Chapter 9…

Chapter 9

P. Henry.--But do you use me thus, Ned; must I marry your sister? Poins.--May the wench have no worse fortune, but I never said so.

--K. Henry IV

Arthur met the new-comer, exclaiming, ‘Ha! Fotheringham, you have not brought me the amber mouth-piece I desired John to tell you of.’

‘Not I. I don’t bring Turks’ fashion into Christian countries. You ought to learn better manners now you are head of a family.’

Theodora entered, holding her head somewhat high, but there was a decided heightening of the glow on her cheek as Mr. Fotheringham shook hands with her. Lord Martindale gave him an affectionate welcome, and Lady Martindale, though frigid at first, grew interested as she asked about his journey.

The arriving guests met him with exclamations of gladness, as if he was an honour to the neighbourhood; and John had seldom looked more cheerful and more gratified than in watching his reception.

At length came the names for which Violet was watching; and the presence of Lady Elizabeth gave her a sense of motherly protection, as she was greeted with as much warmth as was possible for shy people in the midst of a large party. Emma eagerly presented her two friends to each other, and certainly they were a great contrast. Miss Marstone was sallow, with thin sharply-cut features, her eyes peered out from spectacles, her hair was disposed in the plainest manner, as well as her dress, which was anything but suited to a large dinner-party. Violet’s first impulse was to be afraid of her, but to admire Emma for being attracted by worth through so much formidable singularity.

‘And the dear little godson is grown to be a fine fellow,’ began Emma.

‘Not exactly that,’ said Violet, ‘but he is much improved, and so bright and clever.’

‘You will let us see him after dinner?’

‘I have been looking forward to it very much, but he will be asleep, and you won’t see his pretty ways and his earnest dark eyes.’

‘I long to see the sweet child,’ said Miss Marstone. ‘I dote on such darlings. I always see so much in their countenances. There is the germ of so much to be drawn out hereafter in those deep looks of thought.’

‘My baby often looks very intent.’

‘Intent on thoughts beyond our power to trace!’ said Miss Marstone.

‘Ah! I have often thought that we cannot fathom what may be passing in a baby’s mind,’ said Emma.

‘With its fixed eyes unravelling its whole future destiny!’ said Miss Marstone.

‘Poor little creature!’ murmured Violet.

‘I am convinced that the whole course of life takes its colouring from some circumstance at the time unmarked.’

‘It would frighten me to think so,’ said Violet.

‘For instance, I am convinced that a peculiar bias was given to my own disposition in consequence of not being understood by the nurse and aunt who petted my brother, while they neglected me. Perhaps I was not a prepossessing child, but I had deeper qualities which might have been drawn out, though, on the whole, I do not regret what threw me early on my own resources. It has made me what I am.’

Violet was rather surprised, but took it for granted that this was something admirable.

‘Your dear little boy, no doubt, occupies much of your attention. Training and instruction are so important.’

‘He is not five months old,’ said Violet.

‘You cannot begin too early to lead forward his mind. Well chosen engravings, properly selected toys, the habit of at once obeying, the choice of nursery songs, all are of much importance in forming these dear little lambs to the stern discipline of life.’

‘You must have had a great deal to do with little children,’ said Violet, impressed.

‘Why, not much personally; but I believe Emma has sent you my little allegory of the “Folded Lambs”, where you will find my theories illustrated.’

‘Yes, Emma gave it to me--it is very pretty,’ said Violet, looking down. ‘I am too stupid to understand it all, and I have been hoping for Emma to explain it to me.’

‘Many people find it obscure, but I shall be delighted to assist you. I am sure you will find some of the ideas useful to you. What were your difficulties?’

It made Violet so very shy to be spoken to by an authoress in public about her own books, that she was confused out of all remembrance of the whole story of the “Folded Lambs”, and could only feel thankful that the announcement of dinner came to rescue her from her difficulties. She was not to escape authors; for Mr. Fotheringham took her in to dinner, Lady Martindale assigned Miss Brandon to John; but Arthur, with a droll look, stepped between and made prize of her, leaving John to Miss Marstone.

Violet trusted she was not likely to be examined in the “Track of the Crusaders”, of which, however, she comprehended far more than of the “Folded Lambs”. Presently her neighbour turned to her, asking abruptly, ‘Who is that next to Theodora?’

‘Mr. Wingfield, the clergyman here.’

‘I know. Is he attentive to the parish!’

‘O yes, very much so.’

‘Does Theodora take to parish work?’

‘Indeed she does.’

‘What, thoroughly?’

‘She goes to school twice a week, besides Sundays, and has the farm children to teach every morning.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And she is so kind to the children at the Lodge.’

‘Let me see, they were afraid the boy was deaf and dumb.’

‘Yes, he is, poor little fellow, and Theodora teaches him most successfully.’

‘Well done! I knew the good would work out. How tall she is! and she looks as full of spirit as ever. She has had a season in London, I suppose!’

‘Yes, she went out a great deal this spring.’

‘And it has not spoilt her?’

‘O no!’ cried Violet, warmly, feeling as if she had known him all her life, ‘she is more eager than ever in her parish work. She spares no trouble. She got up at four one morning to sit with old Betty Blain, that her daughter might get a little rest.’

‘That head and brow are a fine study. She has grown up more striking than even I thought she would. Curious to see the difference between natural pride and assumed,’ and he glanced from Theodora to her mother. ‘How well Lady Martindale preserves! She always looks exactly the same. Who is that chattering in John’s ear?

‘Miss Marstone, a friend of Miss Brandon’s.’

‘What makes her go about such a figure?’

‘She is very good.’

‘I trust, by your own practice, that is not your test of goodness?’

‘I should not think it was, said Violet, blushing and hesitating.

‘What crypt did they dig her out of? Is she one of the Marstones of Gothlands?’

‘I believe she is. She has two sisters, gay people, whose home is with an uncle. She lives with a lawyer brother.’

‘Sam Marstone! I know him! I pity him. So Emma Brandon is come out? Which is she?’

‘She is next to Arthur, on this side the table where you cannot see her.’

‘What sort of girl is she!’

‘Oh!’ said Violet, and paused, ‘she is the greatest friend I have in the world!’

He looked surprised, laughed, and said, ‘So I must ask no more questions.’

Violet felt as if she had spoken presumptuously, and said, ‘Lady Elizabeth has been so very kind to me. Emma is my baby’s godmother.’

‘And John its godfather.’

‘Yes. Did he tell you so?’

‘Ay! he spoke as if it was very near his heart.’

‘He has been--O, so very--I believe he is very fond of baby,’ hastily concluded Violet, as her first sentence stuck in her throat.

‘I am heartily glad he has something to take interest in. He looks better and less frail. Is he so, do you think?’

‘O yes, much better. He hardly ever coughs--’

‘Does he get those bad fits of cough and breathlessness?’

‘Very seldom; he has not had one since the day we heard you were coming home, and that, Brown thought, was from the excitement.’

‘Ay! ay! he seems stronger every way.’

‘Yes, he can bear much more exertion.’

‘Then I hope he will be stirred up to do something. That’s what he wants.’

‘I am sure he is always very busy,’ said Violet, displeased.

‘Ay? Cutting open a book was rather arduous. If he was not at his best he left it to Brown.’

‘No! no! I meant going over parchments; writing for Lord Martindale;’ she did not know if she might mention the West Indian scheme.

‘Ho! there’s something in that. Well, if he comes to life after all, there’s no one so capable. Not that I am blaming him. Illness and disappointment broke him down, and--such a fellow seldom breathed. If I had not had him at Cambridge it might have been a different story with me. So you need not look like his indignant champion.’

‘I don’t know what Arthur and I should have done without him,’ said Violet.

‘Where’s the aunt? I don’t see her.’

‘She never comes down to dinner, she is only seen in the evening.’

There was a sound in reply so expressive of relief that Violet caught herself nearly laughing, but he said, gravely, ‘Poor woman, then she is growing aged.’

‘We thought her much altered this year.’

‘Well!’ and there was a whole sentence of pardon conveyed in the word. Then, after an interval, ‘Look at John and his neighbour.’

‘I have been trying to catch what they are saying.’

‘They! It is all on one side.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Violet, smiling, ‘it was something about chants.’

‘Yes. Is it not rare to see his polite face while she bores him with that kind of cant which is the most intolerable of all, and he quietly turning it aside?’

‘Is it cant when people are in earnest?’ asked Violet.

‘Women always think they are.’

‘How are they to know?’

‘If they hold their tongues’--a silence--Well!’

‘Well,’ said Violet.

‘Where’s the outcry?’

‘Did you mean me to make one!’

‘What could you do but vindicate your sex?’

‘Then you would not have thought me in earnest.’

He made a funny pleased face and a little bow.

‘The truth was,’ said Violet, ‘I was thinking whether I understood you.’

‘May I ask your conclusion?’

‘I don’t exactly know. I don’t think you meant we should never talk of what interests us.’

‘When they know when to hold their tongues, perhaps I should have said.’

‘O, yes, that I quite think.’

Another silence, while Violet pondered, and her neighbour continued his malicious listening to Miss Marstone, who spoke in a key too audible for such a party. Presently, ‘He has got her to the Royal Academy. She has gone forthwith to the Prae-Raffaelites. Oh! she is walking Prae-Raffaelitism herself. Symbols and emblems! Unfortunate John! Symbolic suggestive teaching, speaking to the eye! She is at it ding-dong! Oh! he has begun on the old monk we found refreshing the pictures at Mount Athos! Ay, talk yourself, ‘tis the only way to stop her mouth; only mind what you say, she will bestow it freshly hashed up on the next victim on the authority of Mr. Martindale.’

Violet was excessively entertained; and, when she raised her eyes, after conquering the laugh, was amazed to find how far advanced was the state dinner, usually so interminable. Her inquiries after the Athenian owl led to a diverting history of its capture at the Parthenon, and the adventures in bringing it home. She was sorry when she found Lady Martindale rising, while Mr. Fotheringham, as he drew back his chair, said, ‘How shall you get on with Prae-Raffaelitism? I should like to set her and Aunt Nesbit together by the ears!’

Certainly it was not convenient to be asked by Emma what made her look so much amused.

She felt as if it would be much pleasanter to show off her babe without the stranger, and was glad to find that Miss Marstone had fallen into a discussion with Theodora, and both looked much too eager to be interrupted.

So Violet fairly skipped up-stairs before her friends, turning round to speak to them with such smiling glee, that Lady Elizabeth dismissed all fears of her present well-doing. Emma fell into raptures over her godson’s little cot, and quoted the “Folded Lambs”, and “Pearls of the Deep”, another as yet unpublished tale of her friend’s, to teach his mother how to educate him, and stood by impatiently contemning the nursery hints which Violet was only too anxious to gather up from Lady Elizabeth.

‘And are you not charmed with her!’ said Emma, as they went down-stairs.

‘I have seen so little of her,’ replied Violet, embarrassed. ‘Why does she dress in that way?’

‘That is just what I say,’ observed Lady Elizabeth. ‘I was sorry to see her in that dress this evening.’

‘Mamma does not like it,’ said Emma; ‘but Theresa feels it such a privilege not to be forced to conform to the trammels of fashions and nonsense.’

‘She does everything on high principle,’ said Lady Elizabeth, as if she was trying to bring her mind as usual into unison with her daughter’s. ‘She is a very superior person, and one does not like to find fault with what is done on right motives; but I should be sorry to see Emma follow the same line. I have always been taught that women should avoid being conspicuous.’

‘That I could never bear to be, mamma,’ said Emma; ‘but Theresa is of a firmer, less shrinking mould.’

Lady Elizabeth repeated that she was a very superior person, but was evidently not happy in her guest.

Miss Marstone was holding earnest tete-a-tetes all the evening, but Violet having sheltered herself under Lady Elizabeth’s wing, escaped the expected lecture on the allegories.

When the Rickworth party had taken leave, Mr. Wingfield, the last guest, was heard to observe that Miss Marstone was an admirable person, a treasure to any parish.

‘Do you wish for such a treasure in your own?’ said Mr. Fotheringham, bluntly.

The curate shook his head, and murmuring something about Brogden being already as fortunate as possible, departed in his turn: while Arthur ejaculated, ‘There’s a step, Wingfield. Why, Theodora, he was setting up a rival.’

‘Who is she?’ said Theodora. ‘Where did Emma pick her up?’

‘Emma was struck with her appearance--’

The gentlemen all exclaimed so vehemently, that Violet had to repeat it again, whereupon Mr. Fotheringham muttered, ‘Every one to his taste;’ and Arthur said there ought to be a law against women making themselves greater frights than nature designed.

‘So, it is a fit of blind enthusiasm,’ said John.

‘Pray do you partake it?’ asked Percy. ‘How do you feel after it?’

‘Why, certainly, I never met with a person of more conversation,’ said John.

‘Delicately put!’ said Arthur, laughing heartily. ‘Why, she had even begun lecturing my father on the niggers!’

‘I would not be Lady Elizabeth!’ said Mr. Fotheringham.

‘Those romantic exaggerations of friendship are not satisfactory,’ said John. ‘Emma is too timid to be eccentric herself at present; but a governing spirit might soon lead her on.’

‘That it might,’ said Theodora, ‘as easily as I used to drag her, in spite of her terrors, through all the cows in the park. I could be worse to her than any cow; and this Ursula--or what is her outlandish name, Violet?’

‘Theresa; Sarah Theresa.’

‘Well, really,’ said John, ‘it is not for the present company to criticize outlandish names.’

‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘it was a happy instinct that made us give my boy a good rational working-day name, fit to go to school in, and no choice either to give him the opportunity of gainsaying it, like Emma’s friend, and some others--Sir Percival that is to be! A hero of the Minerva press!’

‘No, indeed--if I was to be Sir Anything, which probably I never shall be, I would hold, like my forefathers, to my good old Antony, which it was not my doing to disregard.’

‘Which earned him the title of Lumpkin, by which only he was known to his schoolfellow!’ said Arthur. ‘If you ask after Fotheringham, they invariably say, “Oh, you mean old Lumpkin!” So much for romantic names!’

‘Or imperial ones,’ said Percy. ‘Did not you tell me Theodora came straight from the Palaeologos who died in the West Indies? I always considered that to account for certain idiosyncrasies.’

Theodora was called away to assist Mrs. Nesbit up-stairs; and as Violet followed, she heard the aunt observing that Percival Fotheringham was more bearish than ever; and that it was intolerable to see him encouraged in his free-and-easy manner when he had thrown away all his prospects.

‘For poor John’s sake,’ began Lady Martindale.

‘For his own,’ interrupted Theodora. ‘He has every right to be at home here, and it is an honour to the place that he should be so.’

‘Oh, yes, I know; and he will be expecting your father to exert himself again in his behalf.’

‘No, he will be beholden to no one,’ said Theodora.

‘I do wish his manners were less rough and eccentric,’ said Lady Martindale.

‘Presuming,’ said Mrs. Nesbit; ‘in extremely bad taste. I never was more sensible of our good fortune in having missed that connection. There was nothing but their being of a good old family that made it by any means endurable.’

At this hit at her brother’s wife, Theodora was going to speak, but she forbore, and only wished her aunt good night. It would not be repressed, however; she stood in the gallery, after parting with the elder ladies, and said, loud enough for them to hear,

‘I hate good old family, and all such humbug! She was a noble, self-devoted creature; as much above the comprehension of the rest of the world as her brother!’

‘Did you know her well?’ said Violet.

Theodora’s tone instantly changed. She was not going to gratify childish curiosity. ‘I never had the opportunity,’ she said, coolly. ‘Good night.’

Violet was disappointed; for the tone of enthusiasm had given her a moment’s hope that they had at last found a subject on which they could grow warm together, but it was evident that Theodora would never so have spoken had she been conscious of her presence.

The next morning as Arthur and his wife were going down to breakfast, he said, ‘We shall see some rare fun now Theodora and Fotheringham have got together.’

Theodora, with her bonnet on, was, according to her usual Sunday fashion, breakfasting before the rest of the party, so as to be in time for school. John and his friend made their appearance together, and the greetings had scarcely passed, before John, looking out of window, exclaimed, ‘Ah! there’s the boy! Pray come and see my godson. Come, Violet, we want you to exhibit him.’

Arthur looked up with a smile intended to be disdainful, but which was gratified, and moved across, with the newspaper in his hand, to lean against the window-shutter.

‘There’s John without his hat--he is growing quite adventurous. Very pretty Violet always is with the boy in her arms--she is the show one of the two. Hollo, if Percy has not taken the monkey himself; that’s a pass beyond me. How she colours and smiles--just look, Theodora, is it not a picture?’

If he had called her to look at Johnnie, she must have come; but she was annoyed at his perpetual admiration, and would not abet his making himself ridiculous.

‘I must not wait,’ she said, ‘I am late.’

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, and turned to his paper.

She put on her gloves, and took up her books. Percy meeting her, as she came down the steps, said, ‘I have been introduced to your nephew.’

‘I hope you are gratified.’

‘He has almost too much countenance,’ said Percy. ‘There is something melancholy in such wistful looks from a creature that cannot speak, just as one feels with a dog.’

‘I am afraid he is very weakly,’ said Theodora.

‘I am sorry to hear it; it seems like a new life to John, and that pretty young mother looks so anxious. Do you see much of her?’

‘Not much; I have not time to join in the general Violet worship.’

‘They are not spoiling her, I hope. It does one good to see such a choice specimen of womankind.’

‘There, don’t come any further; I must make haste.’

‘Like all the rest,’ she thought; ‘not a man but is more attracted by feminine airs and graces than by sterling qualities.’

On coming out of church, in the afternoon, John, looking at the beautiful green shady bank of the river, proposed a walk along it; all the party gladly acceded, except Theodora, who, not without a certain pleasure in separating herself from them, declared that there was a child who must be made to say her hymn before going home.

‘Can’t you excuse her for once?’ said Lord Martindale.

‘No, papa.’

‘Not if I beg her off publicly?’

‘No, thank you. There is a temper that must be overcome.’

‘Then flog her well, and have done with it,’ said Arthur. Deigning no reply, she pounced upon her victim as the procession of scholars came out of church, ‘Come, I am waiting to hear you say it. “How doth the little--“’

The child stood like a post.

‘That is a Benson, I am sure,’ said Mr. Fotheringham. Theodora told him he was right, and went on exhorting the child; ‘Come, I know you can say it. Try to be good.

‘“How doth--“’

‘You know I always keep my word, and I have said I will hear you before either of us goes home.’

‘“How doth--“’

‘If you please, papa, would you go on? I shall never make her do it with you all looking on.’

She sat down on a tombstone, and placed the child before her. After an hour’s walk, there was a general exclamation of amusement and compassion, on seeing Theodora and the child still in the same positions.

‘She will never say it at all now, poor child,’ said Violet; ‘she can’t--she must be stupefied.’

‘Then we had better send down the tent to cover Theodora for the night,’ said Arthur.

‘As if Theodora looking at her in that manner was not enough to drive off all recollection!’ said John.

‘It is too much!’ said Lord Martindale. ‘Arthur, go, and tell her it is high time to go home, and she must let the poor child off.’

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, saying, ‘You go, John.’

‘Don’t you think it might do harm to interfere?’ said John to his father.

‘Interfere by no means,’ said Arthur. ‘It is capital sport. Theodora against dirty child! Which will you back, Percy? Hollo! where is he? He is in the thick of it. Come on, Violet, let us be in for the fun.’

‘Patience in seven flounces on a monument!’ observed Mr. Fotheringham, in an undertone to Theodora, who started, and would have been angry, but for his merry smile. He then turned to the child, whose face was indeed stupefied with sullenness, as if in the resistance she had forgotten the original cause. ‘What! you have not said it all this time? What’s your name? I know you are a Benson, but how do they call you?’ said he, speaking with a touch of the dialect of the village, just enough to show he was a native.

‘Ellen,’ said the girl.

‘Ellen! that was your aunt’s name. You are so like her. I don’t think you can be such a very stupid child, after all. Are you? Suppose you try again. What is it Miss Martindale wants you to say?’

The child made no answer, and Theodora said, ‘The Little Busy Bee.’

‘Oh! that’s it. Not able to say the Busy Bee? That’s a sad story. D’ye think now I could say it, Ellen?’

‘No!’ with an astonished look, and a stolid countrified tone.

‘So you don’t think I’m clever enough! Well, suppose I try, and you set me right if I make mistakes. “How doth the great idle wasp--“’

‘Busy bee!’ cried the child, scandalized.

By wonderful blunders, and ingenious halts, he drew her into prompting him throughout, then exclaimed, ‘There! you know it much better. I thought you were a clever little girl! Come, won’t you say it once, and let me hear how well it sounds?’

She was actually flattered into repeating it perfectly.

‘Very well. That’s right. Now, don’t you think you had better tell Miss Martindale you are sorry to have kept her all this time?’

She hung her head, and Theodora tried to give him a hint that the apology was by no means desired; but without regarding this, he continued, ‘Do you know I am come from Turkey, and there are plenty of ladies there, who go out to walk with a sack over their heads, but I never saw one of them sit on a tombstone to hear a little girl say the Busy Bee. Should you like to live there?’

‘No.’

‘Do you suppose Miss Martindale liked to sit among the nettles on old Farmer Middleton’s tombstone?’

‘No.’

‘Why did she do it then? Was it to plague you?’

‘Cause I wouldn’t say my hymn.’

‘I wonder if it is not you that have been plaguing Miss Martindale all the time. Eh? Come, aren’t you sorry you kept her sitting all this time among the nettles when she might have been walking to Colman’s Weir, and gathering such fine codlings and cream as Mrs. Martindale has there, and all because you would not say a hymn that you knew quite well? Wasn’t that a pity?’

‘Yes,’ and the eyes looked up ingenuously.

‘Come and tell her you are sorry. Won’t you? There, that’s right,’ and he dictated as she repeated after him, as if under a spell, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, that I was sulky and naughty; I’ll say it next Sunday, and make no fuss.’

‘There, that will do. I knew you would be good at last,’ said Percy, patting her shoulder, while Theodora signified her pardon, and they turned homewards, but had made only a few steps before the gallop of clumsy shoes followed, and there stood Ellen, awkwardly presenting a bunch of the willow herb. Theodora gave well-pleased thanks, and told her she should take them as a sign she was really sorry and meant to do better.

‘And as a trophy of the force of Percy’s pathetic picture of Miss Martindale’s seven flounces among the nettles on Farmer Middleton’s tombstone,’ said Arthur.

‘You certainly are very much obliged to him,’ said her father.

‘And most ungratefully she won’t confess it,’ said Arthur.

‘I despise coaxing,’ said Theodora.

‘The question is, what you would have done without it,’ said John.

‘As if I could not subdue a little sprite like that!’

‘You certainly might if it was a question of physical force,’ said Percy, as he seemed to be measuring with his eye the strength of Theodora’s tall vigorous person.

‘I spoke of moral force.’

‘There the sprite had decidedly the advantage. You could “gar her greet,” but you could not “gar her know.” She had only to hold out; and when Miss Martindale found it time to go home to dinner, and began to grow ashamed of her position, the victory was hers.’

‘He has you there, Theodora,’ said Arthur.

‘I don’t know what he is driving at,’ said Theodora.

‘I am trying to find out whether Miss Martindale has the power of confessing that she was in a scrape.’

‘That you may triumph,’ said Theodora.

‘No, not for the sake of triumph, but of old times,’ he answered, in a lower, more serious tone.

Theodora’s face softened, and drawing nearer, she asked, ‘How are old times to be satisfied by such an admission?’

‘Because then candour used to boast of conquering pride,’ said Percy, now speaking so as to be heard by her alone.

‘Well. It was becoming a predicament, and you rescued me very ingeniously. There, will that content you?’ said Theodora, with one of the smiles the more winning because so rare. I am perfectly ready to own myself in the wrong when I see it.’

‘When you see it,’ said Percy, drily.

‘I was wrong just now not to confess my obligation, because Arthur teased and triumphed; but I don’t see why you all treat me as if I was wrong to set myself to subdue the child’s obstinacy.’

‘Not wrong, but mistaken,’ said Percy. ‘You forgot your want of power to enforce obedience. You wanted victory, and treated her with the same determination she was treating you with. It was a battle which had the hardest will and could hold out longest.’

‘And if I had conquered she would have gone away angry with me, only having yielded because she could not help it. You softened her and made her sorry. I see. She really is a good child on the whole, and I dare say I shall do something with her now.’

‘Is old Benson alive?’

And a long conversation on village matters ensued. Theodora was happier that evening than she had been for more than a year. That home-thrust at her pride, astonishing as it was that any one should venture it, and the submission that followed, had been a positive relief. She thought the pleasure was owing to the appeal to old times, recalling happy days of wild frolics, sometimes shared, sometimes censured by her grown-up playfellow; the few hours with his sister that had influenced her whole life; and the lectures, earnest, though apparently sportive, by which he had strengthened and carried on the impression; that brief time, also, of their last spending together, when his sorrow for his sister was fresh, and when John was almost in a hopeless state, and when she had been the one of the family to whom he came to pour out his grief, and talk over what his sister had been.

It was a renewal of happiness to her heart, wearied with jealousy, to find one to whom old times were precious, and who took her up where he had last seen her. His blunt ways, and downright attacks, were a refreshment to a spirit chafing against the external smoothness and refinement of her way of life, and the pleasure of yielding to his arguments was something new and unexampled. She liked to gain the bright approving look, and with her universal craving for attention, she could not bear not to be engrossing him, whether for blame or praise, it did not matter; but she had the same wish for his notice that she had for Arthur’s.

Not that she by any means always obtained it. He was in request with every one except Mrs. Nesbit. Even Lady Martindale took interest in his conversation, and liked to refer questions about prints and antiques to his decision, and calls on his time and attention were made from every quarter. Besides, he had his own manuscript to revise, and what most mortified Theodora was to hear Violet’s assistance eagerly claimed, as she knew her way better than John did through the sheets, and could point to the doubtful passages. Never was work more amusing than this, interspersed with debates between the two friends, with their droll counter versions of each other’s anecdotes, and Mr. Fotheringham’s quizzings of John, at whom he laughed continually, though all the time it was plain that there was no one in the world whom he so much reverenced.

The solitary possession of her own mornings was now no boon to Theodora. She was necessary to no one, and all her occupations could not drive away the ever-gnawing thought that Violet attracted all the regard and attention that belonged to her. If the sensation went away when she was down-stairs, where Percy’s presence obliged her to be amiable against her will, it came back with double force in her lonely moments.

One day, when they had dispersed after luncheon, her father came in, inquiring for Violet. He was going to Rickworth, and thought she would like to go with him. He wished to know, as otherwise he should ride instead of driving; and, as she was up-stairs, desired Theodora to go and find out what would suit her.

‘Papa, too!’ thought Theodora, as with some reluctance she for the first time knocked at her sister’s door, and found her with the baby.

‘How very kind!’ said she. ‘I should be delighted, but I don’t know whether Arthur does not want me. Is he there?’

‘I think he is in the library.’

‘If I could but go down! But I must not take baby, and Sarah is at dinner. Should you mind holding him for one minute?’

Theodora held out her arms, but Johnnie, though usually delighted to come to her from Sarah, turned his head away, unwilling to leave his mother. He did not quite cry, but was so near it that she had to do her utmost to amuse him. She caught up something bright to hold before him, and was surprised to see it was a coral cross, which Violet, in changing her dress, had laid for a moment on the dressing-table. The coincidence was strange, thought Theodora.

Violet was coming back, and she would have laid it down, but Johnnie had grasped it in his little fingers. As his mother appeared, his merriest smile shone out, and his whole little person was one spring of eagerness to return to her.

‘Little man! Is he glad to come back to his mamma?’ Violet could not help saying, as he nestled joyously on her neck; but the cold face of Theodora made her sorry that the words had escaped her, and she began to express her thanks.

Theodora was stooping to pick up the cross, and a concerned exclamation passed Violet’s lips on observing its fall.

‘It is safe,’ said Theodora. ‘I beg your pardon, I took it up to amuse him.’

‘Thank you,’ said Violet. ‘I am sorry I seemed vexed. There’s no harm done; but I was frightened, because it was Helen’s.’

‘Helen’s’ exclaimed Theodora, extremely amazed. ‘Did John give it to you?’

‘Yes, a little while ago,’ said Violet, colouring. ‘He--’

But Theodora was gone, with bitterer feelings than ever. This girl was absorbing every one’s love! John had never given her anything that had belonged to Helen; he had never even adverted to his engagement, when she almost adored her memory! She had never supposed him capable of speaking of his loss; and perhaps it was the hardest blow of all to find Violet, whose inquiries she had treated as mere curiosity, preferred to such confidence as this. She did not remember how she had once rejected his sympathy. She forgot whose fault it was that she had not been in the Isle of Wight; she laid it all on the proneness of men to be interested by sweetness of manner, and thought of herself as a strong-minded superior woman, who could never be loved, and who could only suffer through her woman’s heart.

Yet she could not entirely harden herself as she intended, while combats with Percy cast brightening gleams across her existence. She thought she should again settle into the winter’s life of hard work and indifference, which was on the whole most comfortable to her.

When the party should be broken up, Percy was to be the first to depart; he was going to publish The Crusaders, take a lodging in London, and there busy himself with literature while awaiting the fulfilment of a promise of further diplomatic employment. Arthur and Violet were also to return home after paying a visit at Rickworth, and John would soon after sail for Barbuda. In the meantime he was much engaged in going over accounts, and in consulting with his father and the man of business.

One morning, towards the end of September, he came down to Violet in the drawing-room, looking much flushed and extremely annoyed.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have often declared I would never let my aunt have a discussion with me again. I have been obliged to submit to this. I hope it will be the last.’

‘About the West Indian property,’ said Violet.

‘Yes. She does give me power to act for her; but it is dearly bought! I wish I had never asked her! Every subject that she knew to be most unpleasant to me has she stirred up! How a woman of her age can go on with her eyes fixed on these matters I cannot guess. I am sure it is a warning what one sets one’s heart upon!’

‘You are quite worried and tired. Oh! it has made you cough! You had better lie down and rest.’

‘I want you to put me into good humour,’ said he, half reclining on the sofa. ‘I feel as if I had been under a nutmeg-grater! What do you think of her taking me to task for having Fotheringham here, for fear he should marry Theodora! I wish there was any such chance for her; but Percy has far too much sense!’

‘Why, how could Mrs. Nesbit think it? They are always disputing!’

‘I should not take that as a reason for thinking it impossible. But Percy knows her far too well. No, it is only one of my aunt’s fancies. She has set her hopes on Theodora now; but it is of no use to talk of it. I don’t want to dwell on it. It is too pitiable to be angry about. What are you reading?’

Violet was as glad to talk to him of her book as he was to lose the thought of his vexatious conversation, which had been even more annoying that he had chosen to tell her.

Mrs. Nesbit had taken occasion to speak of the reversion of an estate, which she said she wished to go to augment the property of the title; and now she should have no hesitation in bequeathing it to him, provided she could see him, on his side, make such a connection as would be for the consequence of the family.

John tried silence, but she drove him so hard that he was obliged to reply that, since she had begun on the subject, he had only to say that he should never marry; and, with thanks for her views, the disposal of her property would make no difference to him.

She interrupted him by reproaches on a man of his age talking romantic nonsense, and telling him that, for the sake of the family, it was his duty to marry.

‘With such health as mine,’ replied John, quietly, ‘I have long made up my mind that, even if I could enter on a fresh attachment, it would not be right. I am not likely to live many years, and I wish to form no new ties. You will oblige me, ma’am, by not bringing forward this subject again.’

‘Ay, I know what you are intending. You think it will come to Arthur and his wife; but I tell you what, Mr. Martindale, no attorney’s daughter shall ever touch a sixpence of mine.’

‘That is as you please, ma’am. It was not to speak of these matters that I came here; and if you have told me all you wish with regard to the property, I will leave the papers for your signature.’

She was above all provoked by his complete indifference to the wealth, her chief consideration throughout her life, and could not cease from reproaching him with absurd disregard to his own interest, at which he very nearly smiled. Then she revived old accusations, made in the earlier days of her persecution about his engagement, that he was careless of the consequence and reputation of the family, and had all his life been trying to lower it in the eyes of the world; otherwise why had he set himself to patronize that wife of Arthur’s, or why bring Percy Fotheringham here, just to put his sister in the way of marrying beneath her? And when he had answered that, though he saw no probability of such an event, opinions might differ as to what was beneath Theodora, she took the last means that occurred to her for tormenting him, by predicting that Arthur’s sickly little child would never live to grow up--he need not fix any hopes on him.

He escaped at last, leaving her much irritated, as Theodora presently found her. She began to complain bitterly of the ingratitude of her great-nephews, after all her labours for the family! John treating her whole fortune as if it was not worth even thanks, when she had been ready to settle the whole on him at once, as she would have done, since (and she looked sharply at Theodora) he was now free from that Fotheringham engagement; for none of that family should ever have a share in her property.

Theodora looked, if possible, more indifferent than John, as she answered,

‘John could not want it. I always thought you meant it for Arthur.’

‘Arthur! as if you did not know he had forfeited all claim upon me!’

‘His marriage is a reason for his needing it more,’ said Theodora.

‘It is of no use to speak of him. No, Theodora, you alone have acted as I could wish; and if you continue to deserve my regard--’

‘Don’t say that, Aunt Nesbit,’ said Theodora. ‘I shall act as, I hope, may deserve regard; but I don’t want anybody’s fortune, and if you left me yours it would be very unfair, and I certainly should give at least half of it to Arthur. I give you fair warning; but I did not come to talk of such hateful things, but to read to you.’

That afternoon Mrs. Nesbit wrote a letter to her lawyer, and surprised Miss Piper by asking if that puny child up-stairs had any name but John.

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Chapter 10

Unschooled affections, strong and wild, Have been my playmates from a child, And strengthening in the breast unseen, Poisoned the fount within. --Thoughts in Past Years

The morning of the next day had been fine, and was spent in shooting by Arthur and Mr. Fotheringham; but the latter came home in time to ride with John, to make a call on some old friends, far beyond what had long been John’s distance.

The afternoon closed in a violent storm of wind and rain, which drove Arthur indoors, and compelled Violet to resort for exercise to the gallery, where she paced up and down with Johnnie in her arms, watching for the return of the others, as each turn brought her to the end window. As Lord Martindale came up-stairs, he paused at the sight of the slender young figure--her head bent over her little one. Perhaps he was thinking what might have been, if his own children had ever been as much to their mother; for when Violet turned towards him he sighed, as he roused himself, and asked whether she saw John coming. Then joining her, he looked at his grandson, saying, ‘He is improving very fast. How like you he grows!’

‘Poor little fellow, he was not at all well yesterday, and I began to think of asking whether I should send for Mr. Legh.’

‘Whatever you do, beware of doctoring!’ was Lord Martindale’s rather hasty answer. ‘Of doctoring and governessing!--I have seen enough of it, and I resolved my two youngest should run wholesomely wild, never be dosed, and never learn a lesson till they were six years old.’

‘But this poor little man is really delicate, and I have no experience,’ pleaded Violet.

‘Depend upon it, my dear,’ said Lord Martindale, with sorrowful emotion in his voice, as he saw the little fair head resting caressingly on her neck, ‘you are doing more for him than all the physicians in England. You must not tease him and yourself with fretting and anxiety.’

‘I know it is my duty not to be over-anxious,’ said Violet, with her heart full, as she clasped her hands close round her tiny treasure.

‘You must not,’ said his grandfather. ‘It was the notion that mine could never have enough teaching or doctoring-as if that was what they wanted! Some system or other was always being tried on them, and they were never left to healthy action of mind or body, till the end was that I lost my two pretty little girls! And poor John, I never saw a more wretched-looking child than he was when I took him to Dr.--.’

‘And what was his advice?’

‘His advice was this. “Throw away lessons and physic. Give him other children to play with, make him wear a brown holland pinafore, and let him grope in the dirt.” I believe it saved his life! I begged Mrs. Fotheringham to let him do just like her children, little thinking what was to come of that.’ Then catching himself up, as if fearing to give Violet pain, ‘Not that I should have regretted that connection. She was all that could be wished, and I judged by personal merits.’ He hesitated, but spoke warmly, as if applying the words to Violet. ‘Their youth was my only objection from the first. Nothing would have rejoiced me more than their marriage.’

‘O, yes,’ said Violet, ‘he says so much of your kindness.’ She feared she had said too much, but Lord Martindale caught at her words. ‘Has he ever adverted to that affair!’

‘Sometimes,’ said Violet, shyly.

‘What! Actually spoken of poor Helen! I am heartily glad to hear it. How is he bearing it? Does he speak calmly?’

‘Yes, calmly and cheerfully, as if he liked to dwell on the thought.’

Lord Martindale laid his hand on her arm, and said, gratefully, ‘You have done him a great deal of good.’

Seldom had she been more gratified, but at that moment a dripping figure burst on them, and Theodora’s voice impetuously exclaimed, ‘Violet! you must know something of babies! What shall I do for the child at the lodge? She will die if something is not done quickly.’

She was in an agony of breathless agitation; the motherless baby at the lodge had been taken violently ill, the parish doctor was not at home, and she feared that Mr. Legh could not arrive from Whitford in time!

Violet shared in her distress, and gathering from her description that it might be such an attack as Johnnie’s at Ventnor, longed to be on the spot, and tried to believe the rain lessening enough for her to go. Theodora seized on her proposal, but Lord Martindale interfered. ‘How can you be so thoughtless?’ said he, in a far more decided manner than usual.

‘The child’s life depends on it!’ said Theodora, vehemently.

‘Pshaw!’ said Lord Martindale, ‘Violet has her own life and her child’s to think of.’

‘Then you won’t come!’

‘I am afraid I ought not,’ said Violet, mournfully.

Theodora flung away in passionate despair and contempt, and was rushing off, when Violet pursued her, and implored her to listen one moment, and she could not let go her last hope. Violet offered some medicine that had been prepared for Johnnie--which she was sure could at least do no harm, and she could give some advice. Perhaps she mingled it with too many excuses and lamentations at being forced to stay at home; at least, Theodora thought her fanciful, rejoicing in the self-importance of imaginary ill-health.

‘Why! there’s the carriage!’ she exclaimed, as it drove down the avenue.

‘Yes, it is gone for John,’ said Theodora, bluntly.

‘Where is he?’

‘At the Goldingsby turnpike. He took shelter there, and Percy came back to order the carriage to fetch him. Percy is gone on to Whitford for Mr. Legh.’

‘What a pity! I could have gone to the lodge in the carriage.’

Theodora was provoked that her impatience had made her miss this chance: so, without answering, she ran down the steps, and was almost whirled along the avenue by the wild wind that roared in the branches, tearing the leaves from the trees, and whirling them round and round. She hardly felt it--her whole soul was set upon the little orphan; the misery of watching the suffering she could not relieve, joined with passionate resentment at her father and sister-in-law, who she fancied made light of it. Only Mr. Fotheringham, when stopping at the lodge on his way, had shown what she thought tolerable humanity. He had shared her concern, consoled her despair, suggested asking counsel of Mrs. Martindale, and finally rode off five miles to Whitford in quest of the doctor.

Violet’s advice proved not to be despicable; the measures she recommended relieved the little one, and by the time Percy and the apothecary made their appearance, it was asleep on Theodora’s lap, and Mr. Legh pronounced that it was in a fair way to do well. She wished she could have watched it all night, but it was late, and Mr. Fotheringham stood waiting at the door. So she laid it in the cradle, gave her directions to the old woman who had charge of it, and resumed her brown cloak and hood, in which she walked about in all weathers, without umbrella, for which, as for parasols, she had a supreme aversion.

Mr. Legh wished to prevail on her to let him drive her home, but she would not hear of it. Percy put up his umbrella, and offered to shelter her, but she held aloof.

‘No, no. Where did you get that elegant cotton machine?’

‘I borrowed it at the turnpike.’

‘And rode home with it on Arthur’s mare?’

‘Of course I did. I was not going to get wet through.’

‘But how did you get her to let you carry it. She objects to his taking out his handkerchief.’

‘I am not going to be beaten by a mare, and she soon found that out.’

‘What have you done with her?’

‘I took her home, and came back again. I wonder what Arthur will say to me for taking his gallant gray on to Whitford. I must get up a pathetic appeal to the feelings of a father!’

‘Well, I did not recollect you had the gray, or I would have told you to take my horse. However, there’s no harm done, and it saved time.’

‘Whoo--h!’ as the gust came roaring down furiously upon them, pelting fiercely with rain, flapping and tearing at Theodora’s cloak, like the wind in the fable, trying to whirl her off her feet, and making vehement efforts to wrench the umbrella out of Percy’s hand. A buffet with wind and weather was a frolic which she particularly enjoyed, running on before the blast, then turning round to walk backwards and recover breath to laugh at him toiling with the umbrella. Never had she looked brighter, her dark eyes, lately so sad and soft, now sparkling and dancing with mirth, her brown cheek glowing with fresh red from the rain and wind that had loosened her hair, and was sporting with a long black tress that streamed beyond her bonnet, and fluttered over her face--life, strength, and activity in every limb, and her countenance beaming with sportiveness and gaiety, the more charming because so uncommon. It was a rare chance to catch Theodora at play.

‘Ha! you’ll be beat! You will have to shut up the miserable invention unknown to our forefathers.’

‘Not I. I shall not give up the distinction between man and beast in the rain.’

‘Man! Why even ants carry parasols.’

‘That is in the sun. Parasols belong to an epoch of earlier civilization. Vide Ninevite carvings--Persian satraps!’

‘So you reduce yourself to a Persian satrap!’

‘No; it was reserved for modern times to discover the true application of the umbrella. Were you rational enough to come back in the carriage?’

‘No, indeed. To do justice to Violet, she would have come down in it, if I had not forgotten to tell her of it.’

‘I am glad you do her justice for once.’

She would not answer, and took advantage of another combat with the wind to cover her silence.

‘Theodora,’ said he, abruptly, ‘I cannot help it; I must say it!’

‘Well?’

‘I do not think you feel as you ought towards your brother’s wife.’

‘John has told you this?’

‘No; I have observed it. You had set your affections on Arthur; and thinking he had thrown himself away, you do not resist the common propensity to hate a sister-in-law.’

‘You like to provoke me,’ said Theodora; ‘but,’ and her voice trembled, ‘it is unkind to bring this up--the pain and grief of my life, when I was happy and forgetful for once.’

‘Far, far from unkindness. It is because I cannot bear to see you unhappy.’

‘I trusted no one saw that.’

‘I have known you too long, and thought of you too much, not to be grieved at the sight of your forced spirits and suppressed sorrow.’

It would have angered her from another; from him it touched her to find how closely and kindly he had watched her.

‘I cannot help it,’ she said. ‘He was my all.’

‘Have you striven with it?’

‘Of course I have. I have lived in a tumult of occupation, but--’

‘But you have not conquered yourself, and grappled with the serpents that poison your life.’

‘Pray what do you call those serpents?’

‘If you look them in the face, I believe you will find they are pride and jealousy.’

‘You like to find generic names,’ said Theodora, trying for a cold smile.

‘Because it is safer to know and crush a venomous beast than to dally with it.’

‘If I find there are such serpents, I will crush them and thank you.’

‘No other woman would so have answered,’ cried Percy, exultingly.

‘Because,’ said she, her throat swelling, ‘no other man is true and downright friend enough to warn me honestly.’

‘Theodora, Theodora, you are a grand creature, nearly thrown away for want of breaking in.’

‘Too true,’ said she, sadly.

‘I must say it. Will you let me? Will you trust yourself and your happiness to me? It has been the vision and hope of my solitude to see you what you might be! the flaws in that noble nature corrected, its grandeur and devotedness shining forth undimmed. Together we would crush the serpents--bring out all that is excellent.’

‘I think there might be a chance for me with you,’ said she, in an odd sort of tone.

‘You mean it?’ he exclaimed, trying to see her face, but her hood flapped over it.

‘I do. You appreciate me.’

She let him walk beside her, and hold the umbrella over her; but not a word was spoken till they were ascending the steps, when she said, ‘Don’t tell papa till night. I do not choose to look foolish.’

‘Good luck to thee, umbrella!’ said Percy, holding it on high, ere closing it. ‘Thy sea-green dome has been a canopy of bliss. Honour to thy whalebones!’ Then, in a very different manner, ‘Oh! Theodora, could you but guess how you have mingled in every scheme or wish of mine; how often I have laughed myself to scorn for dreaming, as if there could be any chance!’

‘Ah! what an uproar my aunt will make!’ exclaimed Theodora, somewhat exultingly. Some one crossed the hall, and she ran away, but stepped back from the foot of the stairs, laid her hand on his arm, and with a face inexpressibly sweet and brilliant, said, ‘We shall get on very well together. We need have no nonsense. But I did not know how happy you had made me.’

She escaped again; she would not have said thus much if she had not known there could be no reply, for Lady Martindale was sailing down the grand staircase.

She met him no more till dinner, when he was silent, and she talkative and flighty, so that Violet suspected there had been a quarrel.

The next morning, the first tidings were that John had a cold and was confined to his bed by cough and pain in the chest; while something too was said of his having been kept up late at night talking. Theodora paid a visit to the sick child in the early morning, and after breakfast accompanied Violet to the lodge, where Violet found the poor little thing nursed with more goodwill than skill by its old aunt and Theodora, took it into her own motherly arms, gave it food and medicine, and hushed it to sleep so successfully, that Theodora respected what she called the feminine element.

The two sisters walked back happily together; but at the door Lord Martindale met them, exclaiming, ‘Where have you been, Theodora? Come here.’

Violet wished to be certified that John was not worse, but could find no one but Mr. Fotheringham, who, with a little twist of the corner of his mouth, assured her that there was no cause for uneasiness on that account.

Some time had gone by; she was writing letters, while Percy stood in the deep window, reading the newspapers, and making a great rustling with them. Suddenly Arthur entered, exclaiming,

‘Well, Violet, here is a piece of news! Guess!’

‘That is the way people always tell wedding news.’

‘Right. Now then for the victims.’

‘Your sister? What really? And who? Oh, not Lord St. Erme?’

‘The very antipodes, as Harrison would say! Guess again.’

‘Help me, Mr. Fotheringham,’ she began; but Arthur, with a tremendous start, exclaimed, ‘Hollo! if that is not a shame! How I wish I had said what a shocking bad match it is!’

‘You think so, do you?’ said Percy, advancing, and heartily shaking Arthur’s ready hand.

‘Oh! that is your look-out,’ said Arthur, shrugging his shoulders.

‘But, do you really mean it?’ said Violet, looking from one to the other, as Percy’s hand seemed to claim the same welcome from her.

‘Indeed, I do,’ said Percy, earnestly. ‘O, how glad John will be!’ was her congratulation.

‘So, I must say nothing about the gray,’ proceeded Arthur. ‘What is it some one says about Cupid’s steeds? I vow I will call her Psyche, if it is only to make Theodora savage!’

‘Where is your father?’ said Percy.

‘With John. That was where I heard it.’ Then, as Percy was leaving the room, ‘Well, you are a bold man! I hope you mean to kill the cat on the wedding-day. That is all.’

‘I am obliged for your experience,’ said Percy.

‘If you make her like this one by the end of a year--’

‘O, hush, Arthur!’

Percy hastened from the room. Violet could not recover from her astonishment. ‘Could Lord Martindale actually have consented?’

‘Makes no difficulty at all. He has grown wiser since poor John’s time. I have taught him one may be trusted to choose for oneself.’

‘But your aunt?’

‘Ah! there is nothing she hates like a Fotheringham; but she has not the power over my father she once had. She will have to take up with us for very spite. But what they are to live on I do not know, unless my father keeps them.’

‘I thought he was heir to a baronetcy.’

‘Yes; but there is a half-witted son of old Sir Antony in the way, who will keep Percy out of the property for the term of his natural life, as well as if he was a wise man.’

After luncheon, Violet had a message from John to ask for a visit from her. She found him on the sofa in the sitting-room, apparently oppressed and uncomfortable; but he looked brightened by her entrance, and pleased when she offered to stay and read to him.

‘The very thing I have been figuring to myself as most agreeable. I don’t want to talk or think. I have been overdoing both.’

So she had to repress her curiosity, and give him the repose of her pleasant reading, till he dropped asleep; and after waiting some time, in the fear of awakening him, she gently left the room, and had time for another visit to the lodge, where she fell in with the lovers, and found them disputing about the cotton umbrella. Percy announced that he should give his own in exchange, and retain it for ever, as a trophy of what could be accomplished with both horse and woman. Theodora was a little cross. If he wished to keep it out of sentiment, that was all very well; but to give it the turn of glorying over her was displeasing. He wanted to make her confess that she had submitted to its shelter.

‘No, you only walked by me, and held it up.’

‘I appeal to you, Mrs. Martindale. Is not that the popular view of being under an umbrella?’

Theodora would not speak, and Violet thought him wrong in teasing her. Silence ensued, but ended in his saying, as they came to the steps, ‘Well, Theodora, shall I restore the umbrella as a hated object?’

‘No, no,’ said she; ‘do what you please with it, only don’t talk nonsense about it.’

Then, when Violet was gone,--‘You must not triumph over me, Percy; I cannot bear it. If it is pride, have patience with me.’

‘I should have asked you to forgive me,’ said Percy, affected by the tone of humility.

‘No, no, indeed!’ said Theodora, smiling; ‘but I warn you, my serpent is dealt with more safely by treading on it than by irritating it,’ and there was an indignant gleam in her dark eye. ‘Now I am going to tell my aunt.’

‘I would wish you well through it; but I believe you are eager for the battle. Only let me say one thing, Theodora--be forbearing, or you will be fostering the enemy.’

‘I can deal with her,’ said Theodora.

But she was met in a manner she had not expected. Mrs. Nesbit beckoned her to her side, laid her hand on hers, and peered up in her face with witch-like eyes, that disconcerted her usually ready speech, and called up a blush.

‘I see,’ said Mrs. Nesbit. ‘I do not blame you for the fault of your father and brother. I knew how it would be.’

‘Has mamma told you?’ said Theodora. ‘Papa promised that I should be the first to tell!’

‘Your mamma does not know what will mortify her so extremely.’

‘Then how have you heard it?’

‘I have seen it. I knew what you had to tell from the instant you entered. And your father has given you his consent?’ raising her hand, as if to say, ‘I give up all hopes of him.’

‘Yes, he highly approves.’

Here Lady Martindale came into the room.

‘You need not be vexed, my dear,’ began Mrs. Nesbit. ‘It will not be made public, and there will be no harm done.’

‘What will not, dear aunt? you alarm me.’

‘This foolish affair into which Lord Martindale and John have drawn this poor child.’

‘Aunt! aunt!’ cried Theodora, ‘you do not know what you say. It is of my own free will--uninfluenced. I would choose him, and hold fast to him through worlds of opposition.’

‘Yes, yes; we understand all that,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, with a contemptuous accent; ‘but as it cannot be at once, you will soon have enough of that overbearing temper. At twenty, there is plenty of time to get over such an affair, and form a more suitable connection.’

‘Never!’ cried Theodora.

‘What, my dear!’ said astonished Lady Martindale. ‘You engaged, and you have not told me!’

‘Only since yesterday, mamma. He spoke to papa only this morning.’

‘But who is it? Nothing that your aunt disapproves, I trust, my dear.’

‘Percy Fotheringham,’ said Theodora, standing firm, and exulting in defiance; but her aunt continued that same provoking disregard.

‘Yes, you see it is of no use to oppose her. For my part, I think her papa has acted wisely in permitting the engagement. Contradiction would embellish her hero; while, left to him, she will soon find him out. I do not concern myself, for Miss Martindale can get over a little matter of this kind.’

‘It is of no use to make protestations,’ said Theodora; and she left the room much more annoyed than she could have been by the violent opposition for which she was prepared. Cool contempt was beyond everything irritating, especially where reply was impossible, and argument undignified.

Mrs. Nesbit continued to behave as if the engagement did not exist, and Violet could not suppose her informed of it. Lady Martindale looked melancholy and distressed, especially after having been with John, whom, however, she declared to be better, and desirous of seeing his sister. Theodora went to him, but remained a very short time.

Violet ventured in with his mother, to wish him good night, and he thanked her warmly for having read him to sleep. ‘When I am laid up again, you will know where to find a nurse for me,’ added he to his mother; a speech which obtained for Violet a positively cordial and affectionate good night from Lady Martindale.

Though mending, he did not leave his room the next day, as it was damp and chilly; and he again asked for Violet’s company in the afternoon, since he supposed she was not thinking of going out.

‘O, no; no one does, except Theodora. I saw something brown half-way across the park, which must be either her cloak, or the old cow-man’s worst round frock.’

‘And Percy not in attendance?’

‘No; he and Arthur are lingering at luncheon, talking about the Austrian army. When did you hear about this?’

‘As soon as I came in. He marched into my room, sat down, and said, “There! I’ve done it.” I thought he had broken the knees of Arthur’s gray, till he explained--“No; I have taken your sister on my hands.”’

‘So you were watching them all the evening!’

‘Yes; I was very anxious as to how my father might view it.’

‘I suppose that hurt you more than the rain?’

‘Excitement, as Brown would say. Perhaps it might. We talked long and late, and afterwards I fell into the old strain of thought. From what Percy tells me, his sister must have influenced Theodora far more than I thought possible. To her he ascribes her religious tone. If he is right, my mistake in neglecting her has been worse than I supposed.’

‘Then this is all the better! Do you remember saying you despaired of a Petruchio?’

‘It is on the Petruchio principle that he takes her, and avowedly. None but Katharina was ever so wooed or so won!’

‘That is very much to her honour.’

‘If she realizes his being in earnest. She would make one doubt whether she has any earnest. Yesterday evening she so treated, the subject that I was on the point of saying, “Reply not to me with a fool-born jest.” And how do you think she answered my father, when he asked her if she knew what she undertook? As my namesake said, “I shall wash all day and ride out on the great dog at night.”

‘Was not that a sort of shyness?’

‘I would fain hope so. If I had ever seen anything like deep earnest feeling I should be satisfied. Yet Percy declares, I trust he may be right, that she has the very strongest affections, and much tenderness of character. He says her nature came straight from the tropics, and must not be judged by sober English rules.’

‘If you had seen her distress about the child at the lodge!’

‘Ah! he said those tears settled the matter, and showed him that she had the woman’s heart as well as the candour that would conquer her waywardness. It sounds a little too like a lover’s self-justification.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Violet. ‘You do not know what she is with the dumb boy, and with Johnnie.’

‘I was just going to have instanced her neglect of Johnnie.’

‘I assure you,’ cried Violet, eagerly, ‘that is only because she does not like me. You cannot think how fond she is of him. When I am out of the way she goes to the nursery and pets him till Sarah is almost jealous of his fondness for her.’

‘I have no patience with her,’ exclaimed John.

‘I thought you would have been glad.’

‘I do not like Percy to make a mistake, and get his feelings trifled with. He deserves a wife like himself.’

‘Did you hear of Arthur’s advice to him?’

‘To kill the cat on the wedding-day. That might answer if it were to be at once; but it is a cat with nine lives, and I do not think she will bear to have it killed before the wedding-day.’

‘Then it is not to be soon?’

‘No, my father thinks her not fit for a poor man’s wife, and cannot give her more than £5000, so they must wait till they can begin on an income equal to yours.’

‘And I suppose that will be when he gets some appointment.’

‘And there is the Worthbourne estate as a provision for the future, so that there is no imprudence. For my part, I regret the delay; Theodora would shine if she had to rough it, provided always she was truly attached to her husband.’

‘She would bear poverty beautifully.’

‘But it is not a thing to advise. I am accused already of being romantic and imprudent, yet I would urge it on my father if I saw them desirous to hasten it. I do not understand them, and perhaps I am unreasonable. I do not like his happiness to be in such perverse hands, yet I am uneasy at the delay. It suits my aunt’s predictions, and they are far too apt to come true. I feel them like a spell. She always foretold that Helen and I should never marry. And it cannot be denied that she has great insight into character, so that I am alarmed at her declaring this will not come to good. If not, I have no hope for Theodora! She will either be hard and unfeminine, or turn to worldliness, and be such another as my aunt. She has it in her.’

‘You are taking to horrid predictions yourself.’

‘Well, I acknowledge her capabilities, but there has been woful mismanagement, and my father feels it.’

‘I was surprised at his consenting so readily.’

‘He has once been too much grieved to be led to act against his own judgment again. He thinks very highly of Percy, and is glad Theodora should be in safe keeping; she was so wilful this last season in London as to make him very uneasy.’

Mr. Fotheringham came in, and Violet was going, but was claimed for some more work upon the Crusaders, and told that Arthur was gone out to inspect his gray.

Arthur found the weather better than it appeared from indoors, and strolled into the park to indulge in a cigar. Ere long he perceived the brown waterproof cloak, and throwing away the end of his cigar, called out, ‘Halloa! a solitary ramble. Have you given Earl Percy the slip?’

‘You do not expect him to be always philandering after me?’

‘There’s a popular delusion with regard to lovers.’

‘We are not such ninnies.’

‘But seriously, Theodora, what can induce Fotheringham to have you?’

‘I expected you to ask what induced me to have him.’

‘That in its own time! Tell me, first, why he takes you.’

‘The same reason that you took Violet.’

‘As if you and Violet were to be named together!’

‘Or you and Percy!’

They laughed, and Theodora then spoke with deep feeling. ‘It does surprise me, Arthur, but it is the more pleasure. He has known me all my life, and sees there is less humbug in me than in other women. He knows I have a heart.’

‘That scientific discovery is his reason. Now for yours.’

‘Because he understands me.’

‘So your partnership is founded on a stock of mutual understanding! I devoutly hope it is; for my notion is that Percy will stand no nonsense.’

‘Of course not.’

‘It remains to be proved how you will like that.’

‘I am not given to nonsense.’

Arthur whistled.

‘That means that I will not yield when I am not convinced.’

‘And he will make you.’

‘He will never be unreasonable,’ exclaimed Theodora.

‘It does not follow that you will not.’

‘That is unjust. I yield where duty, good sense, or affection make it needful.’

‘Oho! Affection! That is like other people. Now I see some hope of you.’

‘Did you think I would have had him without it?’

‘Certainly, it is the only explanation. You will not find being wife to a scrub of an attache the same thing as being Miss Martindale.’

‘I am glad of it. My mind revolts at the hollowness of my present life.’

‘Well done!’ ejaculated Arthur.

‘I do,’ said Theodora, vehemently. ‘Ours has never been a home; it was all artificial, and we had separate worlds. You and I amalgamated best; but, oh! Arthur, you never cared for me as I did for you. The misery of my life has been want of affection. Any one who loved me could have guided me at will. You doubt! You don’t know what is in me! How I felt as if I would work night and day at my lessons, if they were ever to be heard by mamma! I remember once, after a day’s naughtiness, lying awake, sobbing, and saying, again and again, half aloud, “I would be good if they would love me!”’

‘No one would have thought such fancies were in a wild colt like you.’

‘I would not have had them guessed for worlds. Then came that one gleam of Helen. It was a new life; but it could not last. She went back, and I cannot say things in letters. She told me to talk to John, but he was of no use. He has always despised me.’

‘I don’t think you are right there.’

‘He would help me in trouble, but I am nothing to him. You were all I had, and when you gave yourself away from me I was left alone with the heart-ache, and began to think myself born to live without love.’

‘In spite of the lovers you had in London?’

‘You know better. That was the Honourable Miss Martindale. What did they know of the real Theodora?’

‘Poor critturs, what indeed! They would have run far enough if they had.’

‘I knew it. It is the soft, gentle, feminine mould that attracts men.’

‘Another curious discovery.’

‘I cannot change my nature. But when he comes, superior to them all, understanding my true self, seeing me high-spirited and cold-mannered, but able to look into me, and perceive there is warmth and soundness--oh! is not that a new well-spring of happiness!’

‘Yes, he is as much out of the common run of folks as you are. You’ll go as well together as Smithson’s pair of piebalds. I am satisfied; I only wanted to know whether you cared for him, for you don’t “act as sich.”’

‘I can’t talk stuff. I managed pretty well with papa, but I could not bear it with John. He began to praise Percy, which made me ready to cry, and that provoked me: besides, I know he does not believe in me. He cares for Helen’s brother far more than for his own sister, and does not think me good enough for him. I saw he thought I should trifle, and meant to give me a lecture; and I could not stand that, you know, so I got away as fast as I could.’

‘John does not lecture as you might expect, if you give him his full swing. He is the best and kindest fellow in the world.’

‘I know how Percy looks up to him. The only thing I don’t like is, that I believe one cause of Percy’s attachment is my being his sister.’

‘I tell you, Theodora, if you are so outrageously jealous, you will never get through the world in peace.’

‘I shall have no reason for jealousy.’

‘And for fear he should, had you not better give a hint to Wingfield? You are turning the poor fellow’s head with your confabulations over the dirty children, and you’ll have him languishing in an unrequited attachment.’

‘He understands me too well,’ said Theodora.

‘You reckon a great deal on understanding! And you put yourselves to the test. Why don’t you marry out of hand, and trust to the fates?’

‘We have talked it over,’ said Theodora. ‘As to our income being equal to yours, that is nonsense. We have no expensive habits; but Percy says £450 a year is too little, so we shall wait for the appointment, or till he has made it up to £700. But I own I did not expect such ready consent from papa.’

‘Ha! You would have liked a little opposition? You would sing a different song if he had set his face against it. It is very knowing of my aunt to take the line she does.’

‘I wish my aunt was twenty years younger!’

‘That you might fight it out, eh!’

‘One comfort is, she will never leave me her money now! But I must go in, and send Miss Piper for a walk with Harrison. My aunt must be repaying herself on her.’

‘Then I shall take another cigar, to get the damp out of my throat.’

‘You wretch, you like to boast of it!’

‘Ah! you don’t know what Percy learnt in Turkey.’

‘I know he always abominated smoking.’

‘Perhaps he’ll let you think so till you are married.’

‘For shame, Arthur! That’s the way you served your wife.’

‘Not I. She is duly grateful to me for only smoking at fit times and places, wherein I don’t resemble her precious brother.’

Arthur thus reported this conversation to his wife. ‘I met Theodora in the park. She is as remarkable an article as ever I saw.’

‘What do you think?--is she really attached to him?’

‘I know as little as she does.’

It was determined that the secret should be strictly kept; it was the one point on which Lady Martindale was anxious, being thereto prompted by her aunt. Theodora declared she had no one to tell, and Mr. Fotheringham only desired to inform his uncle and aunt, Sir Antony and Lady Fotheringham. He was now going to pay them a visit before settling in his lodgings in London. Theodora’s engagement certainly made her afford to be kinder to Violet, or else it was Percy’s influence that in some degree softened her. She was pleased at having one of her favourite head girls taken as housemaid under Sarah’s direction, her only doubt being whether Violet was a sufficiently good mistress; but she had much confidence in Sarah, whose love of dominion made her glad of a young assistant.

The party was now breaking up, Violet in high spirits at returning home, and having Arthur all to herself, as well as eager to put her schemes of good management into practice. The sorrow was the parting with John, who was likely to be absent for several years.

Before going he had one last conversation with his sister, apropos to some mention of a book which she wished to send to London to be returned to Miss Gardner.

‘Does Violet visit her?’ he asked.

‘There have been a few calls; Jane Gardner has been very good-natured to her.’

‘Is that cousin of theirs, that Gardner, still abroad?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

‘I hope he will stay there. He used to have a most baneful influence over Arthur. Theodora, if by any chance it should be in your power, you ought to do your utmost to keep them from coming in contact. It may be a very superfluous fear, but your intimacy with those ladies might be the means of bringing them together, and there is nothing I should so much dread.’

‘Surely Arthur may be trusted to choose his own friends.’

‘You don’t know what happened in their school days! No, you were too young. It was discovered that there was a practice of gambling and drinking wine in the boys’ rooms, and Arthur was all but expelled; but it turned out that he had been only weak, and entirely led by this fellow, and so he was spared. Percy could tell you many histories of Gardner’s doings at Cambridge. Arthur’s worst scrape since he has been in the Guards was entirely owing to him, and it was evident he still had the same power over him.’

‘Arthur is no boy now.’

‘I doubt,’ said John, half smiling.

‘No one can make the least charge against him since his marriage.’

‘It has done much for him,’ answered John, ‘and she has improved wonderfully. Theodora, now that I am going away, let me once more tell you that you are throwing away a source of much happiness by disregarding her.’

‘Her romantic friendship with Emma Brandon is a proof that she cannot have much in common with me.’

‘There is one thing you have not in common with either,’ exclaimed John, ‘and that is an unassuming temper.’

‘Yes, I know you all think me prejudiced. I do not want you to go away misunderstanding me,’ answered Theodora. ‘She has good principles, she is amiable and affectionate; but there are three points that prevent me from esteeming her as you do. She has a weak fretful temper.’

‘I am sure you have seen no sign of it.’

‘It is just what is never shown; but I am convinced poor Arthur suffers from it. Next, she thinks a great deal of her appearance; and, lastly, she is fond of power, and tries to govern, if not by coaxing, by weakness, tears, hysterics--all the artillery of the feeble. Now, a woman such as that I can pity, but cannot love, nor think a fit wife for my brother.’

‘I can’t tell, I don’t know,’ said John, hesitating in displeasure and perplexity; ‘but this once I must try whether it is of any use to talk to you. Her spirits and nerves are not strong, and they were cruelly tried last spring; but Arthur only saw her cheerful, and never guessed at the tears she shed in secret, till we found her papers blistered with them, when her never complaining and letting him go his own way had almost cost her her life! and if you knew her, you would see that the tendency to over-anxiety is the very failing with which she struggles. I wish I could make you see her in her true light.’

‘I cannot help it, John,’ said Theodora, ‘I must speak the truth. I see how it is. Men are not clear-sighted in judging of a pretty woman of engaging manners. They are under a fascination. I don’t blame you--it is exactly the same with papa and Percy.’

‘Indeed?’

And for the last time baffled, John parted with his sister in much anxiety and disappointment, such as made it repose to turn to that other gentle, open-hearted, confiding sister, whose helplessness and sympathy had first roused him from despondency and inaction.

He begged her to write to him; an honour and a pleasure indeed; and now there was no fear of her letters being such as that she had sent him at Martindale. He declared the correspondence would be a great pleasure to him--he could not bear to think of hearing of those in whom he took so much interest only at second-hand; and besides, he had been accustomed to pour out his mind so much in his letters to Helen, that he felt the want of full and free confidence. His letters to his mother were not safe from the eye of his aunt, and neither his father nor Mr. Fotheringham could be what a lady correspondent would be to a man of his character, reflective, fond of description, and prone to dwell on the details of what interested him.

So the time of his departure came, whereat Arthur lamented, vowing it was a horrid bore that he could not live in England, and hoping that Barbuda would patch him up for good; while Violet made arrangements for his convenience and pleasure on the voyage, such as no sister had ever supplied for him before.

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Chapter 11

So she had prayed, and He who hears, Through Seraph songs the sound of tears, From that beloved babe had ta’en The fever and the beating pain, And more and more smiled Isobel To see the baby sleep so well. --E. B. BROWNING (Isobel’s Child)

On a bright cold afternoon the next spring, Theodora was setting out for a walk, when she saw a carriage driving up the avenue, and Arthur emerging from it. Joyously she sprang forward--‘Arthur! Arthur! this is pleasant. How glad I am. This is like old times.’

‘Ay, I thought you would be ready for me. I have had a cold, and I am come home to shake off the end of it.’

‘A cold--not a bad one, I hope?’

‘Not very. I wanted Violet to come too, but the boy is poorly.’

‘Oh! I hope there is not much the matter?’

‘Only teeth, I believe. He is desperately fretful, and she can’t attend to anything else.’

‘Well, I hope you are come for a good long visit.’

‘I can stay a week.’

‘That’s right, it will do you good. I was just going to write to you. I have a great mind to go back with you, if I shall not be in the way.’

‘Not at all. It will be famous having you; but what makes you come? To gratify Fotheringham?’

‘I have many reasons. I’ve got Charlie Layton elected to the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, and I must take him there.’

‘I’m not going to take him! ‘Tis enough to have to carry about one’s own babies, without other people’s.’

‘We’ll settle that,’ said Theodora. ‘Will you walk with me! There is no one at home, and I am stupefied with reading French novels to my aunt. Such horrid things! She has lost her taste for the natural, and likes only the extravagant. I have been at it ever since luncheon, and at last, when the wretches had all charcoaled themselves to death, I came out to breathe fresh air and purity.’

‘Where’s the Piper!’

‘Piper no longer. Have you not heard?’

‘Not a word since Percy announced that my aunt and Harrison had come to a split about the orchids.’

‘You have great things to hear. Harrison got a magnificent appointment, as he calls it--situation is not grand enough--to some botanic gardens; splendid salary. Nothing hindered the wedding but Miss Piper’s dread of my aunt. It was not only that she could not tell her, but she could not face her after it was told, though I offered to undertake that. So the upshot was, that for very cowardice she preferred stealing the match and taking French leave. It was a silly piece of business; but I could not help that, and they were accountable to no one. I promised to announce it to my aunt when the deed was done, and satisfied the poor little woman’s conscience by undertaking to be my aunt’s white nigger till she bought another.’

‘If that’s not self-devotion, I don’t know what is,’ said Arthur. ‘I trust she has got one.’

‘She comes to-morrow.’

‘How was the wedding managed?’

‘Harrison came with his license from Whitford, and I walked forth with sal volatile in one hand and salts in the other, administering them by turns to the fainting bride. I dragged her all the way by main strength, supported her through the service, and was very near giving her away by mistake, for there was no one else to do it but old Brand. He and I are the witnesses in the register. I received her hysterical farewells, and Harrison’s elegant acknowledgments; saw them into their fly, and came home, trusting to Providence that I could inform my aunt without bringing on a fit.’

‘After surviving the news of your engagement she may bear anything.’

‘Ah! there she takes refuge in incredulity. Now this was a fact. So there was nothing for it but to take a high tone. I gave the history, and told my own share; then, in the style of Richard II, when Wat Tyler was killed, declared I would be her companion; and, after some bandying of words, we settled down peaceably.’

‘One thing amazes me. How did you get Wingfield to do it? I had plague enough with the old parson at Wrangerton, and I should have thought Wingfield harder to manage.’

‘They had no consent to ask--no one could forbid the banns. He soon saw the rights of it,’ said Theodora, unable to prevent herself from blushing.

‘You talked him over, eh?’

‘Arthur, you are looking at me as if you wanted to put me out of countenance. Well, you shall hear the truth; it is safe with you, and no one else knows it. It is my chief reason for wishing to go to London.’

‘Ah ha!’

‘Yes, you were right in warning me. He must needs think I worked in the parish for his sake; and one fine day, as I was walking home, he joined company, and before I knew where I was he was making me an offer.’

‘And learnt what disdain means, if he did not know before.’

‘No,’ said Theodora, gravely, and blushing deeply. ‘I recollected your warning, and saw that if there had not been something like encouragement he would not have forgotten the distance between us. This wedding has occasioned conferences; besides, Percy was exacting at Christmas, and I had rather tried to tease him. I thought, living close by, Mr. Wingfield must have known the state of the case, and that I need not be on my guard; so that, having so far taken him in, I thought it right to tell him I was afraid he had not been fairly used, for I had trusted to his knowing I was engaged. So we parted amicably; but it is a great bore, for he is much more cut up than I expected, poor man. He went from home the next Monday, and is but just come back, looking disconsolate enough to set people wondering what is on his spirits, and avoids me, so as to show them. It would be the best possible thing for me to get out of the way till it is blown over, for I have no comfort in parish work. It has been a relief to be always shut up with my aunt, since that was a reason for not going into the village.’

‘Then you will stay till the family migration?’

‘I don’t think there will be any this year. Papa talks about bad times, and says the season in London is too expensive; and mamma was worried and tired last year, and did not enjoy it, so she will be glad to avoid it and stay with my aunt.’

‘And, you being no longer a subject for speculation, there’s no object.’

‘Yes; I am glad to have ended that hateful consciousness.’

‘Well, Violet will do her best for you.’

‘I don’t want her to trouble herself; I only want house-room.’

‘And a change after a month’s white niggering.’

‘That’s another reason. My aunt has grown so dependent on me, that this new lady will not have a fair chance if I am at home; and if I don’t break the habit, I shall never call my time my own again.’

In fact, Theodora had been suffering under a fit of restlessness and dissatisfaction, which made her anxious to change the scene. The school, her great resource, was liable to be a place of awkward meetings. She was going to lose her dumb charge; and with Percy and Arthur both at a distance, there was no excitement nor relief to the tedium of home. The thorough self-sacrificing attendance on her aunt had been the sole means left her of maintaining the sense of fulfilling a duty.

The unexpected arrival of her favourite brother was as a reward. Her spirits rose, and she talked with gaiety and animation, delighted to find him claiming her company for walks and rides to be taken in his holiday week, and feeling as if now the prediction had truly come to pass, that he would be relieved to come to her from the annoyances of his home.

Every one seemed glad to see Arthur--even Mrs. Nesbit. In the course of the evening something was said about a dinner party for the ensuing Saturday, and Lady Martindale asked if he could stay for it.

‘Saturday? Yes; I need not go back till Monday.’

‘I wish Violet could have come,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘I am glad you can give us a week; but it is a long time for her to be alone. I hope she has some friend to be with her.’

‘Oh, she wants no one,’ said Arthur. ‘She begged me to go; and I fancy she will be rather glad to have no distraction from the child. I am only in the way of her perpetual walking up and down the room with him whining in her arms.’

‘Ah! it is an unlucky affair,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, in her sarcastic tone of condolence; ‘she will never rear it.’

She seemed, in her triumph, to have forgotten that its father was present, and his impatient speech had certainly not been such as to bring it to mind; but this was too much, and, starting, he hastily exclaimed, ‘Children always do make a fuss about their teeth!’

‘I do not speak without the authority of medical men,’ said Mrs. Nesbit. ‘I don’t blame your wife, poor thing.’

What do you mean? cried Arthur, colour and voice both rising.

‘I am surprised your brother kept it from you,’ said she, gratified at torturing him; ‘you ought to have been informed.’

‘Tell me at once,’ said Arthur.

‘Only this, Arthur,’ said his father, interposing: ‘when first the doctor at Ventnor saw him he thought him very delicate, and told John that he would hardly get through the first year without great care.’

‘He has all but done that!’ said Arthur, breathing more freely; ‘he will be a year old on the third.’

‘Yes; afterwards the doctor thought much better of him, and John saw no occasion to make you and Violet more anxious.’

‘Then it all goes for nothing!’ said Arthur, looking full at his aunt with defiance, and moving to the furthest end of the room.

But it did not go for nothing. He could not shake off the impression. The child’s illness had never been so alarming as to stir up his feelings, though his comfort had been interfered with; and there were recollections of impatience that came painfully upon him. He knew that Violet thought him more indifferent to his child than he really was; and, though she had never uttered a complaint or reproach, he was sure that he had hurt and distressed her by displeasure at the crying, and by making light of the anxieties, which he now learnt were but too well founded.

Arthur’s easiness and selfishness made him slow to take alarm, but when once awakened there was no limit to his anxiety. He knew now what it would be to lose his first-born. He thought of the moment when the babe had been laid on his hand, and of the sad hours when that feeble cry had been like a charm, holding the mother to life; and his heart smote him as he thought of never hearing again the voice of which he had complained. What might not be happening at that moment? As grisly a train of chances rose before him as ever had haunted Violet herself, and he thought of a worse return home than even his last. Yet he had never desired her to let him know whether all was well!

He could not sleep, and in the morning twilight he sought out writing materials, and indited his first letter to his wife:--

‘Dear Violet,--I hope you and the boy are well. I have not coughed since I left London. I come home on Monday, if all goes well, and Theodora with me. She has made the place too hot to hold her.

‘Yours ever,

‘A. N. MARTINDALE.

‘P.S. Write and say how the boy is.’

Having hunted up a servant, and sent him with this missive to the early post, Arthur’s paternal conscience was satisfied; and, going to bed again, he slept till breakfast was half over, then good-humouredly listened to exclamations on his tardiness, and loitered about the rest of the morning, to the great pleasure of his sister.

The companion, Mrs. Garth, the highly recommended widow of a marine officer, arrived in the afternoon; and Arthur, meeting her on the stairs, pronounced that she was a forbidding-looking female, and there was no fear that she would not be able to hold her own.

Rejoicing in newly-recovered freedom, Theodora had a long ride with him; and having planned another to a village near a trout-stream, where he wanted to inquire about lodgings for his indefatigable fishing friend, Captain Fitzhugh, she was working hard to dispose of her daily avocations before breakfast the next day, when Arthur knocked at her door. ‘Good morning,’ he said hastily. ‘I must go home. My little boy is very ill.’

‘Is he? What is it?’

‘A bad fit of croup. He was better when the letter went. My poor Violet! She has called in further advice; but it may come back. Do you like to come with me?’

‘If you like to have me.’

‘Only be quick. I must be gone by the ten o’clock train. You must be ready to start by nine.’

‘I’ll be ready at once,’ said Theodora, hastily ringing for Pauline, and rushing upon her preparations. She could not bear to part with him in his grief, and thought, in case of the child’s severe illness or death, that he would be in need of her comfort when he had his wife on his hands. She would not take Pauline--she would not be dependent, and trouble their small household with another servant; but Charles Layton she could not leave, and having given orders to pack up her things, she flew off down the avenue to desire his aunt to prepare him.

Up and down, backwards and forwards, giving directions to every one, she hurried about till her father summoned her to breakfast.

‘I am glad you are going with him, my dear,’ he said, as he went down the steps with her. ‘We shall depend on you for hearing of the little boy.’

That genuine cordial approbation was so pleasant that the thought crossed her, ‘Was she going to be a blessing to her family?’

‘Good-bye, Arthur,’ said Lord Martindale, warmly pressing his hand. ‘I hope you will find him better, and Violet not doing too much. Give my love to her.’

Arthur was moved by his father’s unwonted warmth, and leaned back in the carriage in silence. Theodora watched him anxiously, and did not speak for some time.

‘Had there been any tendency to croup before?’ she asked at last.

‘Tender throat, I believe; Violet always was anxious. I wish I had not come away; it is too much for her alone! Ha! what are we stopping for now?’

‘To pick up Charles Layton.’

‘You’ll make us miss the train.’

‘No, here he is. He shall be in nobody’s way. I’ll put him into the housemaid’s charge in Belgrave square.’

And with her eyes and fingers she encouraged the poor child as he was lifted up to the box. ‘There, I’ve not stopped you long.’

‘What shall you do with him on the railroad!’

‘Take him with us, of course.’

‘I won’t have him going in a first-class with me.’

‘Then I shall go in a second-class with him.’

Here it occurred to her that this was a strange way of fulfilling her mission of comfort, and she would fain have recalled her words, but only sat silent till they came to the station, where, without any further question, they were all three lodged in the same carriage, where presently a county neighbour entered, attracted by the sight of Arthur. Theodora was provoked, feeling for Arthur, and thinking it was the stranger’s presence that hindered her from resuming the task of cheering him, but she was more annoyed when Arthur plunged into a hunting discussion.

She sat working up the scene which awaited them, the child just expiring, his mother in hysterical agonies, and she herself displaying all her energy and resources, perhaps saving Johnnie’s life--at any rate, being her brother’s stay and support when his wife gave way.

His silence and anxious looks returned as they drove from the station, and she could think of nothing to say but the old hope that the baby was better. As they stopped, he threw open the carriage-door, and springing out, impatiently rang.

‘Child better?’ were his hurried words to James.

‘Yes, sir.’

Before even this brief answer was spoken, Arthur was halfway upstairs. No one was in the drawing room; he dashed up to the bed-room; that, too, was empty; he climbed on where he had never been before, and opened the nursery-door.

There sat Violet on a low chair by the fire, with the little boy on her lap. With a cry of joy she rose; and in another moment was standing, almost unable to speak, as she saw Johnnie, looking much surprised, but well pleased, to find himself in those strong arms, and his soft face scrubbed by the black whiskers.

‘He is pleased! He is smiling. You know papa, don’t you, my Johnnie?’ cried the happy Violet.

‘And he is all right again?’

‘So much better to-day! We trust the cold is gone. Does he not breathe softly and freely? If only there’s no return to-night.’

‘Was there last night?’

‘Indeed there was. It was too dreadful!’ said Violet, leaning against him, and lowering her voice. ‘Once Sarah and Mr. Harding both thought it was all over, and I never dared to expect to see those eyes come back to their own dear look at me! O, Arthur, when I thought if I could but once have seen him in your arms! I never thought to be so happy as this!’ and she caressed the child to hide the tears of thankfulness. ‘I’m glad you weren’t there.’

‘My Violet, why!’

‘You could not have borne to have seen and heard, and now you won’t have it to remember. At least, I trust not! Think of their once wanting me to go away, saying it was not fit, and that I was of no use; but you knew better, Johnnie. You held mamma’s finger tight, and when you came to yourself, your sweet look and smile were for her! And at last he went to sleep over my shoulder, as he likes best; and I felt each one of his breathings, but they grew soft and smooth at last, and after two good hours he woke up quite himself.’

‘And you! Sitting up all night! You are not fit for such things. How did you get through it?’

‘I don’t know; I hardly remember,’ said Violet. ‘Your letter was such a pleasure! and oh! I had help.’

‘What, Harding--’

‘I did not mean that, though he was very kind. No, I meant thoughts--verses in the Bible,’ said Violet, hanging her head, and whispering, ‘I don’t mean at the worst. Then one could only pray he might not suffer so much; but things his uncle had helped me to, did come so comfortably while he was asleep. Don’t you remember saying I had no troubles for Helen’s cross to comfort me in!’

‘And did it?’ said Arthur, half smiling.

‘Not itself, you know; but it helped to put me in mind to be sure that all he was going through would somehow be a blessing. I could bear it then, and not be angry, as I was last year. Dear little fellow, it is as if he would put me in mind himself, for the only thing like play he has done to-day has been holding it up, and pulling its chain.’

‘There! go to your mother, Johnnie,’ said Arthur, giving him back. ‘She is a rare one, I tell you, and you understand each other. He does not look much amiss either. He really is a very pretty little fellow!’

No wonder Arthur made the discovery, as he for the first time remarked the large wistful dark eyes, the delicately fair skin, which the heat of the fire had tinged with soft pink, on the cheeks, the shapely little head, with its flaxen waves of curl; and the tiny, bare, rosy feet, outstretched to enjoy the warmth. Very small, tender, and fragile he looked, and his features had an almost mournful expression, but there was something peculiarly engaging in this frail little being.

Violet was charmed with the tribute of admiration: indeed, she had hardly known whether she might hope for Arthur’s return, though she had felt as if her heart would break if her child should die without his coming. The winter, though cheerful, had been spent in endeavours against her want of faith and hope, and this hard trial in the spring had brought with it a comfort and beginning of resignation that proved that her efforts had not been in vain.

Very happy she was as, Sarah coming up, she prepared to go down with Arthur, who now remembered to inform her of the arrival of ‘Theodora and her dummy.’

These two personages were waiting in the drawing-room, Theodora in an excited state of anticipation and energy, prepared for a summons to take care of the baby, while Arthur was supporting his wife in hysterics.

Long she waited and listened; at last there was an opening of doors, then what she fancied the first shriek, and she started, alarmed, in spite of being wound up, but it sounded nearer--much too like a bona fide laugh, the very girlish sound she had condemned--Arthur’s voice--Violet’s gaily answering! They came in, full of smiles, Violet with outstretched hands, and warm unconstrained welcome. ‘How kind of you to come! I’m sorry you have been so long alone, but I did not know it,’ said she, kissing her sister-in-law, and giving a kind silent greeting to the dumb boy.

Disconcerted at her waste of preparation, Theodora stood for a moment, fancying Violet triumphant in having spoilt Arthur’s holiday by what must have been an exaggerated trifle. She was almost ready to make no inquiry for Johnnie, but ‘conventional instinct’ prevailed, and his parents were so full of him, and of each other, that it set them off into an eager conversation, such as made her, in her present mood, believe herself neglected for the sake of Arthur’s weak, tyrannical, exacting idol. She resolved to take Charles at once to her father’s house. If it would not have been an insult to her brother, she would have slept there herself. She surprised the others by rising from her seat, and taking up the boy’s cap.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Violet, ‘I had forgotten him, poor little fellow. I will take him to Susan to have some tea.’

‘Thank you, I am going to take him to the maid at our house.’

‘O, pray do not,’ said Violet, imploringly; ‘there’s plenty of room here, and we can see about him so much better.’

‘I had rather,’ persisted Theodora.

‘But see, it is getting dark. The lamps are lighted. You can’t go now.’

‘I shall not lose my way,’ said Theodora, taking by the hand the poor boy, who seemed unwilling to leave the fire and Mrs. Martindale’s kind looks.

‘Now, Arthur! you wont let her go!’ said Violet, distressed.

‘What’s the row?’ said Arthur. ‘Setting out on your travels again, Theodora!’

‘Only to take Charlie to Belgrave-square.’

‘I sha’n’t come with you.’

‘I can go by myself.’

‘Nonsense. You have rattled the poor child about enough for one day. Stay at home like a rational woman, and Violet will see to him.’

The dumb child gazed as if he read their faces, and was begging to remain; he gladly allowed Violet to take his hand, and she led him away, inviting Theodora to come and give her own directions about him to Susan, the girl from Brogden.

So sweet was the manner, so kind the welcome, and so pretty the solicitude for her comfort, that pride and prejudice had much difficulty in maintaining themselves. But Theodora thought that she did not like blandishments, and she was angry at the sensation of being in the inferior situation of Violet’s guest, at a moment of its being so signally shown that she could not permit Arthur to enjoy himself without her. To get home again as fast as possible was her resolution, as she merely unpacked the articles for immediate use, and after a hasty toilette, returned to the drawing-room.

Arthur and Violet were in earnest conversation. She fancied herself an interruption, and did not second their attempts to make it general. Violet had received a letter from John, and was offering it to Arthur, who only yawned.

‘Five sheets! He writes an abominably small hand! You may tell me what it is about. Niggers and humming-birds and such cattle, I suppose.’

‘He has been to see the bishop. He wants a chaplain to live in the house with him to teach the negroes, and have the church when it is built.’

‘No chance of his coming home, then?’

‘No, he is so well and busy. Percy Fotheringham is to send out some plans for the church--and only think! he has told Percy to come and ask me about Mr. Fanshawe--don’t you remember him?’

‘The curate at the chapel at Wrangerton?’

‘I once told John of his wish for missionary work, so Percy is to see about it, and if it will do, send him to Lord Martindale. Percy called yesterday, but I could not see him; indeed, I had not time to read my letter; and oh, Theodora, I am so glad you are come, for he wants all manner of infant school pictures and books for the picaninnies, and it is just the commission you understand.’

The hearing of John’s letter read, so far from mollifying Theodora, renewed the other grievance. At home, it was only by chance that she heard of her eldest brother’s plans, even when matured and submitted to his father; and she now found that they were discussed from the first with Violet, almost requiring her approval. The confidential ease and flow made it seem unlike John’s composition, used as Theodora was to hear only such letters of his as would bear unfriendly inspection, entertaining, but like a book of travels. It was a fresh injury to discover that he had a style from his heart.

Theodora was in a mood to search for subjects of disapproval, but the cheerful rooms, and even the extemporized dinner, afforded her none; the only cause of irritation she could find was Arthur’s anxiety when the lamplight revealed Violet’s pale exhausted looks. She had forgotten her fatigue as long as there was anything to be done, and the delight of the arrival had driven it away; but it now became evident that Arthur was uneasy. Theodora was gloomy, and not responding to her languid attempts at conversation, thinking there was affectation in her worn-out plaintive voice.

As soon as the tedious dinner was over, Arthur insisted on her going at once to bed, without listening to her entreaties that, as it was Theodora’s first evening, she might lie on the sofa and hear them talk. She turned back at the door to tell Theodora that there was a new review on the table, with something in it she would like to read, and then let Arthur take her up-stairs.

‘Ah!’ thought Theodora, ‘tormenting him about the child does not suffice--she must be ill herself! It is even beyond what I expected. When she had brought him home she might have let him have his evening in peace; but I suppose she is displeased at my coming, and won’t let him stay with me. She will keep him in attendance all the evening, so I may as well see what books she has got. “The West Indies”; “The Crusaders”--of course! “Geoffroi de Villechardouin”--Percy’s name in it. Where’s this review? Some puff, I suppose. Yes, now if I was a silly young lady, how much I should make of Percy because he has made a good hit, and is a literary lion; but he shall see the world makes no difference to me. I thought the book good in manuscript; and all the critics in the country won’t make me think a bit better of it or of its author. However, I’ll just see what nonsense they talk till she chooses to release Arthur.’

What would have been her displeasure if she had known that Arthur was lingering up-stairs giving his wife a ludicrous version of her adventure with Mr. Wingfield!

After a time the drawing-room door opened, but she did not heed it, meaning to be distant and indifferent; but a browner, harder hand than Arthur’s was put down on the book before her, and an unexpected voice said, ‘Detected!’

‘Percy! Oh, how are you?’ she exclaimed.

‘I am very glad you are come; I came to inquire at the door, and they told me that you were here. How is she, poor thing?’

‘She is gone to bed; Arthur thinks her knocked up.’

‘It is well he is come; I was much concerned at her being alone yesterday. So little Johnnie is better?’

‘Like Mother Hubbard’s dog.’

‘The croup is no joke,’ said Percy, gravely.

‘Then you think there was really something in it?’

‘Why, what do you mean? Do you think it was humbug?’

‘Not at all; but it was such a terrific account, and alarmed poor Arthur so much, that it gave one rather a revulsion of feeling to hear her laughing.’

‘I am very glad she could laugh.’

‘Well, but don’t you think, Percy, that innocently, perhaps, she magnified a little alarm?’

‘You would not speak of little alarms if you had seen Harding this morning. I met him just coming away after a fearful night. The child was in the utmost danger, but his mother’s calmness and presence of mind never failed. But I’ll say no more, for the sound wholesome atmosphere of this house must cure you of your prejudices.’

Arthur came down dispirited; and Percy, who had thought him an indifferent father, was pleased with him, and set himself to cheer his spirits, seconded by Theodora, who was really penitent.

She could not be at peace with herself till she had made some amends; and when she had wished her brother good night, found her way to the nursery, where her old friend Sarah sat, keeping solemn watch over the little cot by the fire. One of her sepulchral whispers assured the aunt that he was doing nicely, but the thin white little face, and spare hand and arm, grieved Theodora’s heart, and with no incredulity she listened to Sarah’s description of the poor little fellow’s troubles and sweet unconscious patience, and that perfect trust in his mother that always soothed and quieted him. It appeared that many nights had been spent in broken rest, and for the last two neither mother nor nurse had undressed. Sarah was extremely concerned for her mistress, who, she said, was far from strong, and she feared would be made as ill as she was last year, and if so, nothing could save her. This made Theodora feel as if she had been positively cruel, and she was the more bent on reparation. She told Sarah she must be over-tired, and was told, as if it was a satisfactory answer, that Mrs. Martindale had wished her to go to bed at six this morning. However, her eyes looked extinguished, and Theodora, by the fascinating manner she often exercised with inferiors, at last persuaded her to lie down in her clothes, and leave her to keep watch.

It was comfortable to hear the deep breathings of the weary servant, and to sit by that little cot, sensible of being for once of substantial use, and meaning that no one ever should know it. But she was again disconcerted; for the stairs creaked, the door was softly opened, and Arthur stood on the threshold. The colour mantled into her face, as if she had been doing wrong.

‘The poor maid is worn out; I am come for the first part of the night,’ she said, in a would-be cold whisper. But his smile and low-toned ‘Thank you,’ were so different from all she had ever known from him, that she could hardly maintain her attempt at impassibility.

‘I thought Violet would sleep better for the last news,’ said he, kneeling on one knee to look at the child, his face so softened and thoughtful that it was hardly like the same; but recovering, he gave a broad careless smile, together with a sigh: ‘Little monkey,’ he said, ‘he gets hold of one somehow--I wish he may have got through it. Theodora, I hope you will have no alarms. Violet will take it very kind of you.’

‘Oh, don’t tell her.’

‘Good night,’ and he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, in a grave grateful way that brought the tears into her eyes as he silently departed.

Her vigil was full of thoughts, and not unprofitable ones. Her best feelings were stirred up, and she could not see Arthur, in this new light, without tenderness untainted by jealousy. Percy had brought her to a sense of her injustice--this was the small end of the wedge, and the discovery of the real state of things was another blow. While watching the placid sleep of the child, it was not easy to harden herself against its mother; and after that first relenting and acknowledgment, the flood of honest warm strong feeling was in a way to burst the barrier of haughtiness, and carry her on further than she by any means anticipated. The baby slept quietly, and the clock had struck two before his first turn on the pillow wakened Sarah, though a thunder-clap would not have broken her slumber. She was at his cradle before he had opened his eyes, and feeding and fondling hushed his weak cry before it had disturbed his mother. Theodora went to her room on good terms with herself.

She had never allowed late hours to prevent her from going to the early service, and as she left her room prepared for it, she met Violet coming out of the nursery. Theodora for once did not attempt to disguise her warmth of heart, and eagerly asked for the little boy.

‘Quite comfortable--almost merry,’ answered Violet, and taking the hand stretched out in a very different way from the formal touch with which it usually paid its morning greeting, and raising her eyes with her gentle earnest look, she said, ‘Dear Theodora, I am afraid you don’t like it, but you must let me this once thank you.’

Theodora’s face was such that Violet ventured to kiss her, then found an arm round her neck, and a warm kiss in return. Theodora ran down-stairs, thinking it a discovery that there was more beauty in those eyes than merely soft brown colour and long black lashes. It was a long time since her heart had been so light. It was as if a cold hard weight was removed. That one softening had been an inexpressible relief, and when she had thrown aside the black veil that had shrouded her view, everything looked so bright and sweet that she could hardly understand it.

The whole scene was new. She had been seldom from home, and only as a visitor in great houses, whither Lady Martindale carried formality; and she had never known the charm of ease in a small family. Here it would have been far more hard to support her cold solitary dignity than in the ‘high baronial pride’ of Martindale. She was pleased to see how well Arthur looked as master of the house, and both he and his wife were so much delighted to make her welcome now that she would allow them, that it seemed extraordinary that a year and three quarters had passed without her ever having entered their house. Violet was, she owned, a caressing, amiable, lovable creature, needing to be guarded and petted, and she laid herself open to the pleasure of having something to make much of and patronize.

After breakfast, Violet installed her in the back drawing-room, promising that she should there be entirely free from interruption, but she had no desire to shut herself up; she was eager to see little Johnnie, and did not scruple to confess it. He was their chief bond of union, and if she was charmed with him now, when feeble and ailing, how much more as he recovered. Even at his best, he was extremely delicate, very small, thin, and fair, so that face and arms, as well as flaxen hair, were all as white as his frock, and were only enlivened by his dark eyes. He was backward in strength, but almost too forward in intelligence; grave and serious, seldom laughing, and often inclined to be fretful, altogether requiring the most anxious care, but exceedingly engaging and affectionate, and already showing patience and obedience to his mother that was almost affecting. Their mutual fondness was beautiful, and Theodora honoured it when she saw that the tenderness was judicious, obviating whines, but enforcing obedience even when it was pain and grief to cross the weakly child.

Moreover, Theodora was satisfied by finding that she had diligently kept up the Sunday-school teaching of the little Brogden maid; and as to her household management, Theodora set herself to learn it; and soon began to theorize and devise grand plans of economy, which she wanted Violet to put in practice at once, and when told they would not suit Arthur, complacently answered, ‘That would not be her hindrance.’

Violet wrote to John that if he could see Theodora and Percy now, he would be completely satisfied as to their attachment and chances of happiness.

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Chapter 12

I saw her hold Earl Percy at the point With lustier maintenance than I did look for Of such an ungrown warrior.

--King Henry IV

As soon as Violet could leave her little boy without anxiety, the two sisters deposited Charles Layton at the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, with hopes that a few years’ training there would enable him to become Miss Martindale’s little page, the grand object of his desires.

Their next and merriest excursion was to Percy’s lodgings, where he had various Greek curiosities which he wished to show them; and Theodora consented to come with her brother and sister in a simple straightforward way that Violet admired.

His rooms were over a toy-shop in Piccadilly, in such a roar of sounds that the ladies exclaimed, and Arthur asked him how much he paid for noise.

‘It is worth having,’ said Percy; ‘it is cheerful.’

‘Do you think so?’ exclaimed Violet. ‘I think carriages, especially late at night, make a most dismal dreary sound.’

‘They remind me of an essay of Miss Talbot’s where she speaks of her companions hastening home from the feast of empty shells,’ said Theodora.

‘Ay! those are your West-end carriages,’ said Percy; ‘I will allow them a dreary dissatisfied sound. Now mine are honest, business-like market-waggons, or hearty tradesfolk coming home in cabs from treating their children to the play. There is sense in those! I go to sleep thinking what drops of various natures make up the roar of that great human cataract, and wake up dreaming of the Rhine falls.

“Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows down the vale of Cheapside.”

Eh, Mrs. Martindale?’

Violet, who always received a quotation of Wordsworth as a compliment to the north, smiled and answered, ‘I am afraid with me it would end in,

“The stream will not flow, the hill will not rise.”’

‘Pish, Violet,’ said her husband, ‘how can you expect to feel like poets and lovers? And halloo! he is coming it strong! “Poems by A.”; “The White Hind and other Poems”; “Gwyneth: a tale in verse”; “Farewell to Pausilippo”, by the Earl of St. Erme. Well done, Percy! Are you collecting original serenades for Theodora? I’ll never betray where they came from.’

‘It is all in the way of trade,’ said Percy.

‘Reviewing?’ said Theodora.

‘Yes; there has been such an absurd amount of flattery bestowed on them that it must provoke any reasonable being. It really is time to put forth a little common sense, since the magazines will have it that earls write better than other people.’

‘Some of the verses in Lord St. Erme’s last volume seem to me very pretty,’ said Violet.

‘There, she is taking up the cudgels for her countryman,’ said Arthur, always pleased when she put herself forward.

‘Which do you mean?’ said Percy, turning on her incredulously.

‘I like those about the Bay of Naples,’ she answered.

‘You do not mean these?’ and he read them in so good-humoured a tone that no one could be vexed, but marking every inconsistent simile and word tortured out of its meaning, and throwing in notes and comments on the unfaithfulness of the description.

‘There! it would do as well for the Bay of Naples as for the farm-yard at Martindale--all water and smoke.’

Arthur and Theodora laughed, but Violet stood her ground, blushingly but resolutely.

‘Anything so read would sound ill,’ she said. ‘I dare say it is all right about the faults, but some parts seem to me very pretty. This stanza, about the fishermen’s boats at night, like sparks upon the water, is one I like, because it is what John once described to me.’

‘You are right, Mrs. Martindale,’ said Percy, reading a second time the lines to which she alluded. ‘They do recall the evening scene; Mount Vesuvius and its brooding cloud, and the trails of phosphoric light upon the sea. I mark these for approval. But have you anything to say for this Address to the Mediterranean?’

He did not this time mar the poem in the reading, and it was not needed, the compound words and twisted epithets were so extravagant that no one gainsaid Arthur’s sentence, ‘Stilts and bladders!’

‘And all that abuse of the savage north is unpardonable,’ said Theodora. ‘Sluggish torpid minds, indeed, frozen by skies bound in mist belts! If he would stay at home and mind his own business, he would not have time to talk such nonsense.’

‘Now,’ said the still undaunted Violet, when the torrent of unsparing jest had expended itself, ‘now it is my turn. Let me show you one short piece. This--“To L.”’

It was an address evidently to his orphan sister, very beautiful and simple; and speaking so touchingly of their loneliness together and dependence on each other, that Mr. Fotheringham was overcome, and fairly broke down in the reading--to the dismay of Violet, who had little thought his feelings so easily excited.

‘Think of the man going and publishing it,’ said Theodora. ‘If I was Lady Lucy, I should not care a rush for it now.’

‘That is what you get by belonging to a poet,’ said Arthur. ‘He wears his heart outside.’

‘This came straight from the heart, at least,’ said Percy. ‘It is good, very good. I am glad you showed it to me. It would never do not to be candid. I will turn him over again.’

‘Well done, councillor,’ cried Arthur. ‘She has gained a verdict for him.’

‘Modified the sentence, and given me some re-writing to do,’ said Percy. ‘I cannot let him off; the more good there is in him, the more it is incumbent on some one to slash him. Authors are like spaniels, et cetera.’

‘Hear, hear, Theodora!’ cried Arthur. ‘See there, he has the stick ready, I declare.’

For in truth Arthur would hardly have been so patient of hearing so much poetry, if it had not been for the delight he always took in seeing his wife’s opinion sought by a clever man, and he was glad to turn for amusement to Percy’s curiosities. Over the mantel-piece there was a sort of trophy in imitation of the title-page to Robinson Crusoe, a thick hooked stick set up saltire-wise with the green umbrella, and between them a yataghan, supporting a scarlet blue-tasselled Greek cap. Percy took down the stick, and gave it into Theodora’s hand, saying, ‘It has been my companion over half Europe and Asia; I cut it at--’

‘By the well of St. Keyne?’ suggested the malicious brother.

‘No, at the source of the Scamander,’ said Percy. It served us in good stead when we got into the desert of Engaddi.’

‘Oh! was that when the robbers broke into John’s tent?’ exclaimed Violet. ‘Surely you had some better weapon?’

‘Not I; the poor rogues were not worth wasting good powder on, and a good English drubbing was a much newer and more effective experiment. I was thenceforth known by the name of Grandfather of Clubs, and Brown always manoeuvred me into sleeping across the entrance of the tent. I do believe we should have left him entombed in the desert sands, if John’s dressing-case had been lost!’

‘What a capital likeness of John,’ said Theodora. ‘Mamma would be quite jealous of it.’

‘It belonged to my sister,’ said Percy. ‘He got it done by an Italian, who has made him rather theatrically melancholy; but it is a good picture, and like John when he looked more young-mannish and sentimental than he does now.’

A hiss and cluck made Violet start. In a dark corner, shrouded by the curtain, sat Pallas Athene, the owl of the Parthenon, winking at the light, and testifying great disapproval of Arthur, though when her master took her on his finger, she drew herself up and elevated her pretty little feathery horns with satisfaction, and did not even object to his holding her to a great tabby cat belonging to the landlady, but which was most at home on the hearth-rug of the good-natured lodger.

‘I always read my compositions to them,’ said Percy. ‘Pallas acts sapient judge to admiration, and Puss never commits herself, applauding only her own music--like other critics. We reserve our hisses for others.’

‘How do you feed the owl, Percy?’

‘A small boy provides her with sparrows and mice for sixpence a dozen. I doubted whether it was cruelty to animals, but decided that it was diverting the spirit of the chase to objects more legitimate than pocket-handkerchiefs.’

‘Ho! so there you seek your proteges!’

‘He sought me. I seized him fishing in my pocket. I found he had no belongings, and that his most commodious lodging-house was one of the huge worn-out boilers near Nine-Elms--an illustration for Watts’s Hymns, Theodora.’

‘Poor little creature!’ said Violet, horrified. ‘What will become of him?’

‘He is doing justice to the patronage of the goddess of wisdom,’ said Percy. ‘He is as sharp as a needle, and gets on in the world--has discarded “conveying,” and promoted himself to selling lucifers.’

‘A happy family theirs will be,’ said Arthur. ‘Cat, owl, and two rival pages!’

So, having duly admired all, curious books, potteries, red and black, tiles and lachrymatories, coins, scraps of ancient armour, a stuffed bee-eater, and the bottled remains of a green lizard that had been a pet at Constantinople--and having been instructed in the difference between various Eastern modes of writing--the merry visit closed; and as the two sisters went home they planned a suit of clothes for the owl’s provider, Theodora stipulating for all the hard and unusual needlework.

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Chapter 13

I am ashamed that women are so simple To offer war when they should kneel for peace, Or seek the rule, supremacy, and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

--Taming of the Shrew

It was an early season, and Theodora had not been a fortnight at her brother’s before numerous arrivals necessitated a round of visits, to which she submitted without more than moderate grumbling. The first call was on the Rickworth ladies; but it was not a propitious moment, for other visitors were in the drawing-room, and among them Miss Marstone. Emma came to sit by Violet, and was very anxious to hear whether she had not become intimate with Theresa. Violet could not give a good account of herself in this respect; their hours did not suit, and they had only twice met.

‘And is she not delightful?’

‘She is a very superior person’ said Violet, looking down. ‘Do you know her sisters? I liked one of them.’

‘We shall have to call on them, but they are mere ordinary girls--no companions to Theresa. She laments it very much, and has had to make a line for herself. I must come and tell you about it some morning. It is nonsense to meet in this way and think of conversation.

Theodora had, in the meantime, had the exclusive attention of Miss Marstone. ‘So Emma is constant to the Prae-Raffaelite,’ said Theodora, as they drove from the door. ‘What is all this about the Priory?’

‘Did Miss Marstone talk about that?’ said Violet, aghast.

‘She said something about a restoration. What! is it a secret?’

‘I suppose she thought you must know it, since I did. I was much surprised by her beginning about it to me, for when Emma first mentioned it to me, Lady Elizabeth seemed vexed, and begged me never to hint at it.’

‘So Emma wants to make restitution. Well done, little Emma! I did not think it was in her.’

‘It has been her darling scheme for years; but Lady Elizabeth has made her promise to wait till she is five-and-twenty, and not to consider herself pledged.’

‘How like Lady Elizabeth! One respects her like an institution! I hope Emma may hold out, but she has a firebrand in her counsels. I am glad you are not infatuated.’

‘I am sure I don’t know what I think of Miss Marstone. I cannot like her; yet I want to admire her--she is so good.’

‘Let her be as good as she pleases; why should she be silly?’

‘Oh! she is very clever.’

‘When good and clever people are silly, they are the biggest simpletons of all.’

‘Then I don’t think I quite know what you mean by silliness.’

‘Not turning one’s sense to the best advantage, I suppose,’ said Theodora. ‘That Miss Marstone provokes me. If her principles were not right I should not care; but when she has sound views, to see her go on talking, with no reserve, only caring for what is out of the way, it makes one feel oneself turned to ridicule. How can Lady Elizabeth endure it?’

‘I don’t think she likes it, but Emma is so fond of her!’

‘Oh! as to Emma, her poor little imagination is dazzled. It is providential that she has four years to wait! Unless, indeed, there is a reaction, and she marries either a broken-down fox-hunter or a popular preacher.’

Violet’s horrified protests were cut short by the carriage stopping. In returning, they called at Mrs. Finch’s house, to inquire when the family were expected to return from Paris. They had arrived that morning, and Violet said she would make a short visit, and then go home and send the carriage back, but Theodora preferred walking home.

As they were announced, Mrs. Finch started up from a gilded sofa on which she had been reclining, reading a French brochure. Her dress was in the excess of the newest Parisian fashion, such as even to London eyes looked outre, and, as well as her hair, had the disordered look of being just off a journey. Her face had a worn aspect, and the colour looked fixed. Theodora, always either rigidly simple or appropriately splendid, did not like Violet to see her friend in such a condition, and could almost have shrunk from the eager greeting. ‘Theodora Martindale! This is delightful! It is a real charity to look in on us to-day! Mrs. Martindale, how are you? You look better than last time I saw you. Let me introduce you to Mr. Finch.’

Mr. Finch was a little dried-up man, whose ceremonious bow put Violet in mind of the Mayor of Wrangerton. Bending low, he politely gave her a chair, and then subsided into oblivion; while Miss Gardner came forward, as usual, the same trim, quiet, easy-mannered person, and began to talk to Violet, while Mrs. Finch was loudly conversing with Theodora.

The apartment was much in the same style as the lady’s dress, full of gilding and bright colour, expensive, but not producing a good effect; especially as the sofa had been dragged forward to the fire, and travelling gear and newspapers lay about untidily. Altogether there was something unsatisfactory to the feelings of both Theodora and Violet, though Mrs. Finch was very affectionate in her impetuous way, and Miss Gardner gently kind to Violet, asking many questions about her little boy.

Violet soon took leave, and Mr. Finch went down with her to the carriage.

‘That is a fresh complexion that does one good to see!’ cried Mrs. Finch, when she was gone. ‘I am glad to see her in better looks and spirits.’

‘She understands the art of dress,’ said Miss Gardner. Theodora was on the point of making a sharp answer. It was the consequence of having once allowed her brother’s wife to be freely canvassed, and she was glad that an opening door checked the conversation.

There entered a tall fashionable-looking man, with a glossy brown moustache, and a very hairy chin, but of prepossessing and gentlemanlike appearance. He leant over the sofa, and said a few words in a low voice to Mrs. Finch, who answered with nods, and a display of her white teeth in smiles. Raising himself, as if to go, he said, ‘Ah! by the bye, who is that pretty friend of yours that I met Finch escorting down-stairs? A most uncommon style of beauty--’

‘That was Mrs. Martindale,’ said Miss Gardner, rather in haste.

‘Arthur Martindale’s village maid? Ha! Jane, there’s jealousy; I thought you told me--’

‘Georgina!’ exclaimed Jane, ‘you should have introduced Mark to Miss Martindale.’

As Theodora moved her stately neck she felt as if a thunder-bolt had fallen; but the gentleman’s manner was particularly pleasing.

‘It is Jane’s concern,’ said Mrs. Finch, laughing. ‘I leave you to infer why she checks his communications.’

‘There is nothing more awkward than “You told me so,”’ said Mr. Gardner, ‘since the days of “Who is your next neighbour, sir?” I may be allowed some interest in the matter, for your brother is an old school-fellow of mine.’

‘Come!’ exclaimed Georgina, ‘if you stay dawdling here, my letter won’t be written, and my vases won’t come. Fancy, Theodora, such delicious Sevres vases, big enough to hold the Forty Thieves, sky blue, with medallions of Mars and Venus, and Cupids playing tricks--the loveliest things imaginable--came from Versailles--absolutely historical.’

‘Lauzun is supposed to have been hidden in one,’ said Mr. Gardner.

‘I vowed I would have them, and I never fail. Mark has been through fire and water for them.’

‘And I suppose they cost--’ said Theodora.

‘The keep of half-a-dozen starving orphans,’ said Mrs. Finch, triumphantly. ‘Ay, you may look, Theodora; but they are my trophies.’

‘I wish you joy of them,’ said Theodora.

‘So you shall, when you see them; and that she may, off with you, Mark, or the post will go.’

‘My cousin is a despot,’ said Mark, moving off, with a bow to Theodora; Mrs. Finch, following, spoke a few words, and then shut him into the other room.

‘Poor Mark’’ said Jane, in the interval. ‘We have brought him home. He has had a little property left him, and means to clear off his debts and make a fresh beginning. His poor mother is so delighted!’

‘The coast is clear,’ said Mrs. Finch, returning. ‘Now, Theodora, is it true that you are going to be married?’

Point blank questions did not excite Theodora’s blushes; and she composedly answered,

‘Some time or other.’

‘There! I knew it could not be true,’ cried Jane.

‘What is not true?’ said Theodora.

‘Not that you are going to have the curate!’ said Mrs. Finch. ‘Jane, Jane, that has brought the rouge! Oh! I hope and trust it is not the curate.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Theodora, in a grave deliberate voice.

‘That’s a mercy!’ said Mrs. Finch. ‘I had not the slightest confidence in you. I always reckoned on your making some wild choice. Oh! by the bye, do tell me where Percy Fotheringham is to be found. I must have him at our first party. What a charming book that is!’

‘Even at Paris every one is full of it, already,’ said Jane. ‘I feel quite jealous of you, Theodora, for knowing him so well, when we, his cousins, never saw him at all.’

‘Cousins in royal fashion,’ said Theodora, glad that the blush had begun for Mr. Wingfield. ‘What is the exact connection?’

‘You explain, Jane; it is past me. I am content to count kindred with the royal beast.’

‘Lady Fotheringham, his uncle’s wife, is sister to Mark’s mother, my uncle’s wife,’ said Jane. ‘There! I trust that is lucidly done.’

‘That is all, is it?’ said Theodora.

‘Enough for the sending of a card. Tell me where, if you know.’

Theodora named the place.

‘Does he show off well? Mark says he has claws--’

‘I have known him too long to tell how he appears to strangers,’ said Theodora, as the colour mounted again.

‘Do you see much of him?’

‘He comes to Arthur’s house.’

‘You have ventured there?’ said Jane. ‘It was hard not to be able to come for the season otherwise.’

‘I came up to bring the dumb boy to the Asylum. I am staying on because I like it.’

‘Do you mean to go out with her?’

‘When she goes, I do so too, but I am not come for the season. My brother’s regiment is ordered to Windsor, and perhaps I may stay to be with her.’

‘She has more manner than last year,’ said Jane: ‘she is greatly improved in looks. You will believe me, Theodora, all I said to Mark only referred to her paleness.’

‘It won’t do, Jane,’ said her sister; ‘you only make it worse. I see how it is; Theodora has found out that her sister-in-law is a pretty little pet of a thing that does her no harm, and you have got into the wrong box by flattering her first dislike. Yes, yes, Theodora, we know Jane of old; and never could get her to see the only safe way is to tell one’s mind straight out.’

‘I don’t see it established that I did not tell Theodora my real mind,’ said Jane, quietly; ‘I always thought Mrs. Martindale pretty and elegant--’

‘Self-evident,’ said Georgina; ‘but if I had been among you, would not I have told Theodora the poor child was cowed by her dignities, and Mrs. Nesbit and all the rest? Oh, I would have made much of her, and brought her forward. She should have been my queen of Violets: I would have done it last year if that unlucky baby had not come in the way.’

‘And now she does not need patronage,’ said Jane.

‘No; and now Theodora has found her out for herself--a better thing,’ said Mrs. Finch. ‘You look all the better for it! I never saw you look so bright or so handsome, Theodora! You are a happy girl!’--and there was a sigh. Some interruption here occurring, Theodora took her leave, and walked home. She felt ruffled by her visit, and as she came indoors, ran up-stairs and knocked at her sister’s door. The room looked cool and pleasant, and Violet was lying down in her white, frilled dressing-gown, so freshly, purely, delicately neat, and with so calm and sweet a smile, that the contrast marked itself strongly, and Theodora thought no one ever looked more innocent and engaging. ‘I hope you are not tired?’

‘Oh, no; I only thought it wiser to rest, thank you.’

‘I came to tell you that Georgina Finch wants us to go to a party next Tuesday week. There’s nothing to prevent it, is there?’

‘I know of nothing; but Arthur will say--’

‘We are to bring Percy. I meant to have told them of our affair; but I did not think they deserved it just then. I am glad he is no real relation to that Mr. Gardner.’

‘Was it Mr. Gardner who met me going down-stairs?’ said Violet, with an unpleasant recollection of having been stared at. ‘Is he their brother?’

‘No; their cousin. I wonder what you think of them?’ said Theodora, hastily throwing aside her bonnet and gloves, and seating herself.

‘Miss Gardner is very good-natured and pleasing.’

‘Those words are made for her. But what of Georgina?’

‘I hardly know her,’ said Violet, hesitating. ‘This is only the second time I have seen her; and last year I was so unwell that her liveliness was too much for me.’

‘Overpowering,’ said Theodora. ‘So people say. It is time she should steady; but she will not think. I’m provoked with her. I did not like her looks to-day, and yet she has a good warm heart. She is worth a dozen Janes! Don’t prefer Jane to her, whatever you do, Violet!’ Then breaking off, she began earnestly: ‘You see, Violet, those are my oldest friends; I never could care for any girl but Georgina, and we have done such things together as I never can forget. They had great disadvantages; a set of wretched governesses--one worse than the other, and were left entirely to their mercy. My education was no pattern; but it was a beauty to theirs, thanks to my father. I do believe I was the only person with any serious notions that Georgina ever came in contact with, in all her growing up. Their father died just as she was coming out, leaving very little provision for them; and they were shifted about among fine relations, who only wanted to get rid of them, and gave them to understand they must marry for a home.’

‘Poor girls! What a miserable life!’

‘Jane knew she was no beauty, and took to the obliging line. She fawns, and is intimate and popular. I never liked her silkiness, though it creeps into one at the time. Georgina had more in her. I wish you could have seen her at eighteen. She was such a fine, glowing, joyous-looking girl, with those bright cheeks, and her eyes dancing and light hair waving, and exuberant spirits that no neglect or unkindness could daunt--all wild gaiety, setting humbug at defiance, and so good-natured! Oh! dear, it makes one melancholy!’

‘And what made the change?’

‘She had a long, low, nervous fever, as they called it; but I have never known much about it, for it was when we were all taken up with John’s illness. She was very long in recovering, and I suppose her spirit was broken, and that the homelessness grew unbearable; for, whereas she had always declared for honest independence and poverty, the next thing I heard of her was, that she had accepted this miserable money-making old wretch!’

‘Perhaps she liked him.’

‘No, indeed! She despises him, and does not hide it! She is true! that is the best of her. I cannot help caring for Georgina. Poor thing, I hate to see it! Her spirits as high as ever, and with as little ballast; and yet she looks so fagged. She was brought up to dissipation--and does not know where else to turn. She has not a creature to say a word the right way!’

‘Not her sister?’ said Violet. ‘She seemed serious and good.’

‘No one can tell what is the truth in Jane,’ said Theodora; ‘and her sister, who knows her best, is the last person to be influenced by her. Some one to whom she could look up is the only chance. Oh, how I wish she had a child! Anything to love would make her think. But there was something in the appearance of that room I cannot get over.’

‘The confusion of arriving--’

‘No, nothing ever could have made it so with you! I don’t know what it was, but--Well, I do think nothing else prevented me from telling them about Percy. I meant it when I said I would stay after you; and they talked about his book, and asked if I saw much of him, and I faced it out, so that they never suspected it, and now I think it was cowardly. I know! I will go at once, and write Georgina a note, and tell her the truth.’

She went, and after a little interval, Violet began to dress for a party at the house of a literary friend of Lady Martindale’s, where they were to meet an Eastern grandee then visiting London. As she finished, she bethought herself that Theodora had never before had to perform a grand toilette without a lady’s maid; and going to her room, found her, indeed, with her magnificent black tresses still spread over her shoulders, flushed, humiliated, almost angry at her own failures in disposing of them.

‘Don’t I look like an insane gipsy?’ said she, looking up, and tossing back the locks that hung over her face.

‘Can I do anything to help you?’

‘Thank you; sit down, and I’ll put all this black stuff out of the way,’ said Theodora, grasping her hair with the action of the Tragic Muse. ‘I’ll put it up in every-day fashion. I wish you would tell me what you do to yours to get it into those pretty plaits.’

‘I could show you in a minute; but as it is rather late, perhaps you would not dislike my trying to put it up for you.’

‘Thank you--no, pray don’t; you will tire yourself.’ But it was spoken with none of the old disdain, and left an opening for coaxing.

‘I used to be thought a good hand with my sisters’ hair. It will be such a treat if you will only let me try,’ said she, emboldened to stroke the raven tresses, and then take the comb, while Theodora yielded, well pleased. ‘On condition you give me a lesson to-morrow. I am not to be maid-ridden all my life,’ and it ended with ‘Thank you! That is comfortable. You came in my utmost need. I am only ashamed of having troubled you.’

‘Don’t say so. I am so much obliged to you for letting me try. It is more like being at home with you,’ murmured Violet, turning away; but her voice as well as the glass betrayed her tearful eyes, and Theodora’s sensation was a reward for her pride having slumbered and allowed her to accept a service.

Mr. Fotheringham came to dinner that he might go with them to the party. As they were drinking coffee before setting out, Mrs. Finch’s invitation was mentioned.

‘You had better leave your card for her, Percy,’ said Theodora. He made no answer.

‘Will you dine with us first and go?’ said Violet.

Thank you; I do not mean to visit them.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Theodora. ‘They are connections!’

‘The more cause for avoiding them.’

‘I have promised to introduce you.’

‘I am afraid you reckoned without your host.’

‘Ha!’ cried Arthur, ‘the lion is grown coquettish with fine feeding. He is not easy of leading.’

‘She is my greatest friend,’ said Theodora, as if it was conclusive; but Percy only answered, I should be very sorry to believe so,’ set down his cup, and began to read the paper. She was the more irritated. ‘Percy,’ she said, ‘do you really not intend to go to the party!’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Not to visit a relation of your own, and my most intimate friend, when it is my especial desire?’

‘You do not know what you are talking of,’ he answered, without raising his eyes.

‘Percy!’ exclaimed Theodora, her pride and affection so mortified that she forgot that Arthur was looking on with mischievous glee, ‘have you any reason for this neglect?’

‘Of course I have,’ said he, reading on.

‘Then let me hear it.’

‘You force it from me, Theodora,’ said Percy, laying down the paper: ‘it is because I will not enter into any intercourse I can avoid with persons whose conduct I disapprove.’

Violet coloured and shrank closer to her husband. Theodora’s face and neck turned almost crimson, and her eyes sparkled, but her voice only showed unmoved disdain. ‘Remember, she is my FRIEND.’

‘You do not know her history, or you would not call her so.’

‘I do. What is there to be ashamed of?’

‘I see, you know nothing of the prior attachment,’ said Percy, not without anger at her pertinacity.

‘A boy and girl liking that had been long past.’

‘O it had, had it?’ said Percy, ironically. ‘So you approve her marrying an old rogue and miser, who had heaped up his hoards by extortion of wretched Indians and Spaniards, the very scum of Mammon, coming to the top like everything detestable?’

‘I never heard his money was ill-gotten.’

‘Those who spend don’t ask whence gold comes. And you justify her keeping the old love, this cousin, dangling about her house all the winter till she is the talk of Paris!’

‘I don’t believe gossip.’

‘Can you deny that he is in London in her train?’

‘He has come into some property, and means to turn over a new leaf.’

‘Ay, and a worse leaf than before.’

‘How can you judge of his resolutions?’

Arthur laughed, saying, ‘I’d not bet much on Mark Gardner’s.’

Much to Violet’s relief, the carriage was announced; the gentlemen walked, and Theodora talked of indifferent matters fast and gaily. Percy handed Mrs. Martindale out, and gave her his arm, leaving Theodora to her brother.

It was a small select party, almost every one known to Theodora; and she was soon in eager conversation at some distance from Violet, who was sorry for Percy, as he stood in silence beside her own chair, vexation apparent on his honest face.

‘Who is that talking to Theodora?’ he presently asked. It was a small light-complexioned gentleman, whose head and face, and the whole style of his dress and person, might have made him appear a boy of seventeen, but for a pale moustache and tuft on the chin. Theodora looked very animated, and his face was glowing with the pleasure of her notice.

‘I cannot tell,’ said Violet; ‘there is Arthur, ask him.’

Percy was moving towards Arthur, when he was caught by the master of the house, and set to talk to the Oriental in his own language. Violet had never been so impressed by his talents as while listening to his fluent conversation in the foreign tongue, making the stranger look delighted and amused, and giving the English audience lively interpretations, which put them into ready communication with the wonder at whom they had hitherto looked in awkwardness. Theodora did not come near the group, nor seem to perceive Violet’s entreating glances; and when the Eastern prince departed, Percy had also disappeared. Violet was gratified by the ladies around her descanting on his book and his Syriac, and wished Theodora could hear them.

At that moment she found Theodora close to her, presenting Lord St. Erme to Mrs. Arthur Martindale! After so much dislike to that little insignificant light man for being the means of vexing Percy, to find him the poet hero, the feudal vision of nobility, the Lord of Wrangerton! What an adventure for her mother to hear of!

It was a pleasant and rather pretty face when seen near, with very good blue eyes, and an air of great taste and refinement, and the voice was very agreeable, as he asked some question about the Eastern prince. Violet hardly knew what she answered.

‘I met him yesterday, but it was flat,’ he said. ‘They had a man there whose Syriac was only learnt from books, and who could not understand him. The interpreter to-night was far more au-fait--very clever he seemed. Who was he?’

‘Mr. Fotheringham,’ said Theodora.

‘The Crusader? Was it, indeed?’ said Lord St. Erme, eagerly. ‘Is he here? I wish particularly to make his acquaintance.’

‘I believe he is gone,’ said Violet, pitying the unconscious victim, and at once amused, provoked, and embarrassed.

‘You know him?’

Violet marvelled at the composure of Theodora’s reply. ‘Yes, my eldest brother was his travelling companion.’

‘Is it possible? Your brother the “M” of the book?’ exclaimed the young Earl, with enthusiastic delight and interest. ‘I never guessed it! I must read it again for the sake of meeting him.’

‘You often do meet him there,’ said Theodora, ‘as my sister can testify. She was helping him to revise it last summer at Ventnor.’

‘I envy you!’ cried Lord St. Erme; ‘to go through such a book with such a companion was honour indeed!’

‘It was delightful,’ said Violet.

‘Those are such delicious descriptions,’ proceeded he. ‘Do you remember the scene where he describes the crusading camp at Constantinople? It is the perfection of language--places the whole before you--carries you into the spirit of the time. It is a Tasso unconscious of his powers, borne along by his innate poetry;’ then pausing, ‘surely you admire it, Miss Martindale?’

‘O, yes,’ said Theodora, annoyed at feeling a blush arising. The Earl seemed sensible of a check, and changed his tone to a sober and rather timid one, as he inquired after Mr. Martindale. The reply was left to Violet.

‘He has never been so well in his life. He is extremely busy, and much enjoys the beauty of the place.’

‘I suppose it is very pretty,’ said Lord St. Erme.

‘Nothing can be more lovely than the colour of the sea, and the wonderful foliage, and the clearness. He says all lovers of fine scenery ought to come there.’

‘Scenery can hardly charm unless it has a past,’ he replied.

‘I can controvert that,’ said Theodora.

With much diffidence he replied: ‘I speak only of my own feeling. To me, a fine landscape without associations has no soul. It is like an unintellectual beauty.’

‘There are associations in the West Indies,’ said Theodora.

‘Not the most agreeable,’ said Lord St. Erme.

‘There is the thought of Columbus,’ said Violet, ‘his whole character, and his delight as each island surpassed the last.’

‘Now, I have a fellow-feeling for the buccaneers,’ said Theodora. ‘Bertram Risingham was always a hero of mine. I believe it is an ancestral respect, probably we are their descendants.’

Violet wondered if she said so to frighten him.

‘“Rokeby” has given a glory to buccaneering,’ he replied. ‘It is the office of poetry to gild nature by breathing a soul into her. It is what the Americans are trying to do for their new world, still turning to England as their Greece.’

‘I meant no past associations,’ said Theodora, bluntly. ‘John carries his own with him.’

‘Yes; all may bear the colour of the imagination within.’

‘And of the purpose,’ said Theodora. ‘It is work in earnest, no matter where, that gives outward things their interest. Dreaming will never do it. Working will.’

Their conversation here closed; but Theodora said as they went home: ‘What did you think of him, Violet?’

‘He looks younger than I expected.’

‘He would be good for something if he could be made to work. I long to give him a pickaxe, and set him on upon the roads. Then he would see the beauty of them! I hate to hear him maunder on about imagination, while he leaves his tenantry to take their chance. HE knows what eyes Percy and John see things with!’

‘I am glad to have seen him,’ said Violet, reassured.

‘He desired to be introduced to you.’

‘I wonder--do you think--do you suppose he remembers--?’

‘I don’t suppose he thinks anything about it,’ said Theodora, shortly.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

14. I am not yet of Earl Percy’s mind

--King Henry IV

‘Violet,’ said Theodora, the next morning, ‘I want to know if Percy said more to Arthur than to us?’

She spoke with deepening colour, and Violet’s glowed still more, as she answered: ‘Arthur asked him, and he said he would not BEGIN an acquaintance, but that there was no occasion to break off the ordinary civilities of society. He accused her of no more than levity. Yes, those were Arthur’s words.’

‘I am going to get to the bottom of it,’ said Theodora; ‘and give Georgina a thorough lecture.’

She departed; and Violet sat down to her letters, with little Johnnie crawling at her feet; but in a few minutes she was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Fotheringham, asking for Theodora.

‘She is gone out. She could not rest without an explanation from Mrs. Finch.’

‘A proper farrago she will hear,’ said Percy. ‘I found I could settle to nothing, so I thought it best to come and have it out.’

‘I hope she will soon come in.’

‘Don’t let me interrupt you. Go on with your letters.--Ha! little master!’

In his present temper, play with the baby was the most congenial occupation, and he made the little fellow very happy till he was carried off for his midday sleep. Then he tried to read, but seemed so uneasy, that Violet wondered if it would be intermeddling to hint at Theodora’s real views. At last, as if he could bear it no longer, he abruptly said, ‘Mrs. Martindale, do you know anything of these people?’

‘Very little,’ she answered. ‘Theodora was telling me about them yesterday, before you came. I believe she only likes them for old acquaintance’ sake.’

‘Is it true that she used to go out with them last year?’

‘I believe that she did sometimes.’

‘At least, I hope that will not happen again.’

‘No, I should not think it would. I am sure Theodora does not entirely approve of Mrs. Finch.’

‘She defended her through thick and thin.’

‘You shocked her with the suddenness of what you said. She cannot forget the having been happy together as children; but she thinks as you do, and disliked the marriage very much. Before you came, she had been lamenting over Mrs. Finch.’

‘Then, it was pure perverseness!’

‘If I said so, I wonder what you would answer,’ said Violet, with a bright, arch look.

‘I should hear reason,’ said Percy, roughly, as if to repel the sweetness; yet it had a mollifying effect, and he presently spoke with less irritation and more regret.

‘She suspects no evil, and cannot understand any imputation on her friend. She fancies I speak from report, but I have known this fellow, Mark, all my life. His mother is a sister of my Aunt Fotheringham. They wanted me to hunt up an appointment to get him out of the young lady’s way.’

‘Before her marriage?’

‘Ay. When I was last in England, there was a great to-do at the discovery of an engagement between this youth and Miss Georgina. I suppose, considering her bringing-up, she was not much to be blamed. I remember my aunt thought the poor girl harshly dealt with.’

‘O, that must have been the cause of the nervous fever Theodora mentioned. She said she knew no particulars.’

‘She has not been openly dealt with,’ said Percy. ‘They do not dare to let her see their doings.’

‘So the poor thing was tormented into this marriage?’

‘No torment needed. The elder sister did try to warn her that it could not turn out well. I should think the old rogue had found his punishment for his extortions. Fine stories I could tell you of him in South America. Now, am I not justified in keeping clear of them? Let Theodora say what she will, it does not make it right for me to put myself in the way of those great extravagant dinners and parties of theirs, where they want me for nothing but a show-off.’

‘I am sure Theodora will think with you, when she is cooler, and not taken by surprise.’

The clock struck.

‘There, I have an appointment!’

‘I wish you could wait for luncheon. She must come then.’

‘What are you going to do this evening?’

‘I am sorry to say that we dine out; but to-morrow is Sunday, and you will be sure to find us at home.’

He went, and one o’clock came, but no Theodora. Violet had waited ten minutes for luncheon before she returned.

‘I did not know how late it was,’ said she. ‘I wish you had begun without me.’

Then, throwing her bonnet into a chair, and cutting some cake, she proceeded: ‘Such hours as they keep! No one but Jane was up when I came, so I went to her room, and told her I would hear the rights of it.’

‘Were you satisfied?’

‘Georgina has been foolish and unguarded, and the world is very ill-natured. I hate it altogether, from beginning to end,’ said Theodora, with an impatient gesture. ‘Most decidedly,’ she added, ‘Georgina never ought to have married. I forced it from Jane that she had never cared for any one but this Mark. The discovery of his extravagance and misconduct was the real overthrow of my poor Georgina. It was that which brought on her illness; the family were very unkind; and at last weakness and persecution broke down her spirit, and she was ready to do anything to escape.’

‘Poor thing! poor thing!’

‘She had nothing to fall back upon. Oh, if I had but been there! If I had but known it at the time!’

‘Well, and now?’ said Violet, anxiously.

‘The having Mr. Gardner there now? Really, I don’t think she deserves all this abuse. The other matter is entirely passed away. Mr. Finch likes him, and they understand each other fully. Coming to them detaches him from his former habits, and gives him the best chance. His mother is so relieved to know he is with them. If Jane saw anything in the least amiss, she says she would be the first to take alarm, and I do trust her for that, for the sake of appearances.’

‘I suppose it is a question of appearances,’ said Violet, with the diffident blushes of her eighteen years.

‘Is she to throw away the hope of rescuing her cousin, to save herself from spiteful tongues?’ cried Theodora. ‘Not that I suppose Lady Fotheringham means to be spiteful, but Percy hears it all from her, and we know very well that good ladies in the country have a tendency to think every one good-for-nothing that lives in London or Paris, especially their relations. That is all nonsense. If Percy goes by gossip, I don’t. I go by my own observation, and I see there is nothing at which to take exception. I watched her and Mr. Gardner together, and I do declare there was nothing but ease and frankness. I am sure he was more inclined to pay that sort of attention to me. He really is very entertaining. I must tell you some of his stories.’

‘Percy has been here,’ said Violet.

‘Has he?’

‘He waited till twelve, and then was obliged to go.’

Theodora kept silence for some minutes, then said: ‘If he thinks to make me give my friends up, he is much mistaken! You know I had written to Georgina last night. Well, she thought I had come to be congratulated; and if you had but seen the greeting--the whole manner--when she met me! Oh! you would know how impossible it is not to feel for her, with all one’s heart!’

‘Yes, yes. I suppose you could not say anything about this to her. No, of course not.’

‘Not of course at all, if I could have had her alone, but Jane was there all the time. It was a pleasure to see the contrast between her manner and Jane’s. There was soul in her, real hopes I should be happy, while Jane seemed only to think it tolerable, because I might end in being an ambassadress. I will see her again before the party, and draw my own conclusions.’

‘Does she know that Percy will not go?’

‘I know no such thing.’

She was too proud to ask what had passed in Violet’s interview with him, and indeed was ready to take fire at the idea of their affairs having been discussed with her.

She strove to believe herself the offended party, but her conscience was not easily appeased, though she tried to set it at rest by affectionate care of Violet, and was much gratified by Arthur’s stopping her after Violet had gone up-stairs at night, to beg her to stay, while he was at Windsor with his regiment.

‘Thank you, for making me of use,’ she said.

‘I shall come backwards and forwards continually,’ said Arthur, ‘but she must not be alone; I shall be very glad if you can stay, or I shall be driven to have one of the Mosses here.’

‘Oh, no, no! I shall be most happy to stay. I will take every care of her.’

‘Thank you, Theodora; good night. You have got to know her better now,’ he continued, lingering as on that first night to gain some word of commendation of her.

‘Much better,’ said Theodora cordially. ‘One cannot help growing fond of her--so gentle and engaging.’

She was pleased with his satisfaction; and while she owned Violet’s sincerity and sweetness, considered her one of those soft dependent beings formed to call forth tenderness from strong and superior spirits, and gloried in being necessary to her: it almost restored her balance of complacency.

On Sunday afternoon Violet stayed at home with little Johnnie, and the vacant place in the seat at church was filled by Mr. Fotheringham. Many thoughts floated through Theodora’s mind; but whether the better or the worse would gain the advantage seemed rather to depend on chance than on herself. Perhaps she was not yet conscious what were her besetting sins, and thus the conflict was merely a struggle between her feelings for her friend and for her lover.

Arthur walked home with an acquaintance; but Theodora turned from Percy, and threw herself into eager conversation with Lady Elizabeth.

On entering the house, as Violet was not in the drawing-room, Theodora was going up-stairs, when Percy said, in a tone of authority, ‘How long do you intend to go on in this way!’

‘In what way?’

‘Do you wish to keep all our disputes as a spectacle for Arthur’s edification?’

Colouring with shame and displeasure, she sat down with a sort of ‘I am ready’ air, and took off her walking things, laying them down deliberately, and waiting in complete silence. Did she wish to embarrass him, or did she await his first word to decide what line she should take?

‘Theodora,’ he said at length, ‘when I spoke last night, I did not know how early your acquaintance with this lady had begun, or I should have shown more regard to the feeling that arises between old companions. I am afraid I gave you some unnecessary pain.’

This was unexpected; and she could not at once harden herself in displeasure, so that though she spoke not, her countenance was relenting.

‘Did Mrs. Martindale mention what I told her yesterday!’

‘No; she only said you had been here while I was gone to satisfy my mind.’

‘And did you?’

‘I should never have defended Georgina’s marriage if I had known the whole; but the rest of what you have heard is slander.’

‘That is what I came to explain;’ and Percy repeated the history he had before given to Violet, adding a warning of the same kind as John’s against placing Arthur in Mr. Gardner’s way.

‘The point is,’ said Theodora, ‘what construction is to be placed on the present state of things? You and Lady Fotheringham, who have not seen them, take one view; I, who do see them, and who know Georgina intimately, take another, in which I agree with her husband and with the elder sister, who lives with her.’

‘Intimately! When you had no idea of this first affair!’

‘Such follies are not to be published.’

‘You WILL defend them!’ cried Percy, impatiently.

‘Am I to sit quiet when I hear injustice done to my oldest friend?’

‘I wish that unhappy friendship had never begun!’

A silence broken by her coolly saying, ‘Well, what is to come of all this?’

Percy walked about the room and said, ‘What do you mean?’

With a provoking air of meekness she said, ‘I only want to know what you expect of me.’

Excessively annoyed, he sharply answered, ‘To be a reasonable woman.’

‘Well?’ said Theodora, with the same submissive voice. He had recovered himself, and with no further show of temper, he sat down by her, saying, ‘This is folly. We had better say what we mean. You feel strongly with regard to your old playfellow; I cannot think well of her; but while this is matter of opinion, it is childish to dispute. Time will show which is the correct view--I shall be glad if it is yours. The elder sister is a steady amiable person, whom my aunt likes, and that is in their favour. I do not wish you to break with an old friend while we know of no positive charge against her, though I should think there could be little to attract you. For me it is another matter, and I will not.’

‘You will not adopt my friends?’

I will not be talked into it.’

‘I do not understand your principle,’ said Theodora, but without asperity. ‘Why do you decline an acquaintance to which you do not object for me?’

‘The beginning has been made in your case, and I know it is old affection, not present approval. You can’t be hurt by one like her. But for my part, knowing what I do of them, I will enter on no acquaintance; it is a line of which I have resolved to keep clear. She would think herself patronizing a literary man.’

‘Oh! you could not submit to that!’ cried Theodora--‘never. Stay away, I beg of you.’

‘It is for no such nonsense,’ said Percy. ‘But thinking of them as I do, I cannot receive from them the favours which rich folks consider invitations to poor ones. My connection with them makes it all the more undesirable. I totally disapprove their style of conduct, and will not seem to sanction it by beginning an acquaintance, or appearing at their grand dinners and parties. If I had known them before, the case might be different.’

‘I will say no more. You are quite right,’ said Theodora, well able to appreciate the manliness of his independence.

She thought over several times the way of communicating to Mrs. Finch, Percy’s rejection of her invitation, and made some attempts at seeing her, but without success, until the night of the party. Violet had an undefined dread of it, and was especially glad that her husband was able to go with them. It was one of the occasions when he was most solicitous about her appearance; and he was well pleased, for she was in very good looks, and prettily dressed with some Irish lace, that to Theodora’s amusement she had taken off Miss Marstone’s hands; and with his beautiful wife and distinguished-looking sister, he had his wish of displaying woman as she should be.

The room was full, but Violet saw few acquaintance; as Mrs. Finch, with much display of streamer, flounce, jewellery, and shoulders, came to meet them with vehement welcome, and quite oppressed Violet with her attention in finding a seat for her on the sofa.

With a nod and look of gay displeasure at Theodora, she said, ‘So, you have brought me no Crusader, you naughty girl! Where’s your Red Cross Knight?’

‘He would not come,’ said Theodora, gravely.

‘You dare own it! Where’s your power? Ah! you will say it was idleness.’

‘I will tell you another time,’ said Theodora, blushing inconveniently, and Violet, as she felt her cheeks responding, fancied Mrs. Finch must know why.

‘You won’t confess! No, you never tried. If you had once set your mind on it, you would have accomplished it. I always cite Theodora Martindale as the person who cannot be resisted.’

‘You see your mistake,’ returned Theodora. A gentleman here greeted her, then claimed Mrs. Finch’s attention, and evidently by his desire, she turned to Violet, and presented him as her cousin, Mr. Gardner, an old friend of Captain Martindale.

Violet acknowledged the courtesy, but it was in confusion and distress.

‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance,’ was his address. ‘Is Captain Martindale here? I have not seen him for years.’

‘He is in the room,’ said Violet, looking round for him, hoping either that he would come, or that Mr. Gardner would go in search of him, but the conversation continued, though she answered without knowing what she said, till at last he moved away to communicate to Mrs. Finch that Arthur Martindale’s pretty wife had nothing but fine eyes and complexion.

Theodora was satisfied to see a very slight recognition pass between Mr. Gardner and her brother, who was intent on conducting to Violet an officer newly returned from the West Indies, where he had met John. After a pleasant conversation, the two gentlemen moved away, and presently the place next to her was taken by Miss Gardner, with civil inquiries for her little boy.

‘We are so vexed at not seeing Mr. Fotheringham! Georgina is furious. We reckoned on him as the lion of the night.’

Violet had no answer to make, and Jane continued. ‘I have taken Theodora to task. Fame makes men capricious, and he is very odd; but I tell her she ought to have more influence, and I seriously think so. Do you not?’

‘I believe he convinced her,’ said Violet, wishing the next moment to recall her words.

‘Indeed! I am curious.’

‘I believe he thinks it better--fashionable life--’ faltered Violet.

‘He might have made an exception in favour of such near connections! Why, we shall be related ourselves, Mrs. Martindale. How charmed I shall be.’

Violet turned a bracelet on her arm, and could make no response.

‘It is strange enough that we have never met Percival Fotheringham,’ said Miss Gardner. ‘He is an eccentric being, I hear, but our dear Theodora has a spice of eccentricity herself. I hope it will be for the best.’

‘He is an admirable person,’ said Violet.

‘I rejoice to hear it. I had some doubts. The dear girl is so generous, of such peculiar decision, so likely to be dazzled by talent, and so warmly attached to her eldest brother, that I almost feared it might not have been well weighed. But you are satisfied?’

‘O, yes, entirely so.’

‘I am relieved to hear it. In confidence I may tell YOU, it is said in our OWN family, that there is a rough overbearing temper about him. I could not bear to think of dear Theodora’s high spirit being subjected to anything of that kind.’

‘He is abrupt,’ said Violet, eagerly; ‘but I assure you the better he is known, the more he is liked. My little boy is so fond of him.’

‘I am glad. No doubt you have every means of judging, but I own I was surprised at such ready consent. You were behind the scenes, no doubt, and can tell how that determined spirit carried the day.’

‘Lord Martindale gave his consent most readily and gladly,’ said Violet; but Jane was only the more convinced that Mrs. Martindale was as ignorant as ever of family secrets.

‘It was best to do so with a good grace; but I did think our dear Theodora might have looked higher! Poor Lord St. Erme! He would have been a more eligible choice. The family must have been much disappointed, for she might have had him at her feet any day last summer.’

‘I do not think he would have suited her.’

‘Well! perhaps not, but an easy gentle temper might. However, it cannot be helped! Only the long engagement is unfortunate--very trying to both parties. I have seen so few turn out well! Poor Pelham Fotheringham! It is a pity he should stand between them and the baronetcy.’

‘Is he Sir Antony’s son?’

‘Yes; it is a sad affair. A fine tall youth, quite imbecile. He is his poor mother’s darling, but no more fit to take care of himself than a child of five years old. A most melancholy thing! Old Sir Antony ought to set him aside, and let Percival enjoy the estate. Indeed, I should think it very probable he would do so--it would be greatly for the happiness of all parties.’

‘I think it would,’ said Violet.

‘Percival can do anything with the old people, and they will be so delighted with the Martindale connection! Perhaps it is an understood thing. Do you know whether it is?’

‘I should not think so. I never heard anything of it.’

‘Has Theodora ever been introduced to the uncle and aunt?’

‘Never.’

‘Good old folks, exceedingly primitive. Very kind too, and a fine old-fashioned place; but, oh, so dull! All their ideas are of the seventeenth century. It will be a severe ordeal for poor Theodora, but if Lady Fotheringham, good old soul, is pleased with her, I shall expect grand consequences.’

Violet was glad that Miss Gardner was asked to dance. Presently Arthur returned to her side. ‘Tired, Violet?’ he asked. ‘Slow work, is not it? They have a queer lot here. Scarcely a soul one ever saw before.’

‘I was thinking so. Are there not a great many foreigners? I saw some immense moustaches.’

‘Ay. Percy would think himself back in Blue Beard’s country. There is the King of the Clothes Brushes himself polking with Mrs. Finch. Can’t you see?’

‘No! I wish I could.’

‘An economical fellow! Every man his own clothes brush--two expenses saved at once, to say nothing of soap, an article that mayhap he does not deal in.’

‘Oh! hush! you will make me laugh too much. Where ‘s Theodora?’

‘Dancing with Gardner. He seems inclined to make up to her, unless it is a blind.’

‘He said he used to know you at school.’

‘Yes, scamp that he is. I had rather he had never turned up again. He is not worth Theodora’s quarrelling about. I hear she is chattering away like fun. Have you had any one to speak to?’

‘Miss Gardner came to me. She seemed to think Sir Antony might settle his property on Percy instead of on his son. Do you think there is any chance of it?’

‘I wish he would. He could not do a wiser thing. But of course it is entailed--there’s always a provision of nature for starving the younger branches. What does she say to Percy’s absence!’

‘I fancy she guesses the reason, but I don’t know.’

‘He is a lucky fellow, I know!’ said Arthur, ‘to be safe in his bed at home! This evening is a bore, and I wish the whole set were further off, instead of deluding Theodora! I’ll get her away when this dance is over.’

‘Ha!’ cried Mrs. Finch, suddenly stopping in front of them, and disengaging herself from her partner, as she breathlessly threw herself down beside Violet. ‘So there’s Captain Martindale, after all! How exemplary! And my poor Mrs. Martindale, that I told Jane and Mark to take such care of, left deserted to her husband’s mercy!’

‘Suppose she wished for nothing better,’ said Arthur, good-humouredly.

‘I can’t allow such things. Such a monopoly of our Guardsmen after two years’ marriage is beyond bearing! What would they say to you in France?’

‘We don’t follow French fashions,’ said Arthur, his gay tone making his earnest like jest. ‘I am going to take my ladies home. I shall see for the carriage, Violet.’

‘Mrs. Martindale will learn my maxim--Never bring a husband to an evening party. There is nothing so much in the way.’

‘Or that would be so glad to be let off,’ said Arthur, going.

‘You don’t mean to take them away? That is the climax of all your crimes. Quite unallowable.’

‘Many things unallowable are done,’ said Arthur; ‘and I don’t allow her to be over-tired.’

‘“Barbare”,’ began Mrs. Finch, but with a bow, as if it was a compliment, he was gone in search of the carriage. She sat for a moment silent, then said, ‘Well, I must forgive him. I never thought to see him so careful of anything. How happy Theodora seems in your “menage”. Quite a different creature; but perhaps that is from another cause?’

Violet made a little attempt at a laugh.

‘I am glad of it,’ said Mrs. Finch, heartily. ‘It is a horrid stiff place for her at home, is it not? And I am delighted she should escape from it. How she got consent, I can’t imagine; and Theodora has notions of her own, and would do nothing without.’

‘Lord Martindale has a very high opinion of Mr. Fotheringham.’

‘I am not surprised. I read that book--a wonder for me, and was perfectly “eprise”. But I did not think a genius with empty pockets would have gone down at Martindale; and he is a bit of a bear, too, they say, though perhaps Theodora likes him the better for that.’

‘Perhaps she does.’

‘I hope he is worthy of her. He is the great pride of the old folks at Worthbourne. One heard of Percy’s perfections there morning, noon, and night, till I could have hated the sound of his name. Very generous of me to ask him here to-night, is it not? but I wish he would have come. I want to judge of him myself. I could not bear all not to be perfect with Theodora.’

There was little occasion for Violet to speak, Mrs. Finch always kept the whole conversation to herself; but she could not but perceive that though the exaggeration and recklessness of style were unpleasing, yet it really was frank and genuine, and Theodora’s declaration that Georgina was far preferable to Jane was less incomprehensible.

The evening was over, much to her relief; but there remained Theodora’s bold undertaking to tell Mrs. Finch of Percy’s refusal to visit her. Any one else would have let the subject drop, but Theodora thought this would be shabby and cowardly, and was resolved not to shrink from warning her friend.

She found Georgina looking over some cards of invitation, with an air of great dissatisfaction, and almost the first words that greeted her were, ‘Have you a card for Lady Albury’s party?’

‘Yes; I heard Violet ask Arthur if he should be at home for it.’

‘Very strange! We left our cards, I know, yet they never asked us to their party this week, and now seem to have missed us again. I wished particularly to go, for one is sure to meet all that is worth seeing, your knight among the rest. They are prim, strait-laced, exclusive people themselves; but it is a house worth going to.’

‘I did not remember that you knew them.’

‘Oh! yes, we did; we used to be there pretty often when we lived with my Uncle Edward; and it is not that they do not think my poor old man good enough for them, for we went to their parties last year. So, Mrs. Martindale has a card, you say!’

Theodora’s colour rose as she said, ‘Georgina, I am going to say what no one else will tell you. It is not your marriage, but you must take care--’

The crimson of Mrs. Finch’s cheeks, and the precipitation with which she started to her feet, would have disconcerted most persons; but Theodora, though she cast down her eyes, spoke the more steadily. ‘You must be more guarded and reserved in manner if you wish to avoid unkind remarks.’

‘What--what--what?’ cried Georgina, passionately; ‘what can the most ill-natured, the most censorious, accuse me of?’

‘It is not merely the ill-natured,’ said Theodora. ‘I know very well that you mean no harm; but you certainly have an air of trying to attract attention.’

‘Well, and who does not? Some do so more demurely and hypocritically than others; but what else does any one go into company for? Do you expect us all to act the happy couple, like Captain and Mrs. Martindale the other night? You should have brought your own Percy to set us the example!’ said she, ending with a most unpleasant laugh.

‘Georgina, you must not expect to see Percy. He has rigid notions; he always avoids people who seek much after fashion and amusement, and (I must say it) he will not begin an acquaintance while you go on in this wild way.’

‘So!’ exclaimed Georgina. ‘It is a new thing for the gentlemen to be particular and fastidious! I wonder what harm he thinks I should do him! But I see how it is: he means to take you away, turn you against me, the only creature in this world that ever cared for me. Are not you come to tell me he forbids you ever to come near me!’

‘No, no; he does not, and if he did, would I listen?’

‘No, don’t, don’t displease him on my account,’ cried Mrs. Finch. ‘Go and be happy with him; I am not worth caring for, or vexing yourself about!’

The tears stood on her burning cheeks, and Theodora eagerly replied, ‘Have no fancies about me. Nothing shall ever make me give up my oldest friend. You ought to know me better than to think I would.’

‘You are so unlike those I live with,’ said Georgina sadly, as an excuse for the distrust. ‘Oh, you don’t know what I have gone through, or you would pity me. You are the only thing that has not failed me. There is Jane, with her smooth tongue and universal obligingness, she is the most selfish creature in existence--her heart would go into a nutshell! One grain of sympathy, and I would never have married. It was all her doing--she wanted luxuries! O Theodora, if I had but been near you!’

‘Hush, Georgina, this is no talk for a wife,’ said Theodora, severely.

‘I thought you pitied me!’

‘I do, indeed I do; but I cannot let you talk in that way.’

‘I never do so: no one else would care to hear me.’

‘Now listen to me, Georgina. You say you rely on me as you do on no one else; will you hear me tell you the only way to be happy yourself--’

‘That is past,’ she murmured.

‘Or to stand well in the opinion of others! I am putting it on low grounds.’

‘I know what you are going to say--Go and live in the country, and set up a charity-school.’

‘I say no such thing. I only ask you to be cautious in your manners, to make Mr. Finch of more importance, and not to let yourself be followed by your cousin--’

Again Georgina burst into her ‘thorn crackling’ laugh. ‘Poor Mark! I thought that was coming. People will treat him as if he was a dragon!’

‘I know you mean no harm,’ repeated Theodora; ‘but it cannot be right to allow any occasion for observations.’

‘Now, Theodora, hear me. I dare say Jane has been telling you some of her plausible stories, which do more harm than good, because no one knows which part to believe. There was some nonsense between Mark and me when we were young and happy--I confess that. Perhaps I thought he meant more than he did, and dwelt upon it as silly girls do, especially when they have nothing else to care for. Then came the discovery of all his debts and scrapes, poor fellow, and--I won’t deny it--it half killed me, more especially when I found he had been attached to some low girl, and avowed that he had never seriously thought of me--he believed I understood it as all sport. I was very ill. I wish I had died. There was no more to be done but to hate him. My uncle and aunt Edward were horridly savage, chiefly because I hindered them from going to Italy; and Mrs. George Gardner thought I had been deluding Mark! Then Lady Fotheringham asked us, and--it was dull enough to be sure, and poor Pelham was always in the way--but they were kind comfortable folks. Lady Fotheringham is a dear old dame, and I was in dull spirits just then, and rather liked to poke about with her, and get her to tell me about your brother and his Helen--’

‘Why, Jane said you were dying of low spirits!’

‘Well, so I was. I hated it excessively sometimes. Jane is not entirely false in that. The evenings were horrid, and Sundays beyond everything unbearable. I confess I was delighted to get away to Bath; but there--if Jane would but have helped me--I would, indeed I would, have been thankful to have gone back to Worthbourne, even if I had had to play at draughts with Pelham for the rest of my days. But Jane was resolved, and all my strength and spirit had been crushed out of me. She would not even let me write to you nor to Lady Fotheringham till it was too late.’

‘Well, that is all past,’ said Theodora, whose face had shown more sympathy than she thought it right to express in words. ‘The point is, what is right now?’

And you see it is folly to say there is any harm or danger in my seeing Mark: he never had any attachment to me seven years ago, nor any other time, and whatever I felt for him had a thorough cure. I am not ashamed to say I am glad he should be here to give him a chance of marrying a fortune. That is the whole story. Are you satisfied?’

‘Satisfied on what I never doubted, your own intentions, but no further. You ought to abstain from all appearance of evil.’

‘I am not going to give my cousin up to please Lady Albury--no, nor all the Fotheringhams put together! You used to say you did not care for gossip.’

‘No more I do, but I care for a proper appearance.’

‘Very well--hush--here he comes!

HE was Mr. Gardner, and whether it was that Mrs. Finch was more guarded, or that her pleading influenced Theodora’s judgment, nothing passed that could excite a suspicion that anything remained of the former feeling between the cousins. It was in truth exactly as Mrs. Finch said; for whatever were her faults, she was perfectly frank and sincere, clinging to truth, perhaps out of opposition to her sister. Mark was not a man capable of any genuine or strong affection; and as Theodora rightly perceived, the harm of Georgina’s ways was not so much what regarded him, as in the love of dissipation, the unguarded forward manner with all gentlemen alike, and the reckless pursuit of excitement. There was a heart beneath, and warmth that might in time be worked upon by better things.

‘It is a great pity that people will drop her,’ she said to Violet. ‘The more she is left to that stamp of society, the worse it is for her whole tone of mind.’

Violet agreed, pitied, and wished it could be helped; but whenever they met Mrs. Finch in company, saw it was not wonderful that people did not like her.

Mr. Gardner was, on the contrary, a general favourite. Every one called him good for nothing; but then, he was so very amusing! Violet could never find this out, shrank from his notice, and withdrew as much as possible from his neighbourhood; Emma Brandon generally adhering closely to her, so as to avoid one whom she viewed as a desperate designer on the Priory.

It was in parties that Violet chiefly saw Emma this spring. Theodora’s presence in Cadogan-place frightened her away; and, besides, her mornings were occupied by Miss Marstone’s pursuits. Lady Elizabeth made no objection to her sharing in these, though sometimes not fully convinced of the prudence of all the accessories to their charities, and still less pleased at the influence exercised by Theresa over her daughter’s judgment.

Emma’s distaste to society was now far more openly avowed, and was regarded by her not as a folly to be conquered, but a mark of superiority. Her projects for Rickworth were also far more prominent. Miss Marstone had swept away the veil that used to shroud them in the deepest recess of Emma’s mind, and to Violet it seemed as if they were losing their gloss by being produced whenever the friends wanted something to talk about. Moreover, Emma, who was now within a few months of twenty-one, was seized with a vehement desire to extort her mother’s consent to put them at once in execution, and used to startle Violet by pouring out lamentations over her promise, as if it was a cruel thraldom. Violet argued that the scheme was likely to be much better weighed by taking time to think.

‘It has been the thought of my life! Besides, I have Theresa’s judgment; and, oh! Violet, mamma means it well, I know; but she does not know what she asks of me! Think, think if I should die in the guilt of sacrilege!’

‘Really, Emma, you should not say such dreadful things. It is not your doing.’

‘No; but I reap the benefit of it. My grandfather bought it. Oh! if it should bring a curse with it!’

‘Well, but, Emma, I should think, even if it be wrong to hold it, that cannot be your fault yet. You mean to restore it; and surely it must be better to keep it as yet, than to act directly against your mother’s wishes.’

‘I don’t mean to act against her wishes; but if she would only wish otherwise!’

‘Perhaps it is the best preparation to be obliged to wait patiently.’

‘If it was for any good reason; but I know it is only because it would better suit mamma’s old English notions to see me go and marry in an ordinary way, like any commonplace woman, as Theresa says. Ah! you would like it too, Violet. It is of no use talking to you! As Theresa says, the English domestic mind has but one type of goodness.’

Violet did not like to hear her dear Lady Elizabeth contemned; but she had no ready answer, and humbly resigned herself to Emma’s belief that she was less able to enter into her feelings than that most superior woman, Theresa Marstone.

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Chapter 15

Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice.

When Arthur went with his regiment to Windsor, the ladies intended to spend their evenings at home, a rule which had many exceptions, although Violet was so liable to suffer from late hours and crowded rooms, that Lady Elizabeth begged her to abstain from parties, and offered more than once to take charge of Theodora; but the reply always was that they went out very little, and that this once it would not hurt her.

The truth was that Theodora had expressed a decided aversion to going out with the Brandons. ‘Lady Elizabeth sits down in the most stupid part of the room,’ she said, ‘and Emma stands by her side with the air of a martyr. They look like a pair of respectable country cousins set down all astray, wishing for a safe corner to run into, and wondering at the great and wicked world. And they go away inhumanly early, whereas if I do have the trouble of dressing, it shall not be for nothing. I ingeniously eluded all going out with them last year, and a great mercy it was to them.’

So going to a royal ball was all Theodora vouchsafed to do under Lady Elizabeth’s protection; and as her objections could not be disclosed, Violet was obliged to leave it to be supposed that it was for her own gratification that she always accompanied her; although not only was the exertion and the subsequent fatigue a severe tax on her strength, but she was often uneasy and distressed by Theodora’s conduct. Her habits in company had not been materially changed by her engagement; she was still bent on being the first object, and Violet sometimes felt that her manner was hardly fair upon those who were ignorant of her circumstances. For Theodora’s own sake, it was unpleasant to see her in conversation with Mr. Gardner; and not only on her account, but on that of Lord St. Erme, was her uncertain treatment of him a vexation to Violet.

Violet, to whom Theodora’s lovers were wont to turn when suffering from her caprice, was on very friendly terms with the young Earl. He used to come and stand by her, and talk to her about Wrangerton, and seemed quite amused and edified by her quiet enthusiasm for it, and for Helvellyn, and her intimacy with all the pictures which he had sent home and almost forgotten. His sister was another favourite theme; she was many years younger than himself, and not yet come out; but he was very desirous of introducing her to Mrs. and Miss Martindale; and Violet, who had heard of Lady Lucy all her life, was much pleased when a day was fixed for a quiet dinner at Mrs. Delaval’s, the aunt with whom she lived. How Mrs. Moss would enjoy hearing of it!

The day before was one of the first hot days of summer, and Violet was so languid that she looked forward with dread to the evening, when they were to go to a soiree at Mrs. Bryanstone’s, and she lay nursing herself, wishing for any pretence for declining it. Theodora coming in, declared that her going was out of the question; but added, ‘Georgina Finch is to be there, she will call for me.’

‘I shall be better when the heat of the day is over.’

‘So you may, but you shall not go for all that. You know Arthur is coming home; and you must save yourself for your Delavals to-morrow.’

‘I thank you, but only’--she hesitated--‘if only you would be so kind as to go with Lady Elizabeth.’

‘I will manage for myself, thank you. I shall not think of seeing you go out to-night. Why, I went out continually with Georgina last summer’--as she saw Violets look of disappointment.

‘Yes, but all is not the same now.’

‘The same in effect. I am not going to attend to nonsensical gossip. Georgina is what she was then, and the same is right for me now as was right last year. I am not going to turn against her--’

‘But, Theodora,’ said Violet’s weak voice, ‘Percy said he hoped you never would go out with her; and I said you never should, if I could help it.’

Never was Theodora more incensed than on hearing that Percy and this young girl had been arranging a check on her actions, and she was the more bent on defiance.

‘Percy has nothing to do with it,’ she began; but she was interrupted by a message to know whether Lady Elizabeth Brandon might see Mrs. Martindale.

Her entrance strengthened Theodora’s hands, and she made an instant appeal to her, to enforce on Violet the necessity of resting that evening. Lady Elizabeth fully assented, and at once asked Theodora to join her.

‘I thank you, I have another arrangement,’ she said, reckless of those entreating eyes; ‘I am to go with Mrs. Finch.’

‘And I believe I shall be quite well enough by and by,’ said Violet.

‘My dear, it is not to be thought of for you.’

‘Yes, Lady Elizabeth, I trust her to you to make her hear reason,’ said Theodora. ‘I shall leave her to you.’

Poor Violet, already in sufficient dread of the evening, was obliged to endure a reiteration of all its possible consequences. Lady Elizabeth was positively grieved and amazed to find her, as she thought, resolutely set upon gaieties, at all risks, and spared no argument that could alarm her into remaining quietly at home, even assuring her that it was her duty not to endanger herself for the sake of a little excitement or amusement. Violet could only shut her eyes to restrain the burning tears, and listen, without one word in vindication, until Lady Elizabeth had exhausted her rhetoric, and, rising, with some coolness told her she still hoped that she would think better of it, but that she wished her husband was at home.

Violet would fain have hid her face in her good friend’s bosom, and poured out her griefs, but she could only feel that she was forfeiting for ever the esteem of one she loved so much. She held out, however. Not till the door had closed did she relax her restraint on herself, and give way to the overwhelming tears. Helpless, frightened, perplexed, forced into doing what might be fatal to her! and every one, even Arthur, likely to blame her! The burst of weeping was as terrified, as violent, as despairing as those of last year.

But she was not, as then, inconsolable; and as the first agitation spent itself she resumed her self-command, checked her sobs by broken sentences of prayer, growing fuller and clearer, then again soft and misty, till she fairly cried herself to sleep.

She slept only for a short interval, but it had brought back her composure, and she was able to frame a prayer to be directed to do right and be guarded from harm; and then to turn her mind steadily to the decision. It was her duty, as long as it was in her power, to be with her husband’s sister, and guard her from lowering herself by her associates. She was bound by her promise to Percy, and she could only trust that no harm would ensue.

‘If it should,’ thought poor Violet, ‘I may honestly hope it is in the way of what I believe my duty; so it would be a cross, and I should be helped under it. And if the Brandons blame me--that is a cross again. Suppose I was to be as ill again as I was before--suppose I should not get through it--Oh! then I could not bear to have wilfully neglected a duty! And the next party? Oh! no need for thinking of that! I must only take thought for the day.’

And soon again she slept.

Theodora had gone out so entirely convinced that Violet would relinquish her intention, that, meeting Mrs. Finch, she arranged to be taken up at eleven o’clock.

On returning home she heard that Mrs. Martindale was asleep; and, as they had dined early, she drank coffee in her own room, and read with the Brogden girl, as part of her system of compensation, intending to spare further discussion by seeing Violet no more that night. She proceeded to dress her hair--not as helplessly as at first, for the lessons had not been without fruit; but to-night nothing had a good effect. Not being positively handsome, her good looks depended on colour, dress, and light; and the dislike to failure, and the desire to command attention, made it irritating to find her hair obstinate and her ornaments unbecoming; and she was in no placid state when Violet entered the room, ready dressed.

‘Violet! This is too foolish!’

‘I am a great deal better now, thank you.’

‘But I have settled it with Georgina; she is coming to call for me.’

‘This is not out of her way; it will make no difference to her.’

‘But, Violet, I will not let you go; Arthur would not allow it. You are not fit for it.’

‘Yes, thank you, I believe I am.’

‘You believe! It is very ridiculous of you to venture when you only believe,’ said Theodora, never imagining that those mild weary tones could withstand her for a moment. ‘Stay at home and rest. You know Arthur may come at any time.’

‘I mean to go, if you please; I know I ought.’

‘Then remember, if you are ill, it is your fault, not mine.’

Violet attempted a meek smile.

Theodora could only show her annoyance by impatience with her toilette. Her sister tried to help her; but nothing suited nothing pleased her--all was untoward; and at last Violet said, ‘Is Percy to be there?’

‘Not a chance of it. What made you think so?’

‘Because you care so much.’

Somehow, that saying stung her to the quick, and the more because it was so innocently spoken.

‘I do not care,’ she said. ‘You are so simple, Violet, you fancy all courtships must be like your own. One can’t spend six years like six weeks.’

The colour rushed painfully into Violet’s face, and she quitted the room. It was a moment of dire shame and grief to Theodora, who had not intended a taunt, but rather to excuse her own doings; and as the words came back on her, and she perceived the most unmerited reproach they must have conveyed, she was about to hurry after her sister, explain, and entreat her pardon. Almost immediately, however, Violet returned, with her hands full of some beautiful geraniums, that morning sent to her by Mrs. Harrison.

‘See!’ said she; ‘I think a wreath of these might look well.’

Theodora trusted the blush had been the work of her own guilty fancy, and, recollecting how often Mrs. Nesbit’s innuendoes had glanced aside, thought it best not to revive the subject. She did not estimate even the sacrifice it was to part with the glowing fragrant flowers, the arrangement of which had freshened Violet’s spirits that evening when not in tune for other occupation; and she did not know that there was one little sigh of fellow-feeling at their destiny of drooping and fading in the crowd and glare. Their brilliant hues had great success, and set off the deep black eyes and hair to unusual advantage when woven by those dexterous fingers. The toilette was complete, and Theodora as kind as she could be, between shame at her own speech and dislike to being softened by little female arts.

‘I only wish you looked better yourself,’ she said. ‘You are too pale for that old white dress.’

‘It is the coolest I have ready. It must do.’

Theodora could not accuse her of over-carefulness of her renown as a beauty. Her dress was, of course, appropriate, but aimed at no more; and her worn, languid appearance did not cause her a moment’s thought, since Arthur was not there to see.

They found the room very warm and crowded. Theodora saw Violet lodged on an ottoman, and then strayed away to her own friends. Mrs. Finch soon arrived, and attacked her for having let them go on a fool’s errand.

‘I could not help it,’ said Theodora; ‘she would come.’

‘She looks very unwell,’ said Mrs. Finch; ‘but, poor thing, it would be too hard to miss everything this year.’

‘Or does she come as your trusty knight’s deputy?’ asked Jane.

There was dancing; but when Captain Fitzhugh brought Theodora back to her seat, Violet whispered, ‘I am sorry, but would you dislike coming home now?’

‘Oh! I am engaged to Lord St. Erme, and then to Mr. Gardner, and--but you go home; you have done your duty, my dear. Go home, and to sleep. Georgina will bring me. Captain Fitzhugh will find you the carriage.’

She walked off with Lord St. Erme, and came no more that way. Presently there was some confusion.

‘A lady fainting,’ said her partner, and she saw Emma looking dreadfully frightened. Conscience was enough, without the name passing from mouth to mouth. Theodora sprang forward, and following the movement, found herself in a room where Violet’s insensible figure had just been placed on a bed. Lady Elizabeth was there, and Emma, and Mrs. Bryanstone. Theodora felt as if no one but herself should touch Arthur’s wife; but she had never before witnessed a fainting fit, and, in her consternation and guiltiness, knew not how to be serviceable, so that all that was required was done by the other ladies. She had never experienced such alarm and remorse as now, while standing watching, until the eyes slowly opened, looked round uneasily till they fell on her, then closed for a few moments, but soon were again raised, while the soft low words were heard, ‘Thank you, I beg your pardon!’ then, with an imploring, deprecating gaze on her, ‘I am sorry; indeed I could not help it!’

Theodora was almost overcome; but Lady Elizabeth gave a warning squeeze to her arm, whispering, ‘Take care, don’t agitate her:’ and this, recalling the sense that others were present, brought back her self-possession, and she only kissed Violet, tenderly bade her lie still, and hoped she was better.

She smiled, and declared herself refreshed, as the wind blew on her from the open window, and she felt the cold water on her face, and there was no silencing her thanks and apologies for giving trouble. She said she was well enough to go home; and, as soon as the carriage was found, sat up, looking shivering and forlorn, but still summoning up smiles. ‘Good night, dear Lady Elizabeth,’ she said; ‘thank you very much. You see you were right.’

Lady Elizabeth offered to go home with her; but she could not bear to occasion further sensation, and, besides, understood Theodora’s face. She refused, and her friend kissed her, and promised to come early to-morrow to see her; but, mingled with all this care and kindness there was something of ‘I told you so.’

She trembled so much when she stood up, that Theodora put her strong arm round her, and nearly carried her down-stairs, gratified to find her clinging to her, and refusing all other support. Scarcely a word was spoken as they went home; but Theodora held the hand, which was cold, limp, and shaking, and now and then she made inquiries, always answered by ‘Better, thank you.’

Theodora had her directions from Lady Elizabeth, and intended to make up for her misdeeds by most attentive care; but, on coming home, they found that Arthur had arrived, and gone to bed, so that nothing was in her power but to express more kind wishes and regrets than she could stay to hear or to answer in her extinguished voice.

Theodora was a good deal shocked, but also provoked, at having been put in the wrong. She felt as if she had sustained a defeat, and as if Violet would have an advantage over her for the future, managing her by her health, just as she ruled Arthur.

‘But I will not submit,’ thought Theodora. ‘I will not bear with interference, if not from Percy, certainly not from his deputy--a mere spoilt child, a very good child, but spoilt by her position, by John’s over-estimate of her, and by the deference exacted by her weakness and her engagingness. She has very sweet, winning ways, and I am very fond of her in reason, but it will be very good for her to see I can be kind to her without being her slave.’

In this mind Theodora went to sleep, but was wakened in the early morning by Arthur’s voice on the stairs, calling to Sarah. She threw on her dressing-gown, and half-opening her door, begged to know what was the matter.

‘Only that you have done for her with your freaks and your wilfulness,’ answered Arthur, roughly.

‘She is not ill?’ exclaimed the terrified sister.

‘Of course she is. I can’t think what possessed you.’

‘I tried hard to keep her at home. But, oh! Arthur, where are you going?’

‘To fetch Harding.’

‘Can I do anything? Can I be of use? Let me go to her. Oh! Arthur, pray let me.’

He went into the room, and brought back word that Violet wanted no one but Sarah, and was a little more comfortable; only begging Theodora would be so kind as to go to the nursery, lest little Johnnie should awake.

Thither she repaired, but without the satisfaction of usefulness, for the child slept soundly till his nurse returned. Mr. Harding had been there, and Mrs. Martindale was better, needing only complete quiet; but Sarah was extremely brief, scornful, and indignant, and bestowed very few words on Miss Martindale. ‘Yes, ma’am--no, ma’am,’ was all that hard pumping could extract, except funereal and mysterious sighs and shakes of the head, and a bustling about, that could only be understood to intimate that she wished to have her nursery to herself.

It was still so early that Theodora had time to go to church; as usual, she met the Brandons; and Lady Elizabeth, much concerned at her tidings, came home with her to see how the patient was going on.

Lady Elizabeth forbore to reproach Violet, but she lectured Arthur on allowing her to be imprudent. He took it in very good part, not quite disagreeing when told they were all too young together, and made a hearty protest that she should be well looked after for the future.

He was certainly doing his part. All the morning he was in and out, up and down stairs, effectually preventing any rest, as his sister thought.

Theodora’s time passed in strange variations of contrition, jealousy, and perverseness. She was hurt at his displeasure,--she was injured by her exclusion from Violet’s room,--she was wounded even by her little nephew, who cried down-stairs for mamma, and up-stairs for Sarah, and would not be content with her best endeavours to make him happy. And yet, when, after carefully looking to see that he could come to no harm, Sarah was obliged to place him on the floor and leave him for the first time alone with his father, he sat motionless, fixed in earnest, intent contemplation, like a sort of distant worship of him, keeping him likewise in a silent amused wonder, what would come next; and when it ended in a gravely, distinctly pronounced, ‘Papa!’ Arthur started as if it had been a jackdaw speaking, then picked up the little fellow in his arms and carried him off to show, as a natural curiosity, to his mother! At any other time, Theodora would have been charmed at the rare sight of Arthur fondling his little boy; now she only felt that nobody wanted her, and that she was deprived of even the dignity of a nursery-maid.

Her chief occupation was answering inquiries, and writing notes to decline their evening engagements--the dinner at Mrs. Delaval’s among the rest; for she and Arthur were equally resolved to remain at home that evening, and she wished to persuade herself that they were Violet’s friends, not her own.

In the midst, Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner called, and in her state of irritation the smooth tongue of the latter was oil to the flame.

‘Poor thing, no doubt she thinks she has been making a heroic exertion. Well, she has her reward! It must be delightful to have caused such a sensation. Your brother is a most devoted husband.’

‘And did she really go because she would not trust you without her?’ said Mrs. Finch. ‘Well, that is a good joke!’

‘I think you must be glad they do not live at Brogden,’ quietly added Jane, in the midst of her sister’s laughter.

‘It has been put into her head,’ said Theodora, ‘that she ought to look after me, and a great mistake it is.’

‘Yes, you are not come here to be less free than last year, when Lord and Lady Martindale had you in their own hands, said Georgina. ‘If I were you I would do something strong all at once, and settle that matter. That was the way you used to dispose of the governesses.’

‘I am not quite what I was then, Georgina.’

‘But what is it that she objects to? I see,’ as Jane made a sign, as if to advise her not to inquire. ‘Is it to your coming out with me? Well! I declare, that is pretty well, considering who she was. I thought better things of her, with her soft voice, as if she was thankful to be spoken to, after all the notice I have taken of her.’

‘Hush, hush! I tell you, she would never have originated the notion, but it has been put into her, and when she thinks a thing right nothing will stop her.’

‘We will see that!’ said Georgina. ‘Come and dine with us to-night, and then we are going to “Der Freischutz”. Come--’

‘That is impossible, thank you. We have given up the dinner at the Delavals’, and I do not intend to go out in the evening any more. I came here to take care of her, and I mean to do so thoroughly.’

‘Not to go out any more!’ cried Georgina, horrified. ‘I honour Theodora,’ said Jane. ‘Such devotion is like her, and must win her brother’s gratitude.’

‘No devotion at all. I like a rational evening with her much better than a cram like last night’s.’

‘With her alone?’ said Jane, slyly.

Theodora crimsoned. Percy had instigated Violet’s opposition, and she was in no charity with him. Jane saw there was annoyance, and turned the subject before her sister could open on it. With all her quiet ways, Jane had the mastery over the impetuous Georgina, whom she apparently flattered and cherished as a younger sister, but in reality made subservient to her own purposes. Indeed, Jane was like the Geraldine of Christabel; without actually speaking evil she had the power of insinuating her own views, so that even the lofty and sincere nature of Theodora was not proof against her. Poor Violet! while she perilled herself, and sacrificed her friend’s good opinion, her sister’s mind was being hardened and poisoned against her.

‘I am afraid,’ said Jane, ‘that it is of no use then to talk to you of what Georgina and I have been planning.’

‘Oh! Theodora must come to that at any rate,’ cried Georgina, ‘or I will never forgive her nor Mrs. Martindale neither. Do you remember our old birthday treat to Richmond?’

‘To be sure I do!’ cried Theodora. ‘It was one of the most delightful days I ever had in my life. I have loved cowslips doubly for the treat the sight of them was, in the midst of London and masters, seven years ago. Why, you will be twenty-four next week, Georgina.’

‘Growing to an unmentionable age,’ said Georgina. ‘Well, I have set my heart on a picnic to Richmond again. Mark is to take a steamer for us, and I know of plenty of people who will make a charming party!’

‘I should like it better without the people,’ said Theodora.

‘Oh, nonsense; one can’t babble of green fields and run after cowslips, at our age, unless one is in love,’ said Georgina. ‘If you were going to bring your Percy, perhaps we would not interfere with your sweet rural felicity, my dear.’

‘We will bring some one else,’ said Jane. ‘After poor Mrs. Martindale had carried you off’, Theodora, I found the author of “Pausilippo” looking extremely disconsolate, and hinting to him that such a scheme was in agitation, and that you were included in it, he looked so eager, that he will be for ever beholden to Georgina for an invitation.’

‘Poor Lord St. Erme!’ said Georgina. ‘It really is a shame, Theodora. I rather take him under my protection. Shall he come, or shall he not?’

‘It makes no difference to me,’ said Theodora, coolly.

‘Whatever it does to him, eh?’

‘But, Georgina, you are not in the least secure of Theodora,’ said Jane, satirically. ‘She is devoted to Mrs. Martindale.’

‘If my sister-in-law is not well I shall not leave her, if she is, you may depend upon me.’

‘I shall do no such thing, whatever Georgina does,’ said Jane.

‘I am sure Mrs. Martindale has ways and means.’

‘I shall not stay without real reason.’

‘And bring the Captain,’ entreated Mrs. Finch.

‘Still more doubtful,’ suggested Jane.

‘Yes, I think you will not get him,’ said Theodora; ‘but I will certainly join you, provided Violet is not really ill.’

‘I am very good friends with that pretty sister of yours,’ said Jane. ‘I will call some day, and try to get her permission for him.’

‘Once--twice--you have failed us,’ said Mrs. Finch, rising to take leave. ‘This third time, and I shall believe it is some one else in the shape of Theodora Martindale.’

‘I will not fail,’ repeated Theodora.

They departed, and presently Arthur came down. ‘How long those women have been here! Have they been hatching treason? I want you to go up and sit with Violet; I am going out for an hour.’

It was a tame conclusion to the morning’s alarms when a brisk voice answered, ‘Come in,’ at her knock, and Violet lay very comfortably reading, her eyes bright and lively, and her cheeks with almost their own colour. Her sweet smile and grateful face chased away ill humour; and Theodora was so affectionate and agreeable as to surprise herself, and make her believe herself subject to the fascination Violet exercised over her brothers.

She told Arthur, on his return, that Violet was just ill enough to make waiting on her pretty pastime; but was something between alarmed and angry to find him still uneasy.

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