted as a kind of vulture gnawing her
heart, and there can be none that gnaws so deeply as the
knowledge that we are deservedly despised by a person whose
favourable opinion we covet.
Mrs. Fitzmorris looked on at this Breakfast, and flirted
with other men. She talked prettily, too, to the women, but
in her heart became a prey to envy and discontent. She had
already done all she could to detach D'Arcy from Mrs. Har¬
court ; and more she would have done had she known how.
D'Arcy had certainly taken care to lose no time in restoring
himself to the good graces of Emily, and he made a merit of
having, for the sake of her society, renounced the most precious
engagement, which required him to have been in town.
Emily was flattered, and believed him. She more than liked
D'Arcy, and the coquetry in which had originated her first
advances towards him, had partly faded away, or been ex¬
changed for another sentiment.
Still there was more vanity than love on her part. She
was led on by finding that she had the power of making
D'Arcy prefer her society—he who had once comparatively
despised it. She admired his talents, for Mrs. Harcourt
THE DANSEUSE.
255
was not deficient in quickness. She was rather what is
termed a clever woman, and she turned with pleasure from
the ennuye and discontented language of her husband, to the
brilliant and energetic conversation of D'Arcy. Then, when
the world began to sound the theme of his praise, it was
not lost upon her; and, like the multitude, she aimed still
more at retaining D'Arcy, at least as a friend and an admirer.
Mrs. Harcourt was not bold and reckless, like Mrs. Fitz-
morris—such as she had shown herself to be, there are,
indeed, but few. What Emily wanted in principle was partly
supplied by the worldliness and the sense of outward decorum
which her mother had so steadily inculcated, as the basis of
all the good things of this world, and (as Mrs. Norris, I fancy,
thought) of the next one too.
D'Arcy had penetrated Emily's vivid fear of losing the
good opinion of society, and on this day he wished to give her
no uneasiness by making his attentions too glaring. He, there¬
fore, took care to disappear at those moments when the eyes
of her most dreaded friends were upon her. Emily felt pro¬
portionately grateful, and D'Arcy succeeded in inspiring her
with that confidence which was likely to be so acceptable to
her feelings, and which he justly deemed would be exceed¬
ingly useful to himself.
Late in the evening, when the trees were enveloped in
shade, and the shrubberies were beginning to be smiled upon
by the moon—a time when I have observed their umbrage-
ousness to be more eagerly sought than when the rays of the
meridian sun have rendered them, to my mind, so much more
desirable and refreshing—at this twilight hour, Mrs. Fitz-
morris had the discomfort of seeing D'Arcy offer his arm
to Mrs. Harcourt, and induce her to walk with him.
Mrs. Fitzmorris was sitting on the lawn, listening with a
smiling face to the compliments, timidly bestowed, of an
unfledged honourable lieutenant of the Guards, lisping with
nervousness at his own temerity, and deeply smitten with
the pretty features and the smooth and neatly-painted cheeks
of Mrs. Fitzmorris, shaded as they were by the large ^leu-
reuse that hung over her hat. She let this boy talk to her,
and, half appearing to listen to him, or pretending to be
attracted by an air of some German opera, played by one of
the bands of music on the lawn, the demi-obscurity aided
her desire to notice unobserved every movement of D'Arcy
and Mrs. Harcourt, who were now being watched by the
lynx eyes of a dangerous and mean-hearted jealousy.
256
violet; oe,
Mrs. Fitzmorris thought that the objects on which her eyes
were bent, and the angry sensations of resentful disappoint¬
ment which devoured her heart, were known only to herself.
A person, however, stood near, who saw the one, and guessed
at the other. She had attracted the attention of an old
acquaintance, who could fathom the secrets of her bosom,
and in whose mind she became the means of reviving scenes
and impressions of days gone by.
It was Lord Stanmore, whose glance, while standing as an
idle looker-on, had fallen upon Mrs. Fitzmorris, sitting at
some little distance, and quite unconscious that she was
watched by any one. So, however, it happened ; and when
he observed the direction of her eyes, he perceived they were
watching the movements of D'Arcy, busily occupied with
Mrs. Harcourt. He remarked that she looked at these two
till Emily had accepted the arm of D'Arcy, and disappeared
with him by a distant angle of the garden.
" Does she still care for D'Arcy P " thought Lord Stan-
more. " No, surely, she is too heartless,—but yet she did
once. He has long completely neglected her; but women
are strange creatures, very strange." And Lord Stanmore
pursued the opening train of thought till it led him to recall
with sadness the time when he was the devoted admirer of
the beautiful opera-dancer—the Violet Woodville—for whom
he would have sacriBced so much, and who still retained
possession, if not of his heart, of his memory, where she
remained enshrined as having been the fairest and the most
loveable of all her sex whom he had ever seen.
Lord Stanmore had never forgiven D'Arcy for his seduc¬
tion of her, and though they had since met, nothing more
than a mere recognition had passed between them. He
retained no desire again to meet with Yiolet Woodville ; in
his eyes her charm had fled; and he pictured her to himself
as grown bold and depraved,—all, in short, that was disagree¬
able and most disenchanting. But suppositions like these
bring no consolation with them ; they tend, on the contrary,
to create disgust, and to destroy the pleasantest of our illusions
—the reliance we place on the faith of outward appearances.
Lord Stanmore had not married, yet he had often been
sufficiently struck with the attractions of some beautiful girl
in his own sphere, to have flirted with her, and to have felt
very sorry that at the end of the season their intercourse
should cease; or, if she married, he would feel an anomalous
mixture of pity and envy towards her husband — envy, that
THE DANSEUSE.
257
he should have her for his wife, and pity for the poor man
who ventured upon so irrevocable a step. He placed no
faith in the education, the parentage, or on the behaviour of
the girl he could not help admiring; he had been once
cruelly deceived—Violet was living as D'Arcy's mistress!
Whom could he trust ?—was, not the question he put to him¬
self, but the idea he had imbibed.
The course of Lord Stanmore's present meditations was
interrupted. The garden was being gradually illuminated by
lamps placed amongst the shrubs. The distant crowd dis¬
persed : the music was called to aid the scene of mirth
within doors, and the gay measure of the favourite waltz of
the season had given courage to Mrs. Fitzmorris's youthful
admirer, to propose to that lady to enter the house.
He had been long thinking whether he might ask her to
waltz, but his nerves were hitherto unequal to such a proposal;
at length, stimulated by the music, and blushing ruby red, he
attempted, by a few broken words, to express his wish,—
nearly overcome, however, by tremendous apprehensions of
waltzing ill—notwithstanding the chairs he had been whisk¬
ing round his room for the three months previous.
Mrs. Fitzmorris accepted the offer of being conducted to
the dancing-room, and, proud of his charge, this incipient
coxcomb availed himself of her condescension, not quite fore¬
seeing, then, the ineffable degree of puppyism at which he
was some day to arrive, or imagining that the time would
come when he should be looking another way, to avoid the
bore of talking, or even bowing, for old acquaintance' sake, to
his present flame ; and little dreaming of that future, when
he should think her old, ugly, or gone-by, and might find
it expedient to leave her to cail her own servants, or to enlist
other swains if she could.
I know of no existence like that passed in the world, for
teaching us its general selfishness, or from which one may
learn to moralize with such good foundation upon its paltry
attributes.
Lord Stanmore, who was in a decidedly melancholy mood,
preferred wandering in the garden, to the amusements going
on in the house. It was a beautiful night; the moon was
chased by dark clouds, not hidden by them, but they hung
in sable drapery round the planet, and made her look more
beautiful. As he pursued his way towards a grove, which
towered at no small distance from him, the sounds of revelry
grew fainter and fainter.
s
258
VIOLET; OE,
- The gardens were on a splendid scale. At one side, a
range of green and hot houses stretched themselves, filled
with every known exotic that skill had learned to rear. A
wide expanse, in another direction, had been laid out as a
Dutch, garden ; beyond, a feature occurred whicb is only
seen in perfection in England,—a green and level lawn. In
another direction, a broad gravel walk terminated in an
aviary.
Lord Stanmore bent his steps away from these attractions,
and penetrated a grove of cypress on his right. He walked
along the paths in almost complete darkness, but neither was
the obscurity so great as to have deterred others from being
in his neighbourhood, for he heard voices which he thought
he knew, and was more than once tempted to laugh to him¬
self at overhearing these innocent children of the wood.
It was foreign, however, to Lord Stanmore's nature to play
the spy on any one, and he neither wished to interrupt flirta¬
tions, nor to be the occasion of sleepless nights to a soul.
Finding, therefore, that the grove was not so unpeopled as he
had expected, he thought of turning back.
The bent of his reflections had been changed, and some¬
thing of the ridiculous had usurped the place of softer ideas.
He found he was approaching an angle, and, by turning up
it, he fancied it would conduct him to the house by a shorter
path.
At this moment he heard the sound of footsteps, evidently
on the other side of the trees by which he was walking.
"But if the world should ever,"—were words distinctly
whispered in a woman's voice, but, though whispered, they
were spoken emphatically, and from the speaker's heart.
Lord Stanmore imagined he heard this appeal tenderly re¬
sponded to, though somewhat inaudibly, and then the first
speaker spoke again.
" Leave me now—I am tortured with alarm. Hark ! "
" I must get away," thought Lord Stanmore ; " I cannot
bear to be a means of terror to these peopleand he listened
in order to be certain of avoiding them if he walked onwards
in the direction that he intended.
The footsteps ceased, and Lord Stanmore determined on
proceeding, and on giving the unknown pair the opportunity
of avoiding him, by waiting till he had passed, or of crossing
through the bushes so as to be in his rear.
He reached the angle of the grove, turned it, and pursued
his way.
THE EANSEUSE.
259
At the very moment Lord Stanmore emerged into the gar¬
dens, in sight of the house, two people appeared crossing his
path. It was evident that they could be no others than
those he had overheard, and who had retraced their steps
by a different direction, which terminated by an opening
higher up.
The two persons were Mrs. Harcourt and D'Arcy.
Lord Stanmore appeared so unexpectedly close to them, at
the mouth of the wood, that it was impossible to avoid recog¬
nition ; and the moon shone right above them.
For an instant both parties looked, what both felt—that
their meeting was an unexpected annoyance.
D'Arcy and Stanmore bowed, but the lady hastily lowered
her veil.
The two parties then passed on in opposite directions.
"D'Arcy," exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt, seizing the arm of
her companion most forcibly, " I shall die of terror! "
" What folly! What can Stanmore Besides, he does
not write in the ' Age,' that I am aware of."
" But there is no saying what he may think,—and the
world—the world! "
" Ah, the world !" repeated D'Arcy, slowly, and the word
jarred disagreeably on his ear. " I cannot bear a woman who
cares for nothing but the world," he observed to himself;
" and her remorse, her tears, for what were they ?—the
world! How the sight of Stanmore has reminded me of that
poor girl! I wili go home instantly."
" What are you thinking of? You seem to have no feeling
for me! " exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt, in a tone of irritation.
" Really I am sorry you should think so; but would it not
be best that you should enter the house by yourself, or at
least not with me ?—there are still some stragglers before the
door."
"Well—if I do not faint."
" Hot here, for God's sake! " cried D'Arcy, quickly; "you
had better let me conduct you to the house at once."
Mrs. Harcourt, however, adopted the plan of quitting
D'Arcy's arm, and returning without him; she made the best
of her way to the ball-room, trusting that her prolonged
absence from it had passed unnoticed.
She remained near the door, watching for the moment when
she supposed D'Arcy would venture again into her vicinity ;
for the time had come in which Mrs. Harcourt depended
upon D'Arcy as much as upon the world. She had given
s 2
260
YIOLET ; OE.
herself another ruler, and, under his dominion, she was wait¬
ing for his presence—and at this moment D'Arcy was on his
road to London!
By degrees Mrs. Harcourt could not avoid perceiving that
she attracted unusual attention from people in front of her,
and that a row of young ladies and their partners in a quad¬
rille facing her, said something to each other, and then, look¬
ing at her, laughed.
Although Mrs. Harcourt saw the direction in which this
small fire was aimed, she trusted she was mistaken in fancy¬
ing herself the individual object of it; and she looked to see
if she was in the neighbourhood of any oddly-dressed man or
woman : but no; at her left were some exemplary-looking
ladies of a certain age, and, on her right, two or three foreign
ambassadors, the Prime Minister, and the Lord Chancellor,
were solemnly engaged in conversation, discussing, probably,
the relative beauty of their respective countrywomen.
Mrs. Harcourt waited with impatience till the dancing
should be over, magnifying the misfortune of her evil star,
which so unaccountably made her an object of observation on
this particular evening.
She would have retreated altogether, but for the fear that
this, too, might be construed into a sort of pleading guilty—
of what ?
Ah, the old saying (as it has now become) that " conscience
doth make cowards of us all," is ever a true one. Mrs. Har¬
court saw disgrace, perhaps divorce, and then annihilation,
before her ; and she stood in that room, while her hands grew
cold and damp with nervousness and concealed agitation ; for,
in similar situations, how often the effect anticipated is dis-
proportioned to the cause, or our reason misleads us as to the
cause, and only our excessive trepidation enables us to foresee
a result without the pale of probability.
Aided by the music of Collinet, the dancing went on,
neither quicker nor slower than usual, and the mirth of the
happy reached its full tide; the conversation of the politicians
was not suspended, and not one soul in that apartment of
revelry and magnificence gave a thought to a being amongst
them suffering one of the most irritating of mental punish¬
ments—the fear of having suddenly become despicable, or
ridiculous. There was no saying whither, in the space of
twenty minutes, the imagination of Mrs. Harcourt had
travelled.
At the end of that time, the quadrille had ceased; and, as
THE DANSETTSE.
261
the dancers dispersed, an opening was formed in the crowd,
and at the end of the brilliantly illuminated room Mrs. Har-
courfc saw Mrs. Fitzmorris. That lady also instantly beheld
the object of her hatred, and at the same time began to stare,
and to laugh, and to make remarks to her neighbours. Mrs.
Harcourt would have died if she could, but felt fascinated,
as if by the eyes of so many basilisks; and she could not
move.
Within a second, Mrs. Fitzmorris was crossing the empty
space of the apartment between them, and leaning on the
arm of a most celebrated dandy, particularly famed for his
biting sarcasms. What mercy was Mrs. Harcourt to expect
from two such people ?—and to her they advanced ; Mrs.
Fitzmorris attracting attention by herself alone, and now
assuming her boldest manner, and talking loud enough to be
heard by the whole room. " Hay, indeed I must, I really
must tell her; poor Mrs. Harcourt—it is too absurd; and so
saying, this amiable couple approached their victim.
" Is it possible you don't know ? " began Mrs. Fitzmorris,
affecting to be so overcome with laughter as to be unable to
finish her sentence.
" Know what? " asked Mrs. Harcourt, growing very pale.
" That we all know you must have been walking in the
cypress-grove this evening ; " and again the laughter of the
lady seemed to prevent her utterance.
A blush of crimson suffused the face of Emily. Had
D'Arcy been there, she would have gone up to his side and
said to him, " Protect me from these people ; " but D'Arcy
was not there.
" I do not understand you, Mrs. Fitzmorris."
" You have got a branch of cypress in your bonnet; it has
got amongst the flowers in your hat, and it is standing up in
the most ridiculous manner," answered Mrs. Fitzmorris, in
a loud voice.
Mrs. Harcourt was overcome; and, at the moment when
she only required presence of mind to make a careless reply,
she fainted.
A combination of minute accidents of ill-luck had attended
her. There was nothing more simple than that a twig of a
tree should have fastened itself in her bonnet; or that this
should be first noticed by those opposite, or at a distance
before her. In another moment, some one else would have
taken upon themselves the office of telling Mrs. Harcourt
that her hat had been*thus deranged ; and, by doing it in a
262
VIOLET; OK,
very different manner, all her nervousness would have been
calmed, instead of being trebled in the way it was.
" Mrs. Harcourt is ill—has fainted ! " uttered a hundred
voices at once. The master of the feast bad bis attention
called, and, with prompt kindness, he soon ordered every
assistance should be rendered to Mrs. Harcourt, and she was
conveyed to a private room immediately.
" How extraordinary ! What is the matter ? Where had
she been? In love with George D'Arcy ! " were the ques¬
tions and exclamations which circulated.
" Who is it, Hugo, that is in love with George D'Arcy ? "
asked an Oxonian, who happened lo be a novice in London
scandal.
" I will tell you," said Mrs. Fitzmorris's partner, of whom
I have before made such honourable mention. " I will tell
you," said he, eagerly; " Mrs. Harcourt, that pretty woman,
you know, with the black eyes."
" Take care," exclaimed a young man, passing, and giving
a sharp stroke on the shoulder of the last speaker.
"What the d 1 is that for, ToppingtonP" demanded
the youth, turning round with surprise.
"Don't you see ? "
" See what? "
"What I have not time to tell you; " and, without further
explanation, Lord Toppington disappeared, leaving the young
men in some alarm, as to what they had said amiss. They
did not notice that their conversation had been overheard by
an indolent and supercilious-looking man, with a countenance
redolent of disgust and ennui, and who was no other than
Harcourt himself. He had arrived at the commencement
of the fete, and had gone away directly after the dinner,
telling his wife, whom he met by chance, that he felt bored,
and was going home. He was by no means going home;
he had an appointment, which was not fulfilled by the person
who made it; and, in very bad humour, and suspecting that
he had been played upon, Harcourt returned to C Park,
as the only method that remained to him of passing the
evening.
He re-appeared accordingly, and then heard of Emily's
illness.
" Were you not here when Mrs. Harcourt fainted ? " asked
a variety of his intimate acquaintance, who had never dis¬
covered his absence. As a matter of form, Harcourt went to
inquire after his wife ; and only replied to those who inquired
the danseuse.
263
afterwards how she was, that she had quite recovered, and
gone home!
It did truly happen that Harcourt overheard every word
of the conversation between the two young men, whose town
education had not been sufficiently completed to render them
as circumspect as they ought to have been.
Harcourt was what is understood by the term, 'cold¬
blooded.' At this moment he could have killed his wife; but,
from temper, not from feeling, he swore an oath to himself,
and turned away to drink champagne at the supper-table.
He did not in the least believe that D'Arcy assumed to be
a lover of his wife—his own penetration, he imagined, taught
him better. But in this excuse he would condescend to see
none for her; and he laid it to her conduct alone, that she
became the object of such remarks, while he determined to
make her feel the full weight of his displeasure, without
deeming it necessary that D'Arcy should come in for any
share of it.
" I am certain," said Harcourt to himself, as he swallowed
his last goblet of champagne—" I am certain D'Arcy does not
care one d for her ; but she shall pay for this."
CHAPTEE XXIII.
" Pale, broken flower, what art can now recover thee ?
Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath,—
In vain the sun-beams seek
To warm thy faded cheek!
The dews of Heaven, that once like balm fell over thee,
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death! "
Moore.
In the interim, D'Arcy had driven to town. He lost no
time in doing so the moment he was free; for he remembered
then that he had broken his promise, in not returning home
at three that afternoon. More than one event, during the
day, had called to his mind circumstances, which then he had
no longer any incentive to forget; so now, as D'Arcy
hastened back to Violet Woodville, returning love and good
resolves were in his heart, and words of comfort were hovering
on his lips. For then D'Arcy was disenchanted—his pursuit
was ended—and then he repeated to himself, " I hate a
worldly-minded woman."
264
VIOLET ; OR,
D'Arcy reached his own door; the servant who admitted
him gave him a letter.
" When did this come ? " demanded D'Arcy, who knew the
seal and superscription.
" An hour ago," said the servant; "I was to give it you as
soon as you got home, sir."
The letter came from a well-known political character, and
one of those whose talents and influence constitute them
leaders when the opportunity presents itself.
D'Arcy had heard rumours of a change of administration,
but he disbelieved it. He at once knew, however, that this
letter would communicate something eventful, and, seizing a
light, he went to Violet's sitting-room.
It did not surprise D'Arcy to see her asleep upon the sofa,
he knew her habit of sitting up for him : but the room was in
confusion,—letters were on the ground ; he observed that the
windows were open, and guessed that the night-air had blown
in, and disarranged the papers.
D'Arcy first stooped to kiss the forehead of his mistress,
but her features were buried in the cushion, and his lips but
rested on the long curls that fell over them.
D'Arcy, anxious to read his letter, took no further pains to
awaken Violet, and, arranging the lamp for the sake of a
better light, he hastily tore open the envelope.
It was indeed a communication informing D'Arcy of an
immediate change of administration, and concluding by press¬
ing him in the most flattering manner, to form one of the few
whose advice would be attended to by his party on the
present juncture.
It must be owned, at that moment, that D'Arcy dreamt a
most pleasant dream of successful ambition; schemes of
patriotism, and honours, that might follow; a theatre (and
means, to boot) whereon to display his talents,—a field, at
length, to build his fame upon, and deeds, great deeds, that
he should do!
" Violet, Violet, dear! " exclaimed he, at length, called
from his reverie by the clock striking one !
" Wake, dearest! see, it is time, Violet I I am come home."
And D'Arcy shook her gently by the arm which lay upper¬
most.
Finding he did not rouse her, and growing impatient,
D'Arcy raised her, intending to make her sit upright.
The burthen felt heavy, when by his efforts Violet was
lifted from her recumbent position: her head hung on one
side, whilst her eyes were half open !
THE DANSETJSE.
265
For a full moment D'Arcy gazed upon the form he held!—
for a full moment he continued to support the body as he had
raised it. Then D'Arcy let it fall, and staggered backwards!
The next instant the servants were aroused by a scream,—
not a woman's, but a man's!—the shriek of a man horror-
stricken !
The domestics rushed into the apartment. D'Arcy was
kneeling with one knee on the ground,—his face hidden in his
hands, but those hands shook convulsively.
Before him lay the body of Violet Woodville, and the eyes
were gradually relaxing in their tension, and imperceptibly
opening wider and wider. Her face was very pale, save two
small red spots on either cheek, where fever had been
burning.
"Oh, Mr. d'Arcy ! sir !—what is to be done? " exclaimed
Howell, the first, in some degree, to recover presence of
mind.
D'Arcy rose, and, before another word could be said, he
was traversing the streets in search of medical aid.
But D'Arcy had lost all mental power, and he became sen¬
sible of a confusion of thoughts which rendered him unable
to guide himself rightly, and, though he knew full well the
residence of such men as Halford or Brodie, he could direct
his steps to neither.
Luckily Howell had followed his master, and he begged
him to return home. " Sir," said he, " I have sent three
servants for physicians, and I will go for one myself; but do
consider, sir, if she should recover, your being with her at the
time may make all the difference."
D'Arcy suffered himself to be advised, and he returned
home.
What " a change had come o'er the spirit of his dream! "
Where now were D'Arcy's visions of ambition ?
What then to him was his name, though it were to live a
thousand years ? What then cared he for England's might,
or the proud panoply of renown, that hangs, from beyond
the gloom of future ages, o'er him whose wisdom shall have
been a means unto England's matchless glory?
What were then to D'Arcy the witchery of expected
power, the applauses of a people, and a universal fame ?
All had vanished beneath the mantle that Death had spread
before his eyes,—shadowing forth the nothingness of man,
and the power of God,—recalling, indiscriminately, jjrouth
and beauty, and all we love, to those unknown realms which
all the talent of man has never yet explored !
266
VIOLET; OR,
Marietta, the Italian, maid, weeping, and in semi-hysterics,
was, at the same time, employed in endeavouring to restore
animation to her mistress.
On the sofa she had found a bottle of laudanum, and,
clasping her hands, and screaming, she showed it to D'Arcy.
It belonged to a medicine chest, and was labelled poison !
D'Arcy well remembered presenting that medicine chest to
Violet when they went abroad. It was a small and beauti¬
fully-ornamented box, and the bottles were handsomely
mounted.
They had been filled at the chemist's with the ordinary
routine of medicines, and laudanum, of course, included
amongst them. The bottle that contained it was empty. It
had been drained to the dregs!
D'Arcy could no longer doubt that a heavy sleep had fallen
upon Violet,—the immediate effect of the laudanum, and the
way in which it becomes fatal, if its action be allowed to
remain undisturbed.
D'Arcy knew this, and dared not hope. From time to time
Marietta wrung her hands, and exclaimed, in Italian,—
" Se vostra signoria fosse tomato a casa alle tre ore,
questa sventura non sarebbe mai accaduta ! "
The arrival of a surgeon, sooner than D'Arcy had dared to
expect, afforded some relief.
" How long since do you suppose the poison to have been
taken ? " was the question first demanded by Mr. .
Marietta, the only person who could give information, said
it must have been since three o'clock. She stated that her mis¬
tress had appeared ill, and very much agitated in her manner
since the time D'Arcy had been absent, and that she fancied
she must have heard a great deal of bad news, and was evi¬
dently labouring under distress; but that she considered her
better when she was sent for in the afternoon by her mistress,
who, pointing to the clock, told her at that hour she expected
Mr. d'Arcy to return.
Since then, Marietta declared, she had been twice into the
sitting-room, at seven and at eleven o'clock; and, seeing
Violet lying on the sofa on both occasions, she concluded she
had fallen asleep; and her only anxiety was to avoid dis¬
turbing her.
While he listened to these details, the surgeon made use of
all the remedies he thought available. D'Arcy attempted to
examine some letters which were scattered about; and,
among them, he discovered that of Violet's mother, and one
THE DANSEUSE.
267
also, which lay open and unsealed, but which, he noticed,
because it was in Violet's handwriting: he was, however, too
agitated to read it, even though he attempted to do so; but
he determined not to lose sight of a paper so precious, and
he carefully charged himself with it.
" Is there hope ?" he asked, at length.
The surgeon turned his eyes upon the speaker ere he
replied, and riveted them for a moment upon the man who
stood beside him—upon D'Arcy.
No one could have exhibited a stronger instance of the
power of the mind upon the countenance. Not a feature
eould have been altered ; yet such a change had gone forth
upon his face, that I doubt if D'Arcy, as he now stood,
would have been recognizable by any of his friends.
" There is no hope ! " was the slow reply of the surgeon,
while he mentally said to himself, with the intuitive know¬
ledge of a man versed in humanity, " I do but tell him that
of which he is already certain. This man must have deeply
loved ! How much more deeply has he sinned! "
What a scene that room presented! On the one hand,
the well-furnished apartment, cheerful in itself, and possessed
of so many articles of luxury and comfort,—the very chintz^
covering of the sofas, such objects as even these, stood out in
horrible disunion with the tragedy of that hour!
On the couch lay all that remained of Violet Woodville.
The traces of beauty were there still, but the hectic spots of
fever were dying fast away. Her hair was partly in dis¬
order, and partly retaining, still, some of the arrangement it
had received that very day from the hands of Marietta. The
hair, however, seemed chiefly to be grouped around the
throat and shoulders, as if it had bestowed itself with care,
to shade the chiselled features of the dead. The surgeon had
closed the eyes; and the long lashes fell in beautiful lines
over the marble skin—only the mouth bore the semblance of
sorrow in its expression.
On the ground, at Violet's feet, sat her Neapolitan maid,
weeping heavily ; at a little distance stood d'Arcy and the
surgeon. „
" Sir," said the latter, after a short pause, " you had
better retire ;" and he endeavoured gently to lead D'Arcy
from the room.
* * # *
The next day formed a feast for the lovers of news and
scandal.
268
VIOLET; OB,
" I suppose," said one, "you have heard what has hap¬
pened to poor D'Arcy ? That girl, who was his mistress, has
poisoned him, and then stabbed herself."
" Good heavens! but I understand he will recover, and
that it was not certain that she stabbed herself, but only took
prussic acid in his presence ! "
" It is a horrid affair," said a third. " I hear the girl
killed herself in a fit of passion because D'Arcy was jealous
of her and threatened to leave her. There will be an inquest,
of course. You have heard, I suppose, that Lord is to
be the new Premier P "
"Pray who is to have the War Office?" demanded a
worthy House-of-Commons bore of an acidulated ex-officio.
" That madman George D'Arcy; they can find no one
else, and they mean to wait till they can take off his strait
waistcoat! "
" Bless me, what times we live in ! All I can say is, that
if they venture upon such a thing, I shall think it my duty to
get up in the House and to say that they must be aware,
&c. &c. &c."
" Harcourt has had a blow-up with his wife—I am in hopes
there will be a divorce! " exclaimed a lounger at Crockford's.
" I doubt that; she would have the best of it, and could
get the divorce first, if she tried for it."
" Oh, I know for a fact," rejoined another, " that there
has been a violent quarrel, and that Harcourt threw a brush
or a pomatum-pot at her; but they can't separate, because
he is so ' hard up '—he finds he cannot make her an allow¬
ance : and I hear also that Mrs. Fitzmorris has been in hys¬
terics all day, and has sent for everybody to tell them she
shall always have to reproach herself with the death of
D'Arcy's mistress, who took poison out of jealousy because
D'Arcy made love to her ! "
An inquest was held upon the body of Violet Woodville.
Several of D'Arcy's friends, when once informed of what had
occurred, interested themselves to render it as private as
possible.
D'Arcy's attendance was dispensed with. Marietta testi¬
fied to his uniform kindness to the deceased. She also spoke
to the alteration which had appeared in the bearing of her
mistress previously to her death.
The next principal witness was Larray, who stated the
painful information he was the means of conveying to the
deceased. A few more circumstances were detailed, tending
THE DANSET7SE.
269
to show that her mind was not in its usual state on the day
that she swallowed the poison. A verdict of temporary
insanity was returned, which was considered perfectly satis¬
factory.
The letter without an address and in Violet's handwriting,
which D'Arcy had found on the night of her death, was not
produced. He spoke of it to no one, but, as it was seen
afterwards, it may be as well to say here that the very inco¬
herent style of that letter tended to prove more particularly
that hallucination of intellect was approaching at the time
when Violet Woodville wrote it,—probably a few hours
before her death.
h D'Arcy's friends were now at the helm; and before the
town had quite ceased talking and wondering over late
events, it was understood that he had requested to be sent
upon a distant mission to North America, and that his desire
had been at once complied with.
Two years elapsed and Lord Glendore died, bequeathing
his whole property (to the surprise of some people) to his
distant relation, George d'Arcy.
Business, connected with his new fortune, obliged D'Arcy
to return to England, and there he remained. A path was
open to him in which he must have found excitement if not
enjoyment, and D'Arcy rose to be what is termed a great
man, in an incredibly short period of time.
As years passed, his manners grew colder. He was on
terms of private friendship with no one, while at balls and
parties he was seldom seen.
Mrs. Fitzmorris found that he had forgotten either her
existence, or that he had ever been acquainted with her. In
consequence of this total disregard, she wrote to him, re¬
questing an explanation. She received no other answer than
an inclosure containing a certain anonymous letter found
amongst;the papers of Violet Woodville. D'Arcy had
detected this composition to he the performance of Mrs.
Fitzmorris.
With the Harcourts, D'Arcy, on his return to England,
appeared to have lost much of his intimacy.
Harcourt devoted himself to the turf, and, notwithstanding
a separation had been reported, he appeared to get on much
better with his wife than formerly.* He lived but little at
home, however, and was continually falling into pecuniary
embarrassments.
Mrs. Harcourt, if that could be possible, became every
270
VIOLET ; OE]
season more and more guarded in lier conduct; and she had
the satisfaction of establishing a reputation for most no¬
toriously unblemished virtue.
The women grew rather afraid of her, and the young men
treated her with immense respect. She had not the same
popularity, because some people declared she was inclined to
be uncharitable towards her neighbours, and others that she
was a disagreeable prude; her beauty also was greatly dimi¬
nished by a general air of formality and discontent which
pervaded every feature.
D'Arcy never renewed his friendship with her ; and upon
the whole, when people gave themselves the trouble to think
about it, they settled that she and D'Arcy entertained a
mutual dislike to each other.
A particular acquaintance once remarked this to her.
" It is true," replied Mrs. Harcourt, " I do not like Mr.
D'Arcy. I have known him well, and I acknowledge his
great talents; but he is only one of many proofs, that a dis¬
sipated man is always unworthy of being the friend of a truly
estimable woman."
Circumstances are not well remembered in great towns like
London, and time is our most amiable auxiliary whenever
there is something we desire that the world should forget.
Ten years rolled away.
D'Arcy was never supposed to be near matrimony, nor did
he ever occasion a sigh of disappointment in the breast of the
most marrying mamma existing. Not one of them enter¬
tained a hope that D'Arcy would live to surrender.
D'Arcy had employed some of his leisure hours in collect¬
ing books, which formed a valuable addition to the library at
M park, bequeathed to him by Lord Glendore.
One day during an autumn recess, and when D'Arcy was
at M , he employed himself in arranging his library; and
his cousin, Lord Toppington, who was with him on a visit,
gave him his assistance.
" What is this ? " exclaimed the latter, while engaged in
turning over the leaves of an ancient-looking book.
"What?" repeated D'Arcy, looking over his cousin's
shoulder.
He saw nothing but some withered flowers, between the
leaves of the volume. Withered as they were, there was no
mistaking them,
They were the flowers of the geranium. Years had passed
away since D'Arcy had gathered up those flowers from''the
THE DANSEU8E.
271
ground where the hand of Yiolet Woodville had scattered
them.
It was on the day of Harcourt's marriage. D'Arcy, on
that occasion, had put them carefully away in this very hook.
" Elle etait de ce monde oil les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin;
Et Rose elle a vecn, ce que vivent les roses,
L'espace d'un matin,"
said Lord Toppington, reading out some lines that caught his
eye; and he carelessly rejoined, " That is a quotation I have
often seen. This is an old French book, ' Poesies de Males-
herbes.'"
" Yes," answered D'Arcy: " it is a rare edition: give it
me."
One day, when D'Arcy was left without anything to wish
for, enjoying a career of success such as fell to the lot of few
—one day, when his name had acquired a European fame,
and when the sun of prosperity was at its zenith—when
nothing seemed wanting to his private happiness, or his
public glory, D'Arcy shot himself!
It was impossible to account for his committing suicide;
and, after a most minute investigation of witnesses, the jury
were forced to return a verdict of felo de se !
A will was found, by which D'Arcy expressed a wish that t
his property should be entailed on Lord Toppington, his
nearest relation. " But this I leave to the mercy of the
Crown," was the concluding observation of the will; showing
that, at the time of making it, D'Arcy must have contem¬
plated the act by which his property became forfeited.
In the escritoire, which D'Arcy was in the daily habit of
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which, from its incoherency, left no doubt by whom it had
been written, on the minds of those at all acquainted with
the story I have undertaken to narrate.
Neither date, signature, nor address appeared to this
paper, which was worn, as if it had been often read, and ran
as follows:—
" Dearest George,—I have torn up a letter I wrote, in¬
tending to give it you; but I have done right,—it was to
tell you, you have ceased to love me. If it is so, it is my own
fault. Never blame yourself about me, for you have been all
goodness. I am not clear, and I do not feel well. But he is
272
VIOLET ; OE, THE DANSETTSE.
dead, D'Arcy, and I have killed him. When I see yon to¬
morrow I will tell you all about it. I am not certain why I
am writing this, but if my father sends for me, I shall go to
him,—I cannot wait even to see you.
" Dearest, you have been very kind to me,—I have never
ceased to love you. Away from you, I should not have
wished to live. So, dear George, you could not help your¬
self, and I would be with you, and you have always been
good to me. If either of us have been to blame, it is I,—
never believe otherwise than that.
" Oh! my head aches. It seems strange, but I cannot
read what I am writing; but I mean to say all that is kindest
to you, and that you are to be happy, D'Arcy,—always
happy,—dearest, happy,—you will be happy,—hap "
THE END.
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