NOT QUITE FORGOTTEN.

Otago Witness, Issue 1854, 3 June 1887, Page 33

NOT QUITE FORGOTTEN.

BY WITCH HAZEL.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The time when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame. —TENNYSON. The fashionable, wedding was over! the bride and bridegroom had rolled away in a cloud of dust and a shower of satin slippers; the guests had departed to their several homes, and the domestics were busied in endeavouring to bring order out of the chaos which reigned in the usually orderly household. The bride's mamma, Mrs Goldwyre, threw on a shawl, and wandered forth into the large secluded garden, glad of the rest and peace it promised to her aching head and wearied spirit. It was not like her usual tactics to leave her affairs to look after themselves, but what did it matter? She had attained her object; she had married her fifth and last daughter to the inane, though not impecunious, young lord whom she had been pursuing with unremitting ardour for the last three seasons, and surely now, in minor matters, her vigilance might be permitted to flag a little. It was all over! she had no more daughters to scheme for—then what mattered if the maid servants broke a vase or two in giggling with the hired waiters behind the doors, or if the page-boy devoured the sweet dishes that might otherwise have been found useful on the morrow? Mrs Goldwyre, though exhausted by those exertions which had reached their culminating point to-day, was in a state of sublime satisfaction too lofty to be disturbed by such trifles as these. She sailed down the garden without a care concerning the disordered house she left behind, and sank down on a rustic, ivy embowered seat with a sigh of relief. It was long since she had allowed herself such a luxury—perfect repose and leisure to contemplate the white clouds sailing over the sweet blue sky, the little lark with quivering wing that poured forth its flood of song, and the vivid green of the leaves that gently waved in the fresh spring breeze. Vigilant and worldly-minded Mrs Goldwyre dreamily enjoying the beauties of Nature! A smile crossed her handsome features as she realised the novelty of her occupation. While bending her cheek upon her hand in unfamiliar contemplation, a faint, sweet perfume arose from the grass at her feet. She stooped and moved aside some leaves, disclosing to view a delicate bunch of violets. What was there in their wild beauty and fragrance that caused the hard eyes to moisten, and the self-satisfied heart to flutter with a strange restlessness and emotion? What had she to do with the sweet, wild, fragile blossom that exhaled its perfumes at her feet—this vain, ambitious, and hardened woman of the world, who cared only for money and fashion, and knew neither shame nor scruple in the pursuit of an object? And yet there had been a time, when, as a happy, careless girl, she had wandered through her father's fields in search of this blossom's prototype—when, with blameless ardour, she had searched high and low for a bunch for the dear old man's button-hole (for Squire Dacre loved the flower for the sake of his daughter Violet—his only and petted child). How well she remembered the affectionate smile that beamed on his jovial face when she pinned the fragrant cluster in his scarlet coat that fatal morning when he rode forth on his last hunting expedition— for in the

evening he was brought home a shattered corpse. Then came the change—pretty, untutored Violet Dacre was taken in hand by a fashionable aunt, who set herself to instil into her niece's mind those worldly maxims which she considered a necessary part of a young lady's education, and alas! Violet proved only too apt a pupil. She was taught to set a high value on her beauty, and to enhance it by every art, to make the most of what accomplishments she had, and to pretend to others she had not; to coquet with every man with whom she she came in contact, guarding only against compromising herself in the eyes of society; to look upon love as romantic rubbish, and— to keep a sharp look-out for a wealthy husband. All these precepts she religiously followed; —was admired by many, and loved by a few; one of those few she would fain have loved in return, but he was a younger son, had little money, and no expectations, and where "would have been the use?"

Of course it was utterly ridiculous in him to entertain any such thoughts, and the flattered beauty considered herself perfectly justified in laughing him to scorn that night in the conservatory when he had ventured to suppose that all the tender glances and whispers with which he had been favoured during several months could have meant anything except just a flirtation! He had a bunch of violets in his coat that night, she remembered—the badge of his allegiance; and their far away fragrance mingled with that of the flowers at her feet.

What became of him was unknown to her, for she never saw him afterwards; and at the age of 29, when her charms were getting decidedly passé, and several rich prizes had slipped through her fingers, she thankfully accepted an offer from an enamoured bachelor of 50, with a comfortable income, and a tolerable standing in society.

After her marriage, all her energies had devoted to raising herself in the social scale, and making twice as much show as her income justified her in doing. It was a restless, joyless life; but an absorbing one. As her five daughters grew up to womanhood, their "interests" became her aim, and after much toil and scheming she succeeded in procuring for each what she considered a suitable establishment.

How satisfactory!—and yet, in the hour of her triumph, the sight of a cluster of wild flowers, the "smell of violets, hidden in the green," had power to turn it all to bitterness —to call up feelings, and longings, and regrets, that could find no lasting home in the breast of a sensible woman like Mrs

Goldwyre. "This will never do," she muttered to herself, rising from the rustic seat and, escaping from her dreamland with desperate resolution, she returned to the prosaic atmosphere of her household. In less than five minutes, two of the female servants had received warning for petty delinquencies, and the page-boy's surreptitious enjoyment of a tipsy-cake had been rudely interrupted by a sound box on the ear.

This last practical outlet for her uneasiness served to restore the lady to her usual selfsatisfied state of mind, and to shatter the last vestige of the dreams which the violets had evoked.