Chapter 16…

Chapter 16

Lord Percy sees my fall!

--Chevy Chase

Two days after, Miss Gardner calling, found Mrs. Martindale alone in the drawing-room, and pretty well again. The project for the party was now fully developed, and it was explained to Violet with regrets that she was unable to share it, and hopes that Theodora and her brother would not fail to join it.

‘Thank you, I believe Captain Martindale will be at Windsor; he will be on guard next week.’

‘Ah! that is provoking. He is so valuable at this kind of thing, and I am sure would enjoy it. He would meet some old schoolfellows. You must use your influence to prevent him from being lazy. Guardsmen can always get leave when they think it worth while.’

‘Perhaps if Theodora wishes to go, he may manage it; but I am afraid it is not likely that he will be able.’

‘You will trust us for taking care of our dear Theodora,’ said Miss Gardner; ‘we know she is rather high-spirited, and not very fond of control. I can quite enter into your feelings of responsibility, but from my knowledge of her character, I should say that any sense of restraint is most galling to her. But even if we have not the pleasure of Captain Martindale’s company, you may fully reckon on our watching over her, myself in especial, as a most dear younger sister.’

‘Is your party arranged?’ asked Violet.

‘Yes, I may say so. We hope for Mrs. Sedley and her daughters. Do you know them? Charming people whom we met in Paris.’

Violet was not acquainted with them, and tried to find out who were the rest. They seemed to be all young ladies, or giddy young wives, like Mrs. Finch herself, and two or three foreigners. Few were personally known to the Martindales; Lord St. Erme was the only gentleman of their own set; and Violet could not smile, as her visitor expected, on hearing how he had been enticed by hopes of meeting Miss Martindale.

Jane Gardner perceived the disapprobation. ‘Ah! well,--yes. One cannot but own that our dear Theodora’s spirits do now and then make her a little bit of a flirt. It is the way with all such girls, you know. I am sure it was with my sister, but, as in her case, marriage is the only cure. You need not be in the least uneasy, I assure you. All will right itself, though a good deal may go on that startles sober-minded people like us. I could condole with you on the charge, but you will find it the only way not to seem to thwart her. Violet thought it best to laugh, and talk of something else.

‘Then I depend on you for the cream of our party,’ said Miss Gardner, taking leave.

‘I cannot tell whether Captain Martindale can come,’ said Violet, somewhat bewildered by the conversation.

‘Is that girl a nonentity, or is she a deep genius?’ said Jane to herself as she walked home. ‘I cannot make her out. Now for the trial of power! If Theodora Martindale yields to the Fotheringhams now, and deserts Georgina, it will be a confirmation of all the absurd reports. As long as I have it to say the Martindale family are as intimate as ever, I have an answer for Lady Fotheringham, and if Mark is smitten with her, so much the better. I hope Percy Fotheringham may be properly rewarded for his presumption and ill-nature. The sooner they quarrel the better. I will send Theodora a note to put her on her mettle.’

The note arrived while Percy was spending the evening in Cadogan-place, and Theodora talking so happily that she grudged the interruption of opening and reading it.

‘DEAREST THEODORA,--One line further to secure you, though I told Mrs. Martindale of our plans. She would make no promises, but we reckon on your independence of action, at least. “Should auld acquaintance be forgot?”

‘Yours affectionately,

‘J. GARDNER.

‘P.S.--Mrs. Martindale looked very well. I hope she will have no recurrence of faintings.’

‘From Jane Gardner,’ said Theodora; ‘only to put me in mind of the picnic. Will you go, Arthur?’

‘I never was more glad to be on her Majesty’s service. What an abominable bore it would be!’

‘That is what gentlemen always say of picnics,’ said Theodora.

‘Not at all,’ said Percy. ‘A real country party of merry happy people, knowing each other well, and full of genuine honest glee, is one of the most enjoyable things that can be.’

‘That it is!’ cried Violet. ‘There was the day we went up Skiddaw, with no one but our cousins and Mr. Fanshawe, and dined on the mountain in sight of the valley of St. John; and the rain came on, and Mr. Fanshawe sat all the time holding an umbrella over Annette and the pigeon-pie.’

‘That was worth doing,’ said Percy; ‘but for a parcel of fine ladies and gentlemen to carry the airs and graces, follies and competitions, born in ball-rooms and nursed in soirees, out into pure country air and daylight, is an insult to the green fields and woods.’

‘That is a speech in character of author,’ said Theodora.

‘In character of rational being.’

‘Which you would not have made if the party had not been Georgina Finch’s.’

‘I had no notion whose it was, or anything about it.’

‘It is for her birthday, Tuesday,’ said Violet. ‘They are to have a steamer to Richmond, walk about and dine there; but I should not think that it would be very pleasant. Mrs. Bryanstone had one of these parties last year to Hampton Court, and she told me that unless they were well managed they were the most disagreeable things in the world; people always were losing each other, and getting into scrapes. She declared she never would have another.’

‘Mrs. Bryanstone has no idea of management,’ said Theodora.

‘I know who has less,’ said Arthur. ‘Your Georgina will let every one take their chance, and the worse predicaments people get into the louder she will laugh.’

‘There is nothing so intolerable as a woman who thinks herself too fashionable for good manners,’ said Percy.

‘Is any one waiting for an answer?’ asked Violet.

‘There is none,’ said Theodora. ‘They know I mean to go.’

‘To go!’ exclaimed all three, who had thought the question settled by Arthur’s refusal.

‘Yes, of course; I go with Georgina.’

‘With Mark Gardner, and the king of the clothes-brushes, and all their train, in moustaches and parti-coloured parasols!’ cried Percy. ‘Theodora, I thought you were a sensible woman.’

‘I am sorry if I forfeit that claim to your regard.’

‘Well, if I was your mother! However, it is devoutly to be hoped that it may rain.’

He then changed the conversation, and no more passed on this subject till, as he wished her good night, he said, in a low voice, ‘Think better of it, Theodora.’

‘My mind is made up,’ was the proud reply. In a few seconds he called Arthur to him on the stairs. ‘Arthur,’ he said, ‘if your sister is set on this wrong-headed scheme, at least don’t let her go with no one to look after her. Let her have some respectable person with her, merely for propriety’s sake. She fancies me prejudiced, and we have agreed to dispute no more on the woman’s goings on; but you have the keeping of her now.’

‘I wish Mrs. Finch was at Jericho, and Theodora after her!’ exclaimed Arthur, petulantly; ‘they will worry my wife to death between them.’

‘Then Theodora had better go home,’ said Percy, soberly.

‘No, no; we can’t do without her. She takes good care of Violet, and is very attentive and useful, and I can’t have Violet left alone. If we could but get her down off her high horse, and drive that impudent woman out of her head!--if you can’t, no one else can.’

‘It is very unfortunate,’ said Percy. ‘There is so much generous feeling and strong affection to prompt her resistance, that it is hard to oppose her, especially as I do believe there is no worse than folly and levity in this friend of hers. I wish these occasions would not arise. Left to herself these people would soon disgust her but for her own sake we must interfere, and that keeps up her partisanship.’

‘What is to be done?’ was Violet’s disconsolate beginning, as soon as she could see Arthur alone.

‘Take it easy’--words which she had taught herself to regard as a warning that she was doleful. ‘Never mind; if Theodora is so pig-headed as to rush into this scheme, it is no concern of yours. All you have to do is to take care not to be worried.’

Violet had regained a cheerful voice. ‘If you were going with her, it would not signify.’

‘It would signify pretty much to me to be bored with all that riff-raff. One would think Theodora bewitched.’

‘There is hardly any one of our acquaintance.’

‘No, the lady has dropped pretty much in the scale.’

‘I wish I knew what your father and mother would think of it.’

‘They would hate it as much as we do, but they could not prevent it. Nobody can stop Theodora when once she has the bit between her teeth. As I told Percy, if he can’t, ‘tis past all power. I wonder if he thinks by this time he has caught a Tartar?’

‘Did he call you to speak about it?’

‘Yes; to say I must by no means let her go without a respectable female to look after her.’

‘I don’t know these ladies; but if Mrs. Finch would ask Mrs. Bryanstone, she is so good-natured that I dare say she would go.’

‘That would be the most tolerable way of doing it; but I would lay you anything you please that nothing but unmitigated Finch will content her.’

‘And that is worse than no one.’

‘I wish some stop could be put to it. It is worse than Percy knows. She can’t speak to a man without flirting, and we shall have her turning some poor fellow’s head, like Wingfield’s. I don’t think it is respectable!’

‘It is very strange, so good and religious as she is.’

‘Where is the use of her religion if it does not bring down her pride or cure her obstinacy? If it would, I should see some good in the rout she makes about going to church and teaching dirty children.’

‘Oh! Arthur, dear, don’t say that.’

‘It is the truth, though.’

‘I think,’ said Violet, diffidently, ‘that some day the good will conquer the rest. Some day she will feel these things to be wrong and strive against them.’

‘Do you mean that she does not know it is wrong to be as wilful and proud as Lucifer?’

‘I do not think she knows she has those tendencies.’

Arthur laughed and shook his head. ‘One learns one’s faults as one grows older, you know,’ continued Violet, ‘and she is so very kind. Think of her giving up all going out in the evening to stay with me; and you don’t know how she waits on baby and me. She is so grand and noble, that kindness from her is delightful, and her face when it softens is so like you! Some book says that high natures have the most trouble with their faults.’

‘Then hers ought to be high indeed.’

Violet began the day by telling Arthur that his sister would go to make arrangements with Mrs. Finch, and asked him to tell her of their decision before he returned to Windsor that morning.

‘Our decision! What do you mean!’

‘Don’t you remember about Mrs. Bryanstone?’

‘Oh! if that is to be done, you must say it. Ladies must manage their own visiting affairs. I don’t understand chaperons and stuff.’

‘Arthur, you don’t mean me to speak?’

‘If it is to be done at all, it is woman’s work, and I see no use in it. She will toss her head, and only be more resolved on her own way.’

‘Oh, Arthur, one moment! Did you not say it ought to be done?’

‘Of course it ought; but it is of no use, and if you are wise, you will not tease yourself.’

‘But you said Percy insisted on it.’

‘So he did, but if he cannot tackle her himself, I am sure we can’t. I’ll have nothing to do with it--it is no affair of mine.’

‘Then, am I to let her alone?’

‘As you choose. I wish she would hear reason, but it is not worth bothering yourself for, when it is of no use.’

‘What do you wish me to do? I wish I knew--’

He shut the door behind him, and Violet tried to recover from her dismay. Thankful would she have been for commands not to interfere; but to be left to her own judgment was terrible when she knew that his true opinion coincided with hers. How could she hope to prevail, or not to forfeit the much-prized affection that seemed almost reluctantly to be at last bestowed?

But, cost what it might, Violet never swerved from a duty, and her mind was clear that to permit Theodora to join the party alone without remonstrance, and without the knowledge of her parents, would be improper. She resolved not to confuse herself with fears and anxieties, and strove to dwell on whatever could steady or calm her mind for the undertaking. How wide a difference in moral courage there was between that tall grenadier and his timid delicate wife.

Arthur and Theodora were both down-stairs before her, and the latter was preparing breakfast, when there was a knock. ‘Percy!’ she thought. ‘He shall see how useless it is to interfere!’

‘Mr. Albert Moss!’

Arthur threw aside his newspaper, and held out his hand with a fair show of welcome. ‘Ha! Moss, how are you? Your sister will be down-stairs directly. Miss Martindale--’

Theodora was resolved against being supercilious, but Mr. Moss’s intention of shaking hands obliged her to assert her dignity by a princess-like inclination.

‘Good morning,’ said Albert. ‘I came to town yesterday--slept at my uncle’s--have this day in London--much occupied--thought myself sure of you at breakfast.’

‘I will tell Mrs. Martindale,’ said Theodora, glad to escape that she might freely uplift her eyes at his self-sufficiency, and let her pity for Arthur exhale safely on the stairs.

She met Violet, and was vexed at her start of joy, only consoling herself by thinking that she did not look as if she was his sister. Indeed, after the momentary instinct of gladness, came fears lest Arthur might not be pleased, and Theodora be annoyed; but the familiar home-like voice drove away all except pleasure as soon as she was certified that her husband’s brow was smooth. His presence was a restraint, keeping Albert on his best behaviour, so that there was nothing to disturb her present enjoyment of home tidings. That good-humour and ease of his were indeed valuable ingredients of comfort.

He asked Albert to dinner, and desired him to bring Uncle Christopher, if they chose to be entertained by the ladies alone, further offering him a seat in his cab as far as their roads lay together. Highly gratified, Albert proceeded to ask his sister whether she was able to execute a commission for Matilda, the matching of a piece of chenille. Violet readily undertook it, and he said, ‘he would explain the occasion on his return.’

When they were gone, the cares of the morning returned upon her, and by the time her household affairs were finished, all her pulses were throbbing at the prospect of the effort to which she was nerving herself. She ordered herself to be quiet, and lay down on the sofa, leaving the door open that Theodora might not go out without her knowledge.

‘It is my duty,’ repeated she to herself. ‘If I turn from it because it is so dreadful to me, I shall not take up my cross! If she will only listen and not be angry!’

Nearly an hour passed, the day seeming to grow warmer and more oppressive, and a nervous headache coming on. Poor Violet! she was still a frightened child, and when she saw Theodora coming down with her bonnet on, the fluttering of her heart made her call so feeble that Theodora supposed her ill, and came to her with kind solicitude that rendered it still harder to say what she knew would be taken as an affront.

With great difficulty she uttered the words, ‘I only wanted to speak to you about this expedition to Richmond.’

‘Well,’ said Theodora, smiling with what was meant for good-humour, but was only scorn, ‘you need not distress yourself, my dear, I am ready to hear.’

‘Would you get Mrs. Finch to ask Mrs. Bryanstone, and go with her?’ Violet could really speak at no more length.

‘It would be folly. Mrs. Bryanstone would be out of her element, and only a nuisance to herself and every one else. That will do. You have discharged your conscience.’

‘It is not myself alone,’ said Violet, sitting up, and gathering force to speak firmly and collectedly, but with her hand on her heart. ‘Your brother and I both think it is not right, nor what Lord and Lady Martindale would approve, that you should join this party without some one they know and like.’

You mistake, Violet. This is not like a ball. There is no absurd conventionality, tacking a spinster to a married woman.’

‘No, but since. Arthur cannot be with you, it is needful to take measures to prevent any awkwardness for you.’

‘Thank you. I’ll take care of that.’

‘Dear Theodora, I did not mean to vex you; but will you only put yourself in our place for one moment. Your father and mother let you stay here on the understanding that you go out with us, and when we cannot go, do you think we ought to see you put yourself under the escort of a person to whom we believe they would object?’

‘I have told you that I know what my own father and mother permit.’

Violet was silent, and pressed her hand on her brow, feeling as if all her prepared arguments and resolutions were chased away by the cool disregard which seemed to annihilate them even in her own eyes. By an effort, however, she cleared her mind, conjured back her steadiness, and spoke, preserving her voice with difficulty from being plaintive. ‘You may know what they permit you, but we owe them duties too. Theodora, if you will not take some one with you whom we know they would approve, we must write and ask what Lord Martindale would wish.’

‘Arthur will never write,’ said Theodora, in defiance; but the answer took her by surprise--‘If he does not, I shall.’

‘If there is to be such a rout, I will not go at all.’

‘Indeed I think it would be the best plan,’ said Violet, removing the hand that had been hiding the springing tears, to look up beseechingly, and see whether the project were resigned, and herself spared the letter which she well knew would be left to her lot.

But for those wistful eyes, Theodora would have felt caught in her own trap; for such speeches had often brought governess, mother, and even aunt, to humble entreaties that she would take her own course. She had to recollect her words before she perceived that she had yielded, and that she must abide by them. Anything was better than the humiliation of Violets sending home complaints of her conduct. She was greatly incensed; but a glance at the gentle, imploring face, and the hands trying in vain not to tremble with nervousness, could not but turn away her wrath. It was impossible to manifest displeasure; but to speak a word of concession seemed still more impossible. She impetuously threw off her bonnet, seized a pen, dashed off a few lines, and tossed the note and its envelope into Violet’s lap, saying, in her low voice of proud submission, ‘There! you will send it,’ and left the room. Violet read

‘MY DEAR GEORGINA,--My brother is engaged at Windsor, and I cannot join your party to Richmond.

‘Yours sincerely,

‘TH. A. MARTINDALE.

‘Mrs. Martindale is pretty well, thank you.’

Violet almost expected Theodora’s next note would announce her return home. She had been forced to give up all the affection so slowly gained, and to wound her proud sister-in-law where she was most sensitive. Should she hold Theodora to this renunciation, and send the note she had extorted, or should she once more ask whether this was in earnest, and beg her to reconsider the alternative?

But Violet was convinced that Theodora intended to hear no more about the matter, and that nothing would be such an offence as to be supposed to have acted hastily. She was afraid of renewing the subject, lest her weakness should lose her what she had gained. ‘Better,’ thought she, ‘that Theodora should think me presumptuous and troublesome than that she should mix herself up with these people, and, perhaps, displease Percy for ever. But, oh! if I could but have done it without vexing her, and to-day, too, when she has to bear with Albert.’

Violet felt that she must give way to her headache, trusting that when it had had its will it might allow her to be bright enough to make a fair show before Albert. She lay with closed eyes, her ear not missing one tick of the clock, nor one sound in the street, but without any distinct impression conveyed to her thoughts, which were wandering in the green spots in the park at Wrangerton, or in John’s descriptions of the coral reefs of the West Indies. The first interruption was Sarah’s bringing down the baby, whom she was forced to dismiss at once.

Again all was still, but the half slumber was soon interrupted, something cold and fragrant was laid on her brow, and, thinking Sarah would not be satisfied without attending to her, she murmured thanks, without opening her eyes. But the hand that changed the cool handkerchief was of softer texture; and, looking up, she saw Theodora bending over her, with the face so like Arthur’s, and making every demonstration of kindness and attention--drawing down blinds, administering sal volatile, and doing everything in her service.

Not that Theodora was in the least subdued. She was burning with resentment with every one--with Percy and his prejudice; with the gossiping world; with her friends for making this a trial of power; with Arthur for having put forward his poor young wife when it cost her so much. ‘He knew I should not have given way to him! Feebleness is a tyrant to the strong. It was like putting the women and children on the battlements of a besieged city. It was cowardly; unkind to her, unfair on me. She is a witch!’

But candour was obliged to acknowledge that it had not been feebleness that had been the conqueror. Violet had made no demonstration of going into fits; it had been her resolution, her strength, not her weakness, that had gained the victory. Chafe as Theodora might, she could not rid herself of the consciousness that the sister of that underbred attorney--that timid, delicate, soft, shrinking being, so much her junior--had dared to grapple with her fixed determination, and had gained an absolute conquest. ‘Tyrant!’ thought Theodora, ‘my own brother would have left me alone, but she has made him let her interfere. She means to govern us all, and the show of right she had here has overthrown me for once; but it shall not happen again.’

At this juncture Theodora discovered, from the sounds in the other room, how much Violet had suffered from her effort, and her compassion was instantly excited. ‘I must go and nurse her. She meant to do right, and I honour the real goodness. I am no petted child, to be cross because I have lost a pleasure.’

So she took exemplary care of Violet, read aloud, warded off noises, bribed the brass band at the other side of the square, went up to see why Johnnie was crying, carried up her luncheon, waited on her assiduously, and succeeded so well, that by the time the carriage came round, the head was in a condition to be mended by fresh air.

Mere driving out was one of Theodora’s aversions. If she did not ride, she had district visiting and schooling; but to-day she went with Violet, because she thought her unfit to be tired by Matilda’s commission. It proved no sinecure. The west-end workshops had not the right article; and, after trying them, Theodora pronounced that Violet must drive about in the hot streets no longer. One turn in the park, and she would set her down, and go herself into the city, if necessary, to match the pattern.

And this from Theodora, who detested fancy work, despised what she called ‘dabblers in silk and wool,’ and hated the sight of a Berlin shop!

Violet would not have allowed it; but Theodora threw her determination into the scale, resolved to make herself feel generous and forgiving, and not above taking any trouble to save Violet. So off she set, and was gone so long that Violet had a long rest, and came down-stairs, much revived, to welcome her brother.

Albert arrived alone. Uncle Christopher was engaged, and had charged him with his excuses, for which Violet was sorry, as he was an unpretending, sensible man, to whom she had trusted for keeping her brother in order; but Albert was of a different opinion. ‘No harm,’ he said. ‘It was very good-natured of Martindale, but he is a queer old chap, who might not go down so well in high life,’ and he surveyed his own elegant toilette.

‘We get on very well,’ said Violet, quietly.

‘Besides,’ added Albert, attempting bashfulness, ‘I have a piece of intelligence, which being slightly personal, I should prefer--you understand.’

Violet was prepared by her sister’s letters for the news that Albert was engaged to Miss Louisa Davis, very pretty, ‘highly accomplished,’ and an heiress, being the daughter of a considerable county banker--a match superior to what Albert could have expected. They had been engaged for the last fortnight, but he had not allowed his sisters to mention it, because he was coming to London, and wished to have the pleasure of himself communicating the intelligence. Violet was much flattered; she who used to be nobody to be thus selected! and she threw herself into all the home feelings. The wedding was fixed for the beginning of July, and this first made her remember the gulf between her and her family.

Seven o’clock was long past when Theodora entered, arrayed in rich blue silk and black lace, put on that Violet’s brother might see she meant to do him honour; and so Violet understood it, but saw that he was only contrasting it with her own quiet-coloured muslin.

Here ended Violet’s comfort. Albert was so much elated that she was afraid every moment of his doing something mal-a-propos. Theodora was resolved to be gracious, and make conversation, which so added to his self-satisfaction, that Violet’s work was to repress his familiarity. At dinner, she made Theodora take Arthur’s place, and called her Miss Martindale, otherwise she believed it would be Theodora the next moment with him, and thus she lost all appearance of ease. She was shy for her brother, and when he said anything she did not like, tried to colour it rightly; but she was weary and languid, and wanted spirit to control the conversation.

‘So, Violet, Fanshawe’s appointment was a pretty little bit of patronage of yours; but the ladies of Wrangerton will never forgive you. They were going to get up a subscription to give him a piece of plate.’

‘O, yes! and he desired them to send the money to the “Society for the Propagation of the Gospel,”’ said Violet. ‘Annette mentioned it.’

‘I suppose it depends on Mr. Martindale, whether he makes a good thing of it in Barbuda,’ said Albert; but the gov--’ at a dismayed look from her, he turned it into ‘My father is much obliged to you for getting him out of the way. The girls were so taken up with him one hardly knew whether something might not come of it; and really a poor curate--after the manner in which some of the family have connected themselves.’

The ladies were sorry for each other--one ashamed and one amused, neither venturing to look up, and Albert had no opportunity for the bow he intended for Miss Martindale.

‘By the bye,’ continued he, ‘who is this Fotheringham that was to settle with Fanshawe? I thought he was Lord Martindale’s solicitor; but my uncle knows nothing about him.’

Violet coloured crimson, and wished herself under the table; Theodora made violent efforts to keep from an explosion of laughing.

‘No,’ said Violet, rather indignantly; ‘he is--he is--he is--’ she faltered, not knowing how to describe one so nearly a relation, ‘a great friend of--’

Theodora having strangled the laugh, came to her rescue, and replied, with complete self-possession, ‘His sister, who died, was engaged to my eldest brother.’

‘Oh! I beg your pardon. You look on him as a sort of family connection. I suppose, then, he is one of the Fotheringhams of Worthbourne? Matilda fancied he was the literary man of that name; but that could not be.’

‘Why not?’ said Theodora, extremely diverted.

‘A poet, an author! I beg your pardon; but a lady alone could suppose one of that description could be employed in a practical matter. Is not it Shakespeare who speaks of the poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling? Eh, Violet? I shall never forget the gove--my father’s indignation when he detected your humble servant in the act of attempting a slight tribute to the Muses. I believe the old gentleman looked on my fate as sealed.’

‘Albert!’ said Violet, feeling as if she must stop his mouth, ‘you are quite mistaken. Mr. Fotheringham does belong to the family you mean, and he did write “The Track of the Crusaders”. He has been attached to the embassy in Turkey, and is waiting for another appointment.’ Then, looking at Theodora, ‘You never told me how far you went to-day.’

Theodora detailed her long pursuit of the chenille, and her successful discovery of it at last. Albert’s gratitude was extreme; his sister would be delighted and flattered, the work would receive an additional value in the eyes of all, and he might well say so, he was a party concerned, the material was for a waistcoat, to be worn on an occasion--but his sister would explain.

Violet thought he had exposed himself quite enough; and as dessert was on the table, she rose with as good a smile as she could, saying, ‘Very well, I’ll explain; you will find your way to the drawing-room,’ and retreated.

Theodora caressingly drew her arm into hers, much pleased with her, and accepting her as entirely Martindale, and not at all Moss. ‘What! is he going to be married in it?’

‘Yes, that is what he meant.’

‘I hope you are satisfied.’

‘O yes, I never saw her; but they are all very much pleased.’

‘Now tell me frankly, which do you like? Shall I leave you at peace with him, or will he think it rude in me?’

Violet decided in favour of Theodora’s absence till tea-time. Alone she had enjoyed Albert, but the toil of watching his manners was too much.

‘Then I’ll come down and make the tea.’

‘Thank you, dear Theodora. It is so kind. I hope it will not be very disagreeable. And one thing--could you tell him how well I really am, except for to-day’s headache, or he will go and take home another bad account of me.’

‘Your head is worse again. There, I’ll fetch some lavender, and do you lie still and rest it till he comes.’

He soon came.

‘Well, Miss Martindale is a fine young lady, upon my word. Real high blood and no mistake. And not so high in her manner after all, when one knows how to deal with her.’

‘She is very kind to me.’

‘And how long does she stay?’

‘O, for some time longer. Till August, most likely.’

‘Why, she will get the command of your house altogether.’

‘I am very glad to have her here.’

‘Ah!’ said Albert, looking confidential, ‘you do right to be prudent, but you may trust me, and I should be glad to know that it is more comfortable than last year.’

‘It never was otherwise,’ said Violet.

‘I hope so,’ said Albert; ‘I honour your prudence, and, after all, you have a handsome establishment,--capital dinners, good turnout. I only wish I could see you look in better spirits.’

Violet started forward and coloured. ‘Albert, don’t take up fancies. I am perfectly happy, and you must believe it. They all pet and spoil me with kindness. If you think me looking poorly to-day it is only from a headache, which Miss Martindale has been nursing so carefully and tenderly.’

‘Well, you cannot be too cautious if you are to stand well with the family. You do well to be on your guard. Martindale only the second son, and the elder may marry any day. That was one thing I thought I ought to speak to you about. You really should try to get some settlement made on you. You have nothing to depend upon, and, you see, you cannot expect anything from home.’

‘Do not talk about such things.’

‘You must not be childish, Violet; I am come as your best friend to give you advice. You ought to consider what would become of you if you were left with a family of young children, connected as you are. You depend entirely on one life, and you must not reckon on us, as you MUST see.’

‘I see,’ said Violet, only wanting him to cease.

‘Then you perceive I have your real interest in view when I tell you it is your duty to use what influence you have to get some provision made.’

‘Don’t go on, Albert. As my marriage was brought about, it would be improper in me to do anything of the kind.’

‘I only wished you to see what you have to trust to. Ah! by the bye, there’s the old aunt. Have not you expectations from her?’

‘No; she was so much offended at our marriage that there is no likelihood of her doing anything for us.’

‘Bless me! That’s a bad case! But you have been staying there. Can’t a pretty engaging thing like you manage to come round the old lady and get into her good graces?’

‘Albert! don’t talk so.’

‘Really, Violet, it is time to give up being a silly child. You ought not to throw away your true interests, or the time will come when you will be sorry, and remember what I said; but you are not to depend on me.’

‘No,’ said Violet, and scalding tears arose, ‘I do not. You need not be afraid. I have a brother who will take care of me and mine.’

‘John Martindale?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you know your own ground. I thought it my duty to warn you, and I hope you will take care to make the most of yourself--it will never do to let yourself seem of no importance, and be overcrowed by this haughty young lady.’

Violet nearly laughed, but the next speech was too much for her patience. ‘And you are satisfied at Martindale being so much from home?’

‘He must be while his regiment is at Windsor;’ and she rang for tea, and sent a message to summon Miss Martindale, feeling her presence her only protection.

Her head ached so much that she was obliged to lie on the sofa and let things take their chance, and Theodora’s attempt to represent her in good health only appeared like blindness and indifference. Albert was much enchanted with Miss Martindale, and made himself more ridiculous, until it was a great satisfaction to his sister to see him depart.

‘He always comes on unlucky days!’ she said. ‘I wish I could have made it go off better. Thank you for taking all the trouble.’

‘No trouble at all,’ said Theodora, kindly. ‘I am sorry you had so much to tire you in the morning. Now, come up to your room. I wish I could carry you, as Arthur does.’

She put her arm round her, helped her tenderly up the stairs, and came in several times to her room to see that she was comfortable. At the last good night, Violet whispered, ‘Dear Theodora, don’t think my sisters like this--’

‘I’ll judge them from you, my dear little sister.’

‘And you forgive me?’

‘To be sure I do. You did as you thought right.’ Strange to say, Theodora had more sympathy for Violet after this awkward evening.

In the middle of the following day, Violet and little Johnnie were together in the drawing-room, when Arthur came in, ‘Well, how are you? I am only here for two hours, but I wanted to know how you are getting on.’

‘Very well indeed, thank you.’

‘Theodora sticks to her flight of Finches, I suppose?’

‘She has been so kind! she has given it up.’

You don’t mean it. I thought she was ready to go through fire and water!’ cried Arthur, incredulously.

‘She has written to refuse.’

‘What, Percy brought her to reason?’

‘No, he has not been here, but I suppose his opinion influenced her.’

‘What in the name of wonder prevailed! I never saw her turn when once she had taken up a notion.’

‘I believe it was that I said you or I must write to her father, and ask what he wished.’

‘So that settled her! Ha! Well done! Theodora forced to give up her will, and by you! Well, that is the best thing I have heard a long time. My little Violet to have got the upper hand of Miss Martindale!’ and Arthur burst into such a fit of triumphant laughter as to quite discomfort Violet, but little Johnnie by her side on the sofa, catching the infection of merriment, gave, what was very unusual with him, a regular shout of baby fun, and went on laughing in ecstasy that set Arthur off on a fresh score. ‘So! young man, you think it very funny that mamma has been too much for Aunt Theodora?’

Theodora could not have chosen a more unlucky moment for walking into the room! However, it must remain uncertain whether she had heard. The visible consequence of the late air was exemplary attention to Violet’s comfort; and that doubt, so often balanced in her sister’s mind, whether she loved Percy, now inclined to the affirmative, for there was a concealed disquietude at his totally absenting himself from Cadogan-place. They did not see him again till the very day of the picnic, when, as they were driving in the park, the exclamation--‘There he is! broke from her, and then she leant back, vexed at having betrayed her joy.

He came to speak to them with such an open beaming look of gratification as Violet trusted was a recompense, but Theodora chose to keep an unmoved countenance; and it was only Violet’s happy congratulating face that assured him that all was right and the Richmond scheme resigned.

She asked him to dinner for that day, and he gladly accepted; but Theodora, considering it a sugar-plum to console her for staying at home, behaved as if it was a matter of indifference.

Violet took care to leave them alone, and she began the subject herself. ‘You find me here to-day, Percy, but it is no proof that I am convinced.’

‘It shows, as I hoped, that your good sense would prevail when left to itself.’

‘No, it was Violet.’

‘I honour her and you more than I ever did before.’

‘That’s your way,’ said Theodora, with the bright smile that was an act of oblivion for all her waywardness. ‘All you value is a slave with no will of her own.’

‘One who has a will, but knows how to resign it.’

‘That you may have the victory.’

‘No, but that you may be greater than he that taketh a city.’

Theodora raised her eyes much softened. She never liked Percy so well as when he made these direct attacks on her faults in general; when it came to a combat over the individual questions, it was a different matter.

‘I am very glad you have given this up,’ Percy proceeded. ‘It is a positive relief to my mind to find that you can yield. Do not be ashamed of it, it is the best thing you have done a long time.’

‘But, Percy, I did not do it on principle; I did it because Violet would have written to papa.’

‘There’s the true sort of spirit! Brave enough to confront even you for the right, yet yielding her own will and wish at the first moment. I think more highly of Mrs. Martindale the more I hear of her.’

‘And you wish me to be like her?’ said Theodora, watching for the blunt negative.

‘No, but to see you what you might and ought to be. It is repeating what I told you when this first began. You have a noble nature, but you will not check yourself, will not control your pride; you cannot bear any attempt to curb you. You are proud of it; but I tell you, Theodora, it is not high spirit, it is absolute sinful temper. If no one else will tell you so, I must.’

Theodora bent her head and cast down her eyes, not in sullenness, but in sorrow. ‘It is true,’ she murmured; ‘I see it sometimes, and it frightens me.’

‘I know,’ he said, much moved, ‘the sense of right must conquer; but, indeed, Theodora, it is time to begin, that it may not be some evil consequence that subdues you.’ He opened “The Baptistery” as it lay on the table, and pointed to the sentence--‘If thou refusest the cross sent thee by an angel, the devil will impose on thee a heavier weight.’

Theodora looked up in his face; the words were applied in a sense new to her. ‘Are humility and submission my cross?’ said she.

‘If you would only so regard them, you would find the secret of peace. If you would only tame yourself before trouble is sent to tame you! But there, I have said what I felt it my duty to say; let us dwell on it no longer.’

The large tears, however, fell so fast, that he could not bear to have caused them, and presently she said, ‘You are right, Percy, I am proud and violent. I have grown up fearfully untamed. No one ever checked me but you, and that is the reason I look up to you beyond all others.’

The lioness was subdued, and the rest of the evening there was a gentleness and sober tone about her that made her truly charming: and a softer sense of happiness was around her when she awoke the next morning, making her feel convinced that this was indeed the only real peace and gladness.

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Chapter 17

Call me false, or call me free, Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on your face shall see Any grief for change of mine.

--E. B. BROWNING (The Lady’s Yes)

It appeared as if Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner were offended at Theodora’s defection, for nothing was heard of them for several days, and the household in Cadogan-place continued in a state of peacefulness. Arthur was again at home for a week, and Theodora was riding with him when she next met the two sisters, who at once attacked them for their absence from the picnic, giving an eager description of its delights and of the silence and melancholy of poor Lord St. Erme.

‘He and Mark were both in utter despair,’ said Jane.

‘Well, it is of no use to ask you; I have vowed I never will,’ said Mrs. Finch; ‘or I should try to make you come with us on Wednesday.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘You living in Captain Martindale’s house, and forgetting the Derby!’ And an entreaty ensued that both brother and sister would join their party. Arthur gave a gay, unmeaning answer, and they parted.

‘What do you think of it?’ asked Theodora.

‘Too much trouble,’ said he, lazily. ‘There is no horse running that I take interest in. My racing days are over. I am an old domestic character.’

‘Nonsense! You don’t look two-and-twenty! Lady Elizabeth’s sister would not believe you were my married brother. You have not the look of it.’

Arthur laughed, and said, ‘Absurd!’ but was flattered.

When he told his wife of the invitation, he added, ‘I wonder if there is a fresh breeze blowing up!’

‘I trust not.’

‘If she really wants to go, and she has never seen the thing, I had rather take her in a sober way by ourselves, and come home at our own time.’

‘Why don’t you! It would be very pleasant for you both, and I should be so glad. Think how she shuts herself up with me!’

‘We will see. Anything for a quiet life.’

Theodora, being fond of horses, and used to hear much about them from her brother, had a real curiosity to go to Epsom, and broached the subject the next morning at breakfast. Before any answer had been given, Mr. Fotheringham made his appearance.

‘Well, Percy,’ said Arthur, ‘you find this sister of mine bent on dragging me to Epsom. Come with us! You will have an opportunity of getting up an article against fashionable life.’

Theodora was ready to hide her desire for his consent, but thought better of it, and said, ‘It is of no use to ask him.’

‘Indeed I would go,’ said Percy; ‘I wish I could; but I came here to tell you that my Aunt Fotheringham is coming to London early on Wednesday for advice for her son, and will only be there two days, so that it is impossible to be away.’

‘Is Sir Antony Fotheringham coming?’ asked Violet, as Theodora did not speak.

‘No; he is a fixture. He has never even seen a railroad. My aunt could hardly persuade him to let her come up without the old chariot and posters.’

‘You will bring them here to dinner,’ said Arthur. ‘Thank you, I must not promise; I cannot tell what Pelham may be fit for. I must take him to the Zoological Gardens. How he will enjoy them, poor fellow! The only thing to guard against will be his growing too much excited.’

Percy was engaged that morning, and soon departed, with hardly a word from Theodora, whose amiability had been entirely overthrown by finding her service postponed to that of his aunt.

‘There’s the Derby happily disposed of!’ said Arthur, rising from the breakfast-table. ‘I don’t see why,’ said Theodora.

‘What! Is not this Percy’s well-beloved aunt, who nursed Helen, and is such a friend of John’s?’

‘I am not going to dance attendance on any one.’

‘It is your concern,’ said Arthur; ‘but, if you don’t take care, Percy won’t stand much more of this.’

Vouchsafing no answer, she quitted the room. Arthur made a gesture of annoyance. ‘She treats Percy like a dog!’ he said. ‘I believe my aunt is right, and that it never will come to good!’

‘Shall you go with her, then?’

‘I must, I suppose. She will not let me off now.’

‘If we do not vex her by refusing, I hope she will give it up of herself. I am almost sure she will, if no one says anything about it.’

‘Very well: I am the last person to begin. I am sick of her quarrels.’

Two wills were dividing Theodora: one calling on her to renounce her pride and obstinacy, take up the yoke while yet there was time, earn the precious sense of peace, and confer gladness on the honest heart which she had so often pained. Violet was as the genius of this better mind, and her very presence infused such thoughts as these, disposing her not indeed openly to yield, but to allow it to drop in silence.

But there was another will, which reminded her that she had thrice been baffled, and that she had heard the soft tyrant rejoicing with her brother over her defeat! She thought of Violet so subjugating Arthur, that he had not even dared to wish for his favourite amusement, as if he could not be trusted!

Such recollections provoked her to show that there was one whose determination would yield to no one’s caprice, and impelled her to maintain the unconquerable spirit in which she had hitherto gloried. Violet’s unexpressed opinion was tricked out as an object of defiance; and if she represented the genius of meekness, wilfulness was not without outward prompters.

Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner called, and found her alone. ‘There!’ said the former, ‘am I not very forgiving? Actually to come and seek you out again, after the way you served us. Now, on your honour, what was the meaning of it?’

‘The meaning was, that this poor child had been told it was etiquette for me to have a chaperon at my heels, and made such a disturbance that I was obliged to give up the point. I am not ashamed. She is a good girl, though a troublesome one at times.’

‘Who would have thought that pretty face could be so prudish!’

‘I suppose she is against your coming to Epsom!’ said Jane, interrupting her sister.

‘No; my brother and I have been proposing to go, independently; so as to be able to come home at our own time.’

‘You had better be satisfied with that, Georgina,’ said Jane. ‘We shall find ourselves together at the stand, and it will spare a few dangerous hysterics.’

‘I shall do nothing underhand,’ said Theodora. ‘I shall proclaim my intention of joining you; but I doubt, because Lady Fotheringham is coming to London.’

‘Her ladyship herself?’ cried Georgina. ‘What, in the name of wonder, brings her from her antediluvian hall?’

‘She brings her son for advice.’

‘We can say no more,’ said Jane. ‘Percy’s expectations would be ruined if the good lady found his intended concerned in such naughty doings. She must stay at home.’

‘To entertain Pelham!’ cried Mrs. Finch, in a paroxysm of laughing, of her most unreal kind.

‘Let me give you one piece of advice,’ said Jane. ‘Don’t make yourself too great a favourite, as I unwittingly did, or you will have no cessation of “I have a pony; it can trot; it can canter.”’

‘I have not decided.’

‘No,’ said Jane, ‘you cannot do it. We know Lady Fotheringham too well to ask you to lose your place in her regard for our sake. Probably this is a most important visit, and all may depend on her first impressions.’

‘I don’t depend on her.’

‘Ah! you don’t understand. She is the managing partner, and I have little doubt this is only an excuse for coming to inspect you. It is quite in their power, you know, to do the only rational thing under the circumstances--make an eldest son of Percy, and set poor Pelham aside, with enough to make him happy.

‘I do believe that must be it!’ cried Georgina. ‘She would be a dear old woman if she would only do it!’

‘And you see it would be fatal for Theodora to appear as a fashionable young lady, given to races, and the like vanities.’

‘I shall seem nothing but what I am.’

‘She would find Mrs. Martindale sighing at her inability to keep you out of bad company. So sorry to trust you with us. She did her utmost. No, no, Theodora; you must stay at home, and the good lady will be charmed.’

‘I do not intend to be turned from my course.’

‘No! Now, Jane, you should not have spoken in that way,’ said her sister. ‘You will only make Theodora more resolved to come with us; and, indeed, I had rather she did not, if it is to do her any harm.’

‘I shall leave you to settle it between you,’ said Jane, with apparent carelessness. ‘I shall go home to appease for a little while the unfortunate dressmaker, whom we are keeping so long waiting. Make the most of Theodora, while you can have her.’

She would not have gone, had she not believed her work done.

‘I have made up my mind,’ said Theodora, as the door closed.

‘Theodora! I do beg you will not,’ cried Georgina, in an agitated voice, fully meaning all she said. ‘You will vex and displease them all. I know you will, and I could not bear that! Your happiness is not wasted yet! Go, and be happy with your Percy!’

‘I have told Percy of my intentions. Do you think I would alter them for this notion of Jane’s?’

‘That is my own dear Theodora! But it is not only that. They are such good people--so kind! You must not risk their good opinion, for they would be so fond of you!’

‘If their good opinion depends on narrow-minded prejudice, I do not wish for it.’

‘If she would but come a day later,’ said Georgina; ‘for I do want you to be with me very much, Theodora! I know I shall meet with nothing but mortification, if you are not. People will only make that little starched bow! And Mr. Finch has noticed your not being so much with me. But no, no, you shall not come. You shall stay and see dear, good old Lady Fotheringham! Oh! how I wish I could!’ and her breast heaved with a suppressed sob.

‘Why do you not, then, dear Georgina? Let me tell her your feeling, and--’

‘No, no, no, no! I can never see her again! Don’t talk to me about her! She belongs to another state of existence.’

‘This will not do, Georgina. It is vain to turn aside now from what will and must come on you some day.’

‘Don’t! don’t, Theodora!’ said she, petulantly. ‘Everything goes against me! There’s Jane taken to lecturing, and even Mr. Finch is growing crabbed, and declares he shall take me to vegetate in this horrid place he has bought in the country.’

‘Oh, I am so glad!’ exclaimed Theodora. ‘Now then, there is a chance for you. If you will throw yourself into the duties and pursuits--’

‘What! be squiress and Lady Bountiful; doctor old women, and lecture school-children? No, no, that may do for you, but I am at least no hypocrite!’

‘I should be a great hypocrite, if I did not believe the old women and the children far better than myself,’ said Theodora, gravely. ‘But, indeed, trying to make them comfortable would occupy your mind, and interest you till--oh! if it would but help you on the only way to happiness--’

‘Don’t talk of that word any more with me.’

‘If not happiness, it would be peace.’

‘Peace! I don’t know what you mean.’

‘If you watched my sister, you would.’

‘She is happy!’ said Mrs. Finch, in a tone of keen regret, laying her hand on a toy of Johnnie’s; but instantly changing her note, ‘A cold, inanimate piece of wax! That is what you call peace! I would not have it.’

‘You don’t understand her--’

‘I know one thing!’ cried the fitful lady, vehemently; ‘that it is she who governs you all, and wants to divide you from me. ‘Tis she and your Percy who have robbed me of you, with their ill-natured stories.’

‘There is no ill-nature in them, and no one governs me,’ said Theodora.

‘Then you hold fast by me, and come with me?’

‘I do.’

‘My thorough-going old Theodora! I knew they could not spoil you, say what they would!’ for she was by no means insensible of the triumph.

‘But, Georgina,’ continued her friend, earnestly, ‘you must be prudent. Let me speak to you for once.’

‘Only don’t talk of prudence. I am sick of that from Jane.’

‘Yes! it is speaking on this world’s grounds; I will speak of higher motives. Think what is to come by and by: there are things that cannot be kept off by being forgotten. You are weary and dissatisfied as it is; try whether boldly facing the thoughts you dread might not lead to better things. There will be pain at first; but content will come, and--’

‘If you will come and stay with me in the country, you shall teach me all your ways. But no; it would put all the Fotheringhams in commotion! If I had a happy home I might be good. You must not quite forsake me, Theodora. But here’s Mrs. Martindale!’

Violet entering, Mrs. Finch greeted her in a subdued manner, and, indeed, looked so dejected that when she was gone, Violet asked if she was well.

‘Yes, poor thing, it is only the taste of the ashes she eats instead of bread. But I have had her alone, and have got her to hear some grave talk!’

‘Oh, how glad I am.’

‘But I cannot give up meeting her at Epsom. She would feel it a desertion, and my influence is the best hope for her. Besides, I will not sacrifice her to curry favour with the Worthbourne people.’

‘Surely it would not be doing so.’

‘I have made up my mind.’

Her better and worse feelings were alike enlisted in behalf of the expedition. Sincerity, constancy, and generosity were all drawn in to espouse the cause of pride and self-will; and she never once recollected that the way to rescue her friend from the vortex of dissipation was not to follow her into it.

Little was needed to rouse in Arthur the dormant taste so long the prevalent one. So eager was he when once stirred up, that his sister almost doubted whether she might not be leading him into temptation, as she remembered the warning against Mr. Gardner; but she repelled the notion of his being now liable to be led away, and satisfied herself by recollecting that whenever he had met his former school-fellow, he had shown no disposition to renew the acquaintance.

All the notice of Percy that she chose to take, was, that on the Tuesday evening, she said, as she wished Violet good night, ‘If Percy should call with his aunt to-morrow, which I don’t expect, you will explain, and say I hope to call early next day.’

‘Well! I hope you will get into no scrape,’ said Arthur; ‘but mind, whatever comes of it, ‘tis your doing, not mine.’

Words which she answered with a haughty smile, but which she was never to forget.

Violet saw the brother and sister depart, and could only hope that nothing might be heard of the Fotheringham party; but before half the morning had passed, the knock, for the first time unwelcome, sounded at the door, and there entered not only Percy, but an elderly lady who might have been supposed the grandmother, rather than the mother, of the tall comely youth who bashfully followed her.

Violet strove, by the warmth of her reception, to make up for what was wanting; but her sentences were broken and confused; she was glad and she was sorry, and they would be very sorry, and something about not expecting and calling early, was all mixed together, while she watched with deprecating looks the effect upon Percy.

‘Is she gone?’ he asked, in a low stern voice.

‘Yes; but she told me to say, in case--we hardly thought it likely--but in case Lady Fotheringham should be kind enough to call, she told me to say she will certainly call early to-morrow.’

Violet knew she had made a most tangled speech, and that there was great danger that her trembling sorrowful voice should convey to Lady Fotheringham an impression that there was something amiss; but she could only try to make the intelligence as little mortifying as possible.

The fact was enough. Percy stood in the window in silence, while his aunt, on learning where Miss Martindale was, good-naturedly supposed it had long been settled, and said it must be such a pleasure to the brother and sister to go together, that she should have been grieved if it had been prevented.

Violet spoke of the call to be made to-morrow; but Lady Fotheringham seemed to have so little time free that it was not probable she would be at home. Uneasy at Percy’s silence, Violet did not prosper in her attempts at keeping up the conversation, until Percy, suddenly coming forward, begged that ‘the boy’ might be sent for; his aunt must see John’s godson. It was chiefly for his own solace, for he carried the little fellow back to his window, and played with him there till luncheon-time, while the ladies talked of Mr. Martindale.

Violet won her visitor’s heart by her kind manner to the poor son, who was very well trained, and behaved like an automaton, but grew restless with the hopes of wild beasts and London shops. His mother was about to take leave, when Percy proposed to take charge of him, and leave her to rest for the afternoon with Mrs. Martindale, a plan very acceptable to all parties.

Lady Fotheringham was a woman of many sorrows. Her husband was very feeble and infirm, and of a large family, the youngest, this half-witted son, was the only survivor. Grief and anxiety had left deep traces on her worn face, and had turned her hair to a snowy whiteness; her frame was fragile, and the melancholy kindness of her voice deeply touched Violet. There was much talk of John, for whom Lady Fotheringham had a sort of compassionate reverence, derived from his patient resignation during Helen’s illness, of which Violet now gathered many more particulars, such as added to her affection and enthusiasm for both.

Of her nephew, Percival, Lady Fotheringham spoke in the highest terms, and dwelt with pleasure on the engagement still connecting him with the Martindale family. Violet was glad to be able to speak from her heart of Theodora’s excellence and kindness.

By and by, her visitor, in a sad voice, began to inquire whether she ever saw ‘a young connection of theirs, Mrs. Finch;’ and as Violet replied, said she was anxious to hear something of her, though she feared it was a painful subject. ‘I cannot help being interested for her,’ she said. ‘She was a very fine girl, and had many good dispositions; but I fear she was very ill managed. We grew very fond of her, when she was at Worthbourne, poor thing, and if we and that excellent elder sister could have kept her to ourselves, we might have hoped--But it was very natural that she should grow tired of us, and there was much excuse for her--’

‘Indeed there was, from all Theodora has told me.’

‘I am glad to hear Miss Martindale keeps up her friendship. While that is the case, I am sure there is nothing positively wrong, though imprudent I fear she must be.’

Violet eagerly explained how every one was fully satisfied that, though Mrs. Finch was too free and dashing in manner, and too fond of attracting notice, there was principle and rectitude at the bottom, and that her life of dissipation was chiefly caused by the tedium of her home. All attachment between her and Mark Gardner had evidently died away; and though it might have been wiser to keep him at a distance, she had some good motives for allowing him to be often at her house.

Lady Fotheringham was relieved to hear this, and added that she might have trusted to Jane. Violet was surprised to find that Miss Gardner held a very high place in Lady Fotheringham’s esteem, and was supposed by her to take most watchful, motherly care of her headstrong younger sister. She had made herself extremely agreeable at Worthbourne, and had corresponded with Lady Fotheringham ever since; and now Violet heard that Jane had thought the marriage with Mr. Finch a great risk, and would willingly have dissuaded her sister from it; but that Georgina had been bent upon it! ‘thinking, no doubt, poor girl, that riches and gaiety would make her happy! I wish we could have made it pleasanter to her at Worthbourne!’

‘She has spoken very affectionately of you.’

‘Ah, poor child! she had met with little kindness before. She used to pour out her griefs to me. It was that wretched Mark who broke her heart, and after that she seemed not to care what became of her. But I am a little comforted by your account. I will try to see her to-morrow, poor dear. Percy was hoping I should be able, although I think that he is quite right not to visit them himself.’

Violet agreed to all, and was pleased at the notion of the good old lady’s influence being tried on one evidently amenable to right impressions. As far as she herself was concerned, the visit was very gratifying, and when the leave-taking came, it seemed as if they had been intimate for years.

Violet sat pondering whether the dulness of Worthbourne and the disappointment of her first love had been the appointed cross of Georgina Gardner, cast aside in impatience of its weight. And then she tried to reconcile the conflicting accounts of Jane’s influence in the matter, till she thought she was growing uncharitable; and after having tried in vain to measure the extent of Percy’s annoyance, she looked from the window to see if carriages seemed to be returning from Epsom, and then with a sigh betook herself to the book Theodora had provided for her solitude.

She had long to wait. Arthur and his sister came home later than she had expected, and did not bring the regale of amusing description that they had promised her.

Arthur was silent and discontented, and went to his smoking-room. Theodora only said it had been very hot, and for the first time really looked tired, and owned that she was so. It had been hard work, first to draw Arthur into Mrs. Finch’s party, against which he exerted all his lazy good-humoured “vis inertia”--undertaking to show her everything, and explain all to her, be at her service all the day, if only she would keep away from them and their nonsense. But when their carriage was found, and Arthur was dragged into the midst of them, a still harder task arose. She was frightened to see Mark Gardner conversing with him, while he looked eager and excited, and she hastened to interrupt, put forth every power of attraction, in the resolve entirely to monopolize Mr. Gardner; and for a long time, at the expense of severe exertion in talking nonsense, she succeeded. But some interruption occurred; she missed Mr. Gardner, she missed Arthur; they were waited for; she wondered and fretted herself in vain, and at length beheld them returning in company-heard Mrs. Finch gaily scolding them, and understood that there had been bets passing!

She called it fatigue, but it was rather blank dread, and the sense that she had put herself and others in the way of evil.

It was possible that Arthur might have been only a spectator; or, if not, that he might have known where to stop. He had bought his experience long ago, at high cost; but Theodora was but too well aware of his unsteadiness of purpose and facile temper; and in spite of his resolutions, it was a fearful thing to have seen him in such a place, in such company, and to know that almost against his own desire she had conducted him thither for the gratification of her self-will.

Vainly did she strive to banish the thought, and to reassure herself by his manner. She knew too well what it was wont to be when he had been doing anything of which he was ashamed. One bet, however, was no great mischief in itself. That book which Percy had given to her spoke of ‘threads turning to cords, and cords to cables strong.’ Had she put the first thread once more into the hand of the Old Evil Habit’?

If she would confess the sin to herself and to her God, with earnest prayer that the ill might be averted, perhaps, even yet, it might be spared to them all.

But the proud spirit declared there was no sin. She had merely been resolute and truthful. So she strengthened herself in her belief in her own blamelessness, and drove down the misgiving to prey on the depths of her soul, and sharpen her temper by secret suffering.

In the morning she accompanied Violet to call on Lady Fotheringham, sullen, proud, and bashful at the sense of undergoing inspection, and resolved against showing her best side, lest she should feel as if she was winning Worthbourne for Percy.

That majestic ill-humour was wasted--Lady Fotheringham was not at home; but Violet left a note begging her to come to luncheon the next day. It passed, and she appeared not: but at twelve on Saturday, Percy’s tread hurried up-stairs and entered the back drawing-room, where Theodora was sitting.

Sounds of voices followed--the buzz of expostulation; tones louder and louder--words so distinct that to prevent her anxious ears from listening, Violet began to practise Johnnie in all his cries of birds and beasts.

All at once the other room door was opened, and Theodora’s stately march was heard, while one of the folding leaves was thrown back, and there stood Percy.

Before a word could be spoken, he snatched up the child, and held him up in the air to the full reach of his arms. Doubtful whether this was to be regarded as play, Johnnie uttered ‘Mamma,’ in a grave imploring voice, which, together with her terrified face, recalled Mr. Fotheringham to his senses. With an agitated laugh he placed the boy safely beside her, saying, ‘I beg your pardon. What a good little fellow it is!’

Violet asked him to ring for the nurse; and by the time Johnnie had been carried away, he had collected himself sufficiently to try to speak calmly.

‘Do her parents know what is going on?’ he said. ‘I do not speak for my own sake. That is at an end.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Violet.

‘I told her I could not be made a fool of any longer, and when she answered “Very well,” what could that mean?’

‘I am very much grieved that it has come to this,’ sighed Violet.

‘How could it come to anything else?’ he said, his face full of sorrow and severity. ‘I was mad to suppose there was any hope for such a temper of pride and stubbornness. Yet,’ he added, softening, and his quick, stern eyes filling with tears, ‘it is a noble nature,--high-minded, uncompromising, deeply tender, capable of anything. It has been a cruel wicked thing to ruin all by education. What could come of it? A life of struggle with women who had no notion of an appeal to principle and affection--growing up with nothing worthy of her love and respect--her very generosity becoming a stumbling-block, till her pride and waywardness have come to such an indomitable pitch that they are devouring all that was excellent.’

He paused; Violet, confused and sorrowful, knew not how to answer; and he proceeded, ‘I have known her, watched her, loved her from infancy! I never saw one approaching her in fine qualities. I thought, and still think, she needs but one conquest to rise above all other women. I believed guidance and affection would teach her all she needed; and so they would, but it was presumption and folly to think it was I who could inspire them.’

‘O, Mr. Fotheringham, indeed--’

‘It was absurd to suppose that she who trifles with every one would not do so with me. Yet, even now, I cannot believe her capable of carrying trifling to the extent she has done.’

‘She was in earnest,--oh! she was!’

‘I would fain think so,’ said he, sadly. ‘I held to that trust, in spite of the evidence of my senses. I persuaded myself that her manners were the effect of habit--the triumph of one pre-eminent in attraction.’

‘That they are! I don’t even think she knows what she does.’

‘So I believed; I allowed for her pleasure in teasing me. I knew all that would come right. I ascribed her determination to run after that woman to a generous reluctance to desert a friend.’

‘Indeed, indeed it is so!’

‘But how am I to understand her neglect of my aunt--the one relation whom I have tried to teach her to value--my aunt, who was the comfort of my sister and of her brother--who had suffered enough to give her a claim to every one’s veneration! To run away from her to the races, and the society of Mark Gardner and Mrs. Finch! Ay, and what do you think we heard yesterday of her doings there, from Gardner’s own mother? That she is giving him decided encouragement! That was the general remark, and on this, poor Mrs. George Gardner is founding hopes of her son settling down and becoming respectable.’

‘Oh! how terrible for you to hear! But it cannot be true. It must be mere report. Arthur would have observed if there had been more than her usual manner.’

‘A pretty manner to be usual! Besides, Jane Gardner did not deny it.’

‘Jane Gardner?’

‘Yes. My aunt called at Mrs. Finch’s, but saw neither of them; but this morning, before she went, Miss Gardner called. I did not see her. I was out with Pelham, and my aunt spoke to her about all this matter. She answered very sensibly, regretted her sister’s giddy ways, but consoled my aunt a good deal on that score, but--but as to the other, she could not say, but that Mark was a great admirer of--of Miss Martindale, and much had passed which might be taken for encouragement on Wednesday by any one who did not know how often it was her way!’

‘It is a pity that Miss Gardner has had to do with it,’ said Violet. ‘When I have been talking to her, I always am left with a worse impression of people than they deserve.’

‘You never have a bad impression of any one.’

‘I think I have of Miss Gardner. I used to like her very much, but lately I am afraid I cannot believe her sincere.’

‘You have been taught to see her with Theodora’s eyes. Of course, Mrs. Finch despises and contemns prudence and restraint, and the elder sister’s advice is thrown aside.’

‘You never saw Jane Gardner?’

‘Never;--but that is not the point here. I am not acting on Jane Gardner’s report. I should never trouble myself to be jealous of such a scoundrel as Mark. I am not imagining that there is any fear of her accepting him. Though, if such a notion once possessed her, nothing would hinder her from rushing on inevitable misery.’

‘Oh, there is no danger of that.’

‘I trust not. It would be too frightful! However, I can look on her henceforth only as John’s sister, as my little playmate, as one in whom hopes of untold happiness were bound up.’ He struggled with strong emotion, but recovering, said, ‘It is over! The reason we part is independent of any Gardner. She would not bear with what I thought it my duty to say. It is plain I was completely mistaken in thinking we could go through life together. Even if there was reason to suppose her attached to me, it would be wrong to put myself in collision with such a temper. I told her so, and there is an end of the matter.’

‘It is very, very sad,’ said Violet, mournfully.

‘You don’t think I have used her ill.’

‘Oh, no! You have borne a great deal. You could do no otherwise; but Arthur and John will be very much vexed.’

‘It is well that it is known to so few. Let it be understood by such as are aware of what has been, that I bear the onus of the rupture. No more need be known than that the break was on my side. We both were mistaken. She will not be blamed, and some day’--but he could not speak calmly--’ she will meet one who will feel for her as I do, and will work a cure of all these foibles. You will see the glorious creature she can be.’

‘The good will conquer at last,’ said Violet, through her tears.

‘I am convinced of it, but I fear it must be through much trial and sorrow. May it only not come through that man.’

‘No, no!’

‘Then good-bye.’

They shook hands with lingering regret, as if unwilling to resign their relationship. ‘You will explain this to Arthur, and give him my thanks for his friendliness; and you--accept my very best thanks for your great kindness and sympathy. If she had known you earlier--But good-bye. Only, if I might venture to say one thing more--you and Arthur will not give me up as a friend, will you?’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Violet, as well as her tears would permit, ‘I am sure we are but too glad--’

He pressed her hand gratefully, and was gone; while overwhelmed with the agitation she sank weeping on the sofa, only conscious that they all were in some sort guilty of a great injury to Mr. Fotheringham. In this state of distress she was found by Theodora, who came down so lofty and composed, that no one could have divined who was the party chiefly concerned in what had taken place.

Without comment, she treated Violet as for a nervous attack, taking great care of her till the sobs subsided, and there only remained a headache which kept her on the sofa for the rest of the day. Theodora read aloud, but which of them marked the words? Late in the afternoon she put down the book, and wrote a note, while Violet silently marvelled at the unconcern of her countenance.

‘There, I shall take it to the post. You may read it if you like, while I put on my bonnet.’ Violet read.

‘MY DEAR MAMMA,--Our engagement is at an end. Mr. Fotheringham tried to exercise a control over my actions to which I could not submit; and in especial was affronted by my going to Epsom with Arthur, instead of staying at home for the chance of seeing Lady Fotheringham. We came to high words, perceived the error of thinking our tempers accorded, and agreed to part. I have no cause of complaint, though I am at this moment much displeased with him; for when he had done with me he went and stormed to poor Violet till he brought on one of her hysterical affections. No one can have acted with kinder or more conscientious intentions than she has done throughout the affair. I do not mean to come away till after her confinement. London is wide enough for him and for me, and I would not leave her on any account. ‘Your affectionate daughter,

‘THEODORA A. MARTINDALE.’

Violet glowed with indignation at such mention of Percy. She never loved him! It is as John thought!

Theodora, returning, took the note, and began to put it into its envelope without a word.

‘Thank you,’ said Violet; ‘it is very kind in you to stay with me. It is a great comfort to Arthur.’

‘Is it no comfort to you?’ said Theodora. ‘If I am in your way, I will go.’

‘Oh! what should I do without you? It makes such a difference to me. I rely upon you to take care of Arthur, and Johnnie, and everything. Only don’t do what is not pleasant to you.’

‘I wish to live to be useful. I had rather be useful to you and Arthur than to any one. If you will keep me, I stay.’

All the rest of the day Violet could only feel that she could not be displeased with one so devoted to her. She wondered what Arthur would say. His comment was--

‘Well, I always expected it. It is a pity! She has thrown away her only chance of being a reasonable woman.’

‘You saw no cause for that horrid report?’

‘Not a bit. She is not so frantic as that comes to. She went on in her old way, only a little stronger than usual; but Percy was quite right not to stand it, and so I shall tell her.’

However, Theodora kept him from the subject by the force of her imperturbability, and he could only declaim against her to his wife.

‘I don’t believe she cared a farthing for him.’

‘I almost fear not. Yet how could she accept him?’

‘He was the biggest fish that had ever come to her bait. She could not have played her pranks on him without hooking him; but he has broken the line, and it serves her right. I only wish she took it to heart! It is a lucky escape for him. What will his lordship think of it?’

Lord Martindale wrote, evidently in much annoyance, to desire Arthur to send him a full history of the transaction, and after much grumbling, he was obeyed. What he said to his daughter did not transpire, but Violet gathered that the opinion at Martindale was, that she had not age or authority sufficient for the care of the young lady. In this she fully acquiesced, and, indeed, had some trouble in silencing repining speculations on what might have happened if she had been older, or in stronger health, or more judicious.

It was a universal failure, and she felt as if they were all to blame, while it terrified her to recollect John’s predictions as to the effect on Theodora’s disposition.

Another question was, how Mrs. Finch would feel on the matter. Theodora had written to her, and received one of her warm impulsive answers, as inconsistent as her whole nature; in one place in despair that her friend’s happiness had been sacrificed--in another, rejoicing in her freedom from such intolerable tyranny, and declaring that she was the noblest creature and the naughtiest, and that she must see her at once.

But she never came, and when Theodora called was not at home. Violet had Jane to herself for an unpleasing hour of condolence and congratulation, regrets and insinuations, ending with the by no means unwelcome news that Mr. Finch was tired of London, and that they were going into the country--and not Mark--going to set off in a week’s time. Two more calls failed, and Theodora only received a note, in which Mrs. Finch declared herself “abimee desolee” that her husband would drag her off into the country at such short notice, that her world of engagements had hindered her from meeting her best of friends. Then, with a sudden transition to slang, she promised excellent fun in riding, boating, &c., if Theodora would come to see her, and plenty of admirers ready to have their heads turned, ending rather piteously with ‘Who knows but I might take a turn for good? I know I wish I could, if it was not so horridly tiresome. You won’t forget your poor G. F.’

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Chapter 18

Oh! woman is a tender tree, The hand must gentle be that rears, Through storm and sunshine, patiently, That plant of grace, of smiles and tears.

--A. CLEVELAND COX

The height of the season was over, and London was beginning to thin. Lady Elizabeth Brandon had accepted invitations for a round of visits to her friends and relations, and Violet thought with regret how little she had seen of her and Emma.

In fact, that unfortunate party at Mrs. Bryanstone’s had been a sacrifice of the high esteem in which she had once been held. Emma, with the harshness of youthful judgments, could not overlook the folly that had hazarded so much for the sake of gaiety; and was the more pained because of the enthusiasm she had once felt for her, when she had believed her superior to all the world. She recollected her love-at-first-sight for the pretty bride, and well-nigh regarded the friendship as a romance of her girlhood. She did not blame poor Violet, for no more could have been expected than that so simple a girl would be spoiled by admiration, and by such a husband. She should always be interested in her, but there could be no sympathy for deeper visions and higher subjects in one devoted to the ordinary frivolities of life. Violet owned she could not understand her; what could be more true?

So Emma betook herself more and more to her other friend, lamented over present evils, made visionary amendments and erected dreamy worlds of perfection, till she condemned and scorned all that did not accord with them.

Lady Elizabeth would rather have seen her daughter intimate with Violet. Mistaken though that party was, it was hard measure, she thought, utterly to condemn a girl hardly eighteen. She could understand Violet--she could not understand Miss Marstone; and the ruling domineering nature that laid down the law frightened her. She found herself set aside for old-fashioned notions whenever she hinted at any want of judgment or of charity in the views of the friends; she could no longer feel the perfect consciousness of oneness of mind and sufficiency for each other’s comfort that had been such happiness between her and her daughter; and yet everything in Theresa Marstone was so excellent, her labours among the poor so devoted, and her religion so evidently heartfelt, that it was impossible to consider the friendship as otherwise than an honour to Emma.

Lady Elizabeth could only feel that she should be more at ease when she was not always in dread of interrupting a tete-a-tete, and when there was no longer any need to force Emma into society, and see her put on that resigned countenance which expressed that it was all filial duty to a mother who knew no better. Moreover, Lady Elizabeth hoped for a cessation of the schemes for the Priory, which were so extravagant as to make her dread Emma’s five-and-twentieth year.

Desirous as she was of leaving London, she would not consent to go to her brother in the end of June, until she had certified herself that Violet did not wish for her attendance.

Violet did think that it would have been a great comfort, but perceived that it would be at some inconvenience; and further divined that to be extremely useful and important was Theodora’s ruling desire. She was afraid of heart-burnings, and, as usual, yielded her own wishes, begged Lady Elizabeth not to disturb her plans, made many declarations of Theodora’s kindness and attention; and in return, poor thing! was judged by Emma to be in dread of lectures!

So the Brandons left London, and Violet sighed over the disappointment their stay had been, knew she had given up the chance of a renewal of intimacy, and thought Emma’s estrangement all her own fault.

Arthur, likewise, had a fit of restlessness. Some of his friends were intending to go grouse shooting to Scotland, and it was evident that he was desirous of joining them if Violet could only recover in time to spare him. Theodora also wished that he should go, for she had a strong suspicion that he was gliding fast into frequent intercourse with Mr. Gardner, and hoped that absence would put a stop to it.

Not a word, not a look, ever referred to Mr. Fotheringham. Violet thought it inexplicable, and could only suppose that Theodora had been under some delusion, and had never known the meaning of love, for there was nothing like sorrow or disappointment; she almost seemed to be glad of her release.

It was a trial when the Review was published, containing the critique upon modern poetry. For a whole day it was left unopened, because neither sister liked to touch it in the presence of the other; but when, in the morning, Violet took it to read, she found the leaves cut. Lord St. Erme had been treated with some censure, but with a fair amount of praise, and her own favourite pieces were selected for commendation; but there was sufficient satire and severity to cause the universal remark that it was hard on poor Lord St. Erme.

Often was the observation made, for the article excited much attention--it was so striking and able, keenly and drolly attacking absurdity and affectation, good-humoured and lively, and its praise so cordial and enthusiastic. Every visitor was sure to begin, ‘Have you read the paper on modern poetry?’ ‘Do you know who wrote it?’ or, ‘Is it true it is by Mr. Fotheringham?’

Violet, though much confused, could not help having a sort of satisfaction in seeing that neither could Theodora defend herself from blushes, nor so preserve her equanimity as always to know what she was saying, though she made heroic efforts, and those ignorant of the state of affairs might not, perhaps, detect her embarrassment. If there had been affection, surely this calmness must have given way!

One day Theodora was in a shop, and Violet waiting for her when Mr. Fotheringham passed, and instantly coming to the carriage door, shook hands warmly, seemed rejoiced at the meeting, spoke of his last letter from John in high approval of Mr. Fanshawe, and told her that in two days’ time he was going to take a walking tour in Ireland. At that instant the signal was made for taking up Miss Martindale, and with a hasty farewell he disappeared, as Violet thought, unseen. On coming home, Theodora went at once up-stairs; Violet some little time after chanced to go to her room to ask her a question on her way to dress, found her knock unanswered, but heard sounds which caused her gently to open the door.

Theodora was kneeling by the bed; her face buried in her hands, her neck crimson, sobbing and weeping in such violent grief as Violet had never witnessed. She stood terrified, unnoticed, hardly able to bear not to offer comfort; but she understood that nature too well not to be convinced that no offence would be so great as to break into her grief and to intrude upon what she chose to hide.

Violet, therefore, retreated, hoping that now there might be an opening for sympathy, some depression that would allow her to show her fellow-feeling; but no: when they met again Theodora was as cheerful and disengaged as ever, and she could almost have persuaded herself that these tears had been a dream.

Perhaps they so appeared to Theodora. She had been surprised into them, and was angry at having been overcome--she who cared so little; but she had woman’s feelings, though she had proved to be unfit for the dominion of man, and was henceforth ready to stand alone, and use her strength for the benefit of the weak. She would be the maiden aunt, the treasure of the family, and Arthur’s house should be the centre of her usefulness and attachments.

Therefore, so far from struggling against Violet, she delighted in the care of one so tender and caressing; looked on her as the charm and interest of her life, and rejoiced in being valuable at present, and likely to render most important services, attaining in fact the solid practical usefulness she had always coveted.

Everything that could please or amuse Violet she did, even to the length of drawing her out about Wrangerton, and suppressing a certain jealousy of Annette that was ready to spring up on discovering how strong was the affection bestowed on that sister. Violet was especially happy in being able to talk of home just now, when she was continually hearing of Albert’s marriage, and the arrangements consequent thereon, and would have felt it blank, indeed, to have no one but Sarah to share her interest.

Uncle Christopher went to the wedding, and was invited to dinner in Cadogan-place the Sunday after his return. Theodora condescended to be frankly entertained with his dry humorous account of the magnificent doings that had diverted him extremely, and caused Arthur and Violet to congratulate themselves that, in their case, Matilda had not been allowed her own way.

‘What a sensible, agreeable person your uncle is,’ said Theodora, as Violet lay down to rest on the sofa, after dinner, and to turn over and fondle one by one the little presents sent to her from Wrangerton.

Violet smiled thanks and pleasure in the praise, and Theodora set to work to gratify her, by admiring each gift as much as her conscience would let her, and was well pleased to find that she was not at all wanted to commend a wonderful embroidered sachet from the bride, nor a pair of gorgeous screens from Matilda; but that what was dwelt upon were some sketches in Wrangerton Park, and the most prized of all was a little pair of socks, in delicate fancy knitting, for Johnnie.

‘Dear, dear mamma! her own pretty rose-leaf pattern. Think of her knitting for my Johnnie! He will soon know grandmamma’s socks!’ and she put her fingers into one to judge of the size, and admire the stitch. Theodora could see her do such things now, and not think her foolish.

‘Theodora, dear,’ said she, after a long pause, ‘there is something I have been wanting to say to you for a long time. If I should be as ill as I was before, if I should not live, I should like one thing--’

Theodora took her hand between both hers, for she could not answer.

‘I should like to know that his grandmamma would see my Johnnie, if it was only for once. I know poor Arthur could not bear to hear me talk of this, and he is anxious enough already, but you would tell him. You will manage for mamma to see my boy, won’t you?’

‘I would take him to her at Wrangerton myself.’

‘I am quite content that you should chiefly take care of him, you know. I am glad you have been here so long that he has grown fond of you. It makes it much better to think of leaving him and his dear papa, to know they have you.’

‘But, Violet, you must not talk so!’ cried Theodora, in a half-choked voice.

‘No; I must not make myself cry,’ said Violet, quietly. ‘I will not go on, when I have asked you one thing more, and that is, to write to John, and tell him that I thank him for all he has done for me, and that this has been a very happy year. You and John will comfort--’

Violet checked herself, for the tears could only be restrained by silence, and she had made many resolutions against agitation.

‘All you wish!’ exclaimed Theodora; ‘but, indeed, you must not think there is any fear--’

‘I will not talk about it,’ said Violet, in her submissive voice.

‘No; nor think about it.’

‘I try not to do so more than I ought. I am glad you are here!’

It was dark enough for Theodora to allow her eyes to fill with soft tears, without a struggle to keep them back. The pleasure of being valued was very great, and the entire trust Violet reposed on her gave her as deep delight as she had ever experienced. What would it not be after having nursed her and been everything to Arthur! With Violet and Arthur depending on her, she could feel herself good for something, and filling a place in the world.

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Chapter 19

The lowliest flowers the closest cling to earth, And they first feel the sun; so violets blue, So the soft star-like primrose drenched in dew, The happiest of spring’s happy fragrant birth, To gentlest touches, sweetest tones reply; So humbleness, with her low-breathed voice, Can steal o’er man’s proud heart, and win his choice.

‘She is ready to see you,’ said Arthur, meeting Theodora, as she came down at nine the next morning after church.

Violet’s face, white as a lily, was on the pillow, and a little dark downy head was beside her.

A sense of being too late, of neglect and disappointment, rushed over Theodora, and made her looks not what the mother expected, as with smiling eyes and feeble voice she said, ‘Your niece, dear Theodora.’

‘I did not know--’ were Theodora’s first words, and their dissatisfied sound made Arthur regret his abrupt introduction; though she recovered herself enough to say something of gladness, and of hopes that Violet was comfortable.

‘Yes, thank you, quite. I am so thankful! I am so glad of everything. Now I hope Arthur will not lose the 12th of August.’

‘Only don’t talk now, my sweet one. Come, Theodora,’ as if he only wanted to get her out of the room.

‘I have not looked at the baby. What a fine one!’ and she was going to take her.

‘Oh, please don’t!’ said Violet; ‘she will begin screaming again!’ Then, seeing the cloud return, ‘Presently, dear aunt, when she wakes. Is not she a beauty?’

Arthur, his hand on the door, hurried Theodora again.

‘I will come’ she said, impatiently, ‘I will come and sit with you after breakfast, Violet; I only wish I had been called.’

‘Indeed, I know how kind you would have been,’ said Violet, holding her hand, and watching to see whether the displeasure was removed: ‘but it seemed a pity to disturb you. Please don’t be vexed; I’ll give you plenty of trouble yet.’

She had, roused herself enough to alarm Arthur and the nurse.

‘This will never do,’ he said, laying his hand on his sister’s arm, and drawing her away almost by force: ‘You MUST keep quiet, Violet.’

‘I will, indeed, but please, Theodora--’

‘She pleases all you wish. Never mind,’ said Arthur, fairly putting her out, then stepping back, ‘Lie still, and mind your big baby; that is all you have to do.’

‘Only don’t let her be vexed.’

‘No such thing.’

But when out of Violet’s hearing he could not refrain from telling Theodora his displeasure. ‘I thought you had more sense, or I would never have let you in.’

‘I knew nothing of it.’

‘Your own fault for marching off at that time in the morning! I had been up to tell you, and could not think where you were.’

‘Why was I not allowed to be of use?’

‘A pretty specimen of your usefulness, vexing her with your black looks, till she was talking herself into a fever!’

‘Surely she is doing well?’

‘She was, unless you have undone everything with your humours.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

That was the last word. Theodora sat swelling under the sense of injustice and neglect, where she had intended to be so important; and Arthur was weary enough in mind and body to be more than usually sensible of her ungraciousness, and to miss the refreshment of cheerful sympathy. On going up after breakfast he found Violet weaker and more ill than he had previously thought her, and her solicitous inquiries about his sister made him the more attribute this to distress at those moody looks. He would not hear of again admitting Theodora, and in bitterness of spirit she wrote the letters, and tried to content Johnnie--all in vain; for strive to conceal it as she would, he always seemed to perceive her bad moods, and never would be happy with her when she was in one of them.

Every hour brought fresh mortification. She was jealous of Arthur’s being needful to the patient, and jealous of being left by him; angry at being treated as useless, and angry at the work she had to do; certain that her ill temper was Arthur’s fancy, yet certain he had caused it; anxious about Violet, yet disdaining his anxiety. She was much annoyed at his keeping aloof from her unpleasing looks, deserting the dinner-table after the first course, and when she had waited long for him, leaving her to discover that he had had a cup of tea in Violet’s room, and was gone down to smoke. The kindly affections that had always been the hope of her character were rejected and thwarted, and thus thrown back on herself, the wayward wilful spirit began to rise.

She paced the dull walk in the square gardens in the summer twilight, and thought of the life before her, uncherished at home, an intruder in the family where she had expected to earn fond gratitude, rejected by him who had loved her from childhood!

There was an alternative! One look of encouragement, and Lord St. Erme was at her disposal, ready to rejoice at acceptance, even if she should tell him that she had no heart to bestow. She would be no longer spurned and cast aside; she should be able to befriend Violet, she would live uncontrolled, adored; above all, she would teach Percy Fotheringham that she did not pine for him! She would belie those foolish tears that Violet had seen her shed!

As she opened the gate to leave the gardens, Lord St. Erme rode by with a young lady. Was he passing from her power? The spirit of rivalry prompted a gracious bow and smile. He checked his horse, looked delighted, and introduced ‘his sister.’

A fair, delicate, blushing girl of sixteen, a pretty likeness of himself, bent her head low, and Theodora felt that her blue eyes were intently perusing her under their downcast lids, while the brother’s tones almost trembled with the pleasure of her unwonted look of encouragement. He said that he was enjoying having his sister alone with him, at his aunt’s house in London, for a short time, and added something about calling. She gave one of her bewitching smiles, and they rode on.

There at least she was prized! How unlike this to the treatment she met with from her own family! If she could not love the Earl, she could do very well without that nonsense; and she should escape from her unloving home, begin a new life, reign queen o’er herself and him, idolized, uncontradicted, with ample opportunities of usefulness, triumphant over him who had disdained her.

So she mused while taking off her bonnet, till Sarah brought a message that Mrs. Martindale would be glad to see her. An hour ago and she would have rejoiced; now, Arthur’s household was becoming a secondary object, since they had rejected her, and driven her to seek fresh interests.

She was received with hands outstretched. ‘Dear Theodora, thank you. Will you stay and take care of baby and me while nurse goes to supper?’

‘If I may.’

‘Thank you. Nurse, pray give baby to Miss Martindale. You need not hurry; I shall be so comfortable.’

The sweet pale face and languid eyes were as a charm to expel all but kindly thoughts, as Theodora sat down with the living weight warm on her lap, and the gentle mother at intervals softly asking about her boy. ‘Poor little man, they would not let him come in: they kept away both the people I wanted.’

‘Arthur guards you most jealously.’

‘Yes, is not he a wonderful nurse? I had to exercise a little self-will in getting you here. How good we must be to make him forgive us!’

Next. ‘You cannot think what a difference it makes to have you here. I never need think about Arthur’s being made comfortable.’

Theodora’s sincerity longed for confession, and she refrained with difficulty. Those unconscious words set her vile temper before her in its true light. She had resented the being treated with consideration, and had been moody towards her brother, because he was under anxiety!

Self-convicted, she gave a deep sigh; but fearing again to distress Violet, began to admire the baby, who was in truth a remarkably large and handsome child, very dark and like the Martindales, and, both in size and serenity, such a contrast to her brother, that, proud as she was of her, her mamma only half liked praise of her that might be depreciation of him, and began to defend him from the charge of crying before he had had strength for it.

Her name, of course, was to be Helen, and to this Violet softly added, Theodora.

‘No, no; that will bring her no good. It is Aunt Nesbit’s name.’

‘It is one I love the sound of.’

‘You won’t another time.’

Violet vaguely perceived something amiss; but too weak to think about it, closed her eyes and fell into a doze.

Those few gentle sayings had brought back Theodora’s affection and sense of right. She longed to recall her glance. If it had taken effect she must persevere. She could not endure the humiliation of having a third time trifled with a lover; she would not feel herself sunk into a mere coquette. But what would Violet think!

Violet suddenly awoke with a terrified gaze. ‘Arthur! Arthur! O, where is he!’

‘Down-stairs, dearest; he will come.’ But to her extreme alarm, the words had no effect.

‘Arthur! O, when will he come? Why did he go away?’

Dismayed out of all presence of mind, Theodora rang with a violent peal, and flew down-stairs, the baby in her arms, rousing Arthur from a slumber in his chair by breathless tidings that Violet was worse--was delirious; Mr. Harding must be sent for--

When Arthur had hurried up-stairs, it proved to be only a frightened wakening, such as had often happened last year. She was perfectly conscious, but so much fluttered and agitated by Theodora’s own proceedings, that it was with great difficulty that Arthur could soothe and tranquillize her on her baby’s account. The nurse was very angry, and Theodora perceived her delinquency might have serious consequences, especially when she beheld Violet, still tremulous from the alarm, endeavouring to reassure them, to shield her from displeasure, and to take all the blame to herself for her foolish terror.

There was an end of Theodora’s grand designs of nursing! She could only enter the room at all by favour of the patient and by sufferance of the nurse; and she could attempt no remonstrance when ordered off by her brother, and even felt unworthy of Violet’s kiss.

That little scene of trivialities had been her first true humiliation. It had shown her the vanity of her boast of strength of mind; for when she thought of the morning’s unreasonable ill-humour, and unkindness to her brother and his wife at such a moment, and of the coquetry with Lord St. Erme, she was indeed lowered in her own eyes; and it was sorrow, not bitterness.

Her heart was very heavy, but less hard. Slowly had the power of Violet’s meekness and lowliness been stealing into her affections and undermining her pride. Perhaps the direct attacks of Percy, though strongly resisted, had in reality given a shock which prepared the way for the silent effect of sweetness and forbearance. At any rate, she was now sincerely sorry for the sin as well as the folly of the past day, and felt that it might bring a penalty in perplexities about Lord St. Erme, if he had really taken her smile for encouragement.

Many were her resolutions of amiability for to-morrow; but she was disappointed. Violet had passed a restless night, and could not be visited; and Arthur, after his experience of yesterday, was in no haste to subject himself to his sister’s humours. Her two years of caprice and neglect had told even on his easy temper.

It had long been a scheme of hers to surprise Violet on her recovery with a likeness of Johnnie, taken by a small, humble niece of Mrs. Harrison’s, lately started in life as an artist in crayons; and in the midst of yesterday’s sullenness she had taken measures which this morning brought the lady to Cadogan-place, at the hour when he was most likely to be in his best looks. Sarah, highly approving of anything that exalted Master John, sedulously traced the one-sided masculine division in his flaxen locks, and tied his best white frock with scarlet ribbons, in honour, as she said, of his being ‘a little granny-dear’; and Theodora carried him down, and heard him pronounced ‘a lovely interesting darling.’

Sitting well was not, however, one of his perfections; he could not be induced to show his face to a stranger, and turned from toys and pictures, with arms stretched out to his aunt, and piteous calls for mamma: to Theodora’s further despair Arthur came in, and stood amazed, so that she had to unfold her plans, and beg him to keep the secret. He smiled, saying she might as well take a picture of a washed-out doll; but that Violet would be sure to like it.

Meantime the child was presenting a golden opportunity; fixed in rapt contemplation of his father, and gazing motionless, with one little foot doubled under him, and one tiny white arm drooping over the crimson sofa cushion. Miss Piper sketched as if for her life. Theodora directed Arthur’s attention to his little son. He spoke to him, and was surprised and pleased at the plainness of the reply, and the animated spring of gladness. In another minute he was sitting on the floor, most successfully entertaining the child, while Miss Piper could hardly help drawing that handsome black head in contrast with the small, white creature, whose morsels of hands were coaxing his brown red cheeks; and Theodora looked on, amused to see how papa succeeded in drawing out those pretty, hesitating smiles, so embellishing to the little face, that had generally more than the usual amount of baby gravity.

They were in full debate whether he should be represented smiling or grave; the aunt wishing the latter as the habitual expression, the father declaring that ‘the fellow was only fit to be seen smiling like his mother;’ when suddenly there was an announcement--

‘Lady Lucy Delaval and Lord St. Erme.’

Arthur hardly had time to start up from the ground, his colour deepening with discomfiture as he glanced at the disarray of the room, littered with playthings, displaced cushions, newspapers, with which he had been playing bo-peep, drawing materials, all in as much confusion as the hair, which, in an unguarded moment, he had placed at the mercy of Johnnie’s fingers.

Theodora comprehended the sharp click with which he rang the nursery bell, and the half frown with which he watched in dread of a cry, while Lady Lucy tried to make friends with Johnnie.

The drawing was brought under discussion, but he held aloof after one look, which Theodora perceived to be disapproving, though she did not know that the reason was that the smile, somewhat overdone by Miss Piper, had brought out one of old Mr. Moss’s blandest looks. Meantime Lord St. Erme talked to the little artist, giving her some valuable hints, which she seized with avidity, and then quietly retreated.

Arthur tried to talk to Lady Lucy; but she was very young, not yet come out, timid, and, apparently, afraid of something that she had to say, watching Miss Martindale as earnestly as she dared; while Lord St. Erme spoke eagerly, yet as if he hardly knew what he was saying, of art, music, books, striving in vain to obtain one of the looks of yesterday.

It warmed Theodora’s heart to feel herself the object of such enthusiastic admiration, but she preserved her look of rigid indifference. It was a long visit; but at last the brother made the move, looking at his sister, as if to remind her of something.

‘Oh, Miss Martindale,’ said she, with an effort, ‘we thought you must be staying in a great deal. Would you be so kind, now and then, as to walk with me?’

This was an alarming request, and not very easy to refuse. Theodora said something of seeing about it, and hoping--

‘It would be such a treat,’ said Lady Lucy, growing bolder, as the two gentlemen were speaking to each other. ‘My aunt is gone to her brother’s little parsonage, where there is no room for me, and my governess had to go home, luckily, so that we are quite alone together; and St. Erme said perhaps you would be so kind sometimes as to walk with me--’

Theodora smiled. ‘I hope we may meet sometimes,’ said she. ‘If my sister was down-stairs perhaps we might; but I am engaged to her.’

Thus ended the visit, and Arthur, hastily throwing the cushions back into their places, demanded, ‘What on earth could possess those folks to come here now!’

‘It was an inconvenient time,’ said Theodora.

‘Dawdling and loitering here!--a man with nothing better to do with his time!’

‘Nay,’ said Theodora, touched by the injustice; ‘Lord St. Erme is no man not to know how to dispose of his time.’

‘Whew!’ whistled Arthur; ‘is the wind gone round to that quarter? Well, I thought better of you than that you would like a fellow that can do nothing but draw, never shoots over his own moors, and looks like a German singer! But do put the room tidy; and if you must have the nursery down here, put it into the back room, for mercy sake!’

He went away, having thus stirred her feelings in the St. Erme direction, and he left them to take their chance for the rest of the day. She took a solitary walk; on her return saw a hat in the hall, and asking whether Mr. Harding was there, was told no, but that Mr. Gardner was with Captain Martindale. And after long waiting till Arthur should come to dinner, he only put in his head, saying, ‘Oh, Theodora, are you waiting? I beg your pardon, I am going out to dinner. You can sit with Violet; and if she should want me, which she won’t, James knows where to find me.’

Theodora scorned to inquire of the servant whither his master was gone; but her appetite forsook her at the sight of the empty chair, and the recollection of the warning against Mark Gardner.

This was not her last solitary dinner. Arthur had engagements almost every day, or else went to his club; and when at home, if he was not with Violet, he sat in his own room, and would never again assist at the sittings, which were completed under less favourable auspices, soon enough to allow time for the framing before the mamma should come down-stairs. Her recovery proceeded prosperously; and Theodora was quite sufficiently in request in her room to be satisfied, and to make it difficult to find a spare afternoon to go and order one of her favourite oak frames.

However, she was at length able to make the expedition; and she was busy in giving directions as to the width of margin, when from the interior of the shop there came forward no other than the Earl of St. Erme.

They shook hands, and she sent her excuses to Lady Lucy for having been too much occupied to call, asking whether she was still in town.

‘Only till Thursday,’ he said, ‘when I take her to join my aunt, who is to show her the Rhine.’

‘Do not you go with them?’

‘I have not decided. It depends upon circumstances. Did not I hear something of your family visiting Germany?’

‘Perhaps they may,’ said Theodora, dryly. He began to study the portrait, and saw some likeness, but was distressed by something in the drawing of the mouth.

‘Yes,’ said Theodora, ‘I know it is wrong; but Miss Piper could not see it as I did, and her alterations only made it worse, till I longed to be able to draw.’

‘I wonder if I might venture,’ said Lord St. Erme, screwing up his eye, and walking round the picture. ‘I am sure, with your artist eye, you must know what it is not to be able to keep your hands off.’

‘Not I,’ said Theodora, smiling. ‘Pencils are useless tools to me. But it would be a great benefit to the picture, and Miss Piper will fancy it all her own.’

‘You trust me, then?’ and he turned to ask for a piece of chalk, adding, ‘But is it not too bold a measure without the subject?’

‘He is in the carriage, with his nurse;’ and Theodora, unable to resist so material an improvement to her gift, brought him in, and set him up on the counter opposite to a flaming picture of a gentleman in a red coat, which he was pleased to call papa, and which caused his face to assume a look that was conveyed to the portrait by Lord St. Erme, and rendered it the individual Johnnie Martindale, instead of merely a pale boy in a red sash.

Theodora was too much gratified not to declare it frankly, and to say how much charmed his mother would be; and she was pleased by a remark of Lord St. Erme, that showed that his poet mind comprehended that wistful intelligence that gave a peculiar beauty to Johnnie’s thin white face.

She thought to pay off her obligations by an immediate visit to his sister, while she knew him to be safe out of the way; and, driving to Mrs. Delaval’s, she sent her nephew home, intending to walk back.

Lady Lucy was alone, and she found her a gentle, simple-hearted girl, with one sole affection, namely, for the brother, who was the whole world to her; and taking Miss Martindale, on his word, as an object of reverence and admiration. It was impossible not to thaw towards her: and when Theodora spoke of the embellishment of the portrait, she needed no more to make her spring up, and fetch a portfolio to exhibit her brother’s drawings. Admirable they were; sketches of foreign scenery, many portraits, in different styles, of Lady Lucy herself, and the especial treasure was a copy of Tennyson, interleaved with illustrations in the German style, very fanciful and beautiful. Theodora was, however, struck by the numerous traces she saw of the Lalla Rookh portrait. It was there as the dark-eyed Isabel; again as Judith, in the Vision of Fair Women; it slept as the Beauty in the Wood; and even in sweet St. Agnes, she met it refined and purified; so that at last she observed, ‘It is strange how like this is to my mother.’

‘I think it must be,’ said Lady Lucy; ‘for I was quite struck by your likeness to St. Erme’s ideal sketches.’

Rather annoyed, Theodora laughed, and turning from the portfolio, asked if she did not also draw?

‘A little; but mine are too bad to be looked at.’

Theodora insisted, and the drawings were produced: all the best had been done under Lord St. Erme’s instruction. The affection between the brother and sister touched her, and thinking herself neglectful of a good little girl, she offered to take the desired walk at once. While Lady Lucy was preparing, however, the brother came home, and oh! the inconvenient satisfaction of his blushing looks.

Yet Theodora pardoned these, when he thanked her for being kind to his sister; speaking with a sort of parental fondness and anxiety of his wish to have Lucy with him, and of his desire that she should form friendships that would benefit her.

Never had he spoken with so much reality, nor appeared to so much advantage; and it was in his favour, too, that Theodora contrasted this warm solicitude for his young sister with the indifference of her own eldest brother. There was evidently none of the cold distance that was the grievance of her home.

‘Lady Lucy is almost out of the school-room,’ she said. ‘You will soon be able to have her with you in the country.’

‘There are certainly some considerations that might make me resolve on an English winter,’ said Lord St. Erme.

‘Every consideration, I should think.’

‘Fogs and frosts, and clouds, that hang like a weight on the whole frame,’ said Lord St. Erme, shivering.

‘Healthy, freshening mists, and honest vigorous frosts to brace one for service,’ said Theodora, smiling.

‘O, Miss Martindale!’ cried Lady Lucy, entering, ‘are you persuading St. Erme to stay all the year in England? I do so wish he would.’

‘Then you ought to make him,’ said Theodora.

‘If Miss Martindale were to express a wish or opinion--’

She saw it was time to cut him short. ‘Every one’s opinion must be the same,’ she said.

‘O,’ cried Lucy, ‘of course Italy is pleasanter. It is selfish to wish to keep him here; but if I had my will, we would live together at Wrangerton, and have such nice poor people.’

‘A “chateau en Espagne” indeed, my little sister. Wrangerton is a most forlorn place, an old den of the worst period of architecture, set down just beyond the pretty country, but in the programme of all the tourists as a show place; the third-rate town touching on the park, and your nice poor people not even the ordinary English peasantry, but an ill-disposed set of colliers.’

Theodora looked, but did not speak.

‘Miss Martindale thinks me a laggard, but she hears my excuse.’

‘If they are ill-disposed,’ said Theodora, in her low, severe voice (she could not help it), ‘it is for want of influence from the right quarter.’

‘My agent tells me they are perfectly impracticable.’

‘Knights of old liked something impracticable.’ She was almost ready to check herself; but there was something inspiriting in the idea of awakening this youth, who seemed to catch at her words as if she were a damsel sending forth a champion. His reply was--

‘Those were days worth living for. Then the knight’s devoir was poetry in real life.’

‘Devoir is always poetry in real life,’ said Theodora. ‘What is it but the work ready to hand? Shrinking from it is shrinking from the battle. Come, Lady Lucy, I will not detain you.’

Lord St. Erme seemed about to say something as he shook hands, but it did not come. The walk was passed by the simple-hearted Lucy discoursing of the events by which she counted her eras, namely, his visits. Her perfect brother was her only theme.

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

Chapter 20

Yet learn the gamut of Hortensio.

--Taming of the Shrew

Mrs. Nesbit was recommended to spend some months at Baden Baden; and Theodora formed a design, which highly pleased Arthur and Violet, of spending this time, while the family were absent, and while Arthur was in Scotland, as hostess at Martindale to Violet and the children.

After seeing Arthur off to Windsor for the next fortnight, Theodora had begun writing to propose the scheme to her father, when she was interrupted by the announcement of Lord St. Erme.

To visit her alone was a strong measure, and she put on a panoply of dignified formality. He began to say he had brought a German book, to show her a poem of which their conversation had reminded him.

‘I understand very little German,’ said she, coldly. ‘I once had a German governess whom I disliked so much that I took a disgust to the language.’

‘There is so much that is beautiful and untranslatable in its literature, that I am sure it would recompense you.’

‘I do not like the German tone of mind. It is vapoury and unreal.’

‘I should like to show you cause to alter your opinion, but--’

‘This is English,’ said Theodora, as her eye fell on a paper of verses that marked the place.

‘Ah, Lucy made me put it in. A few lines that occurred to me after watching Mrs. Martindale’s little boy.’

Thankful that they were not inspired by Venus’s little boy, she glanced over them, and saw they were in his best style, simple and pretty thoughts on the child’s content, wherever he traced any symbol of his father.

‘Poor little Johnnie is highly flattered,’ she said. ‘His mamma will be delighted.’

He begged her attention to the German poem, she glanced onward as he read, watching for shoals ahead, and spied something about a “hochbeseeltes madchen” inspiring a “Helden sanger geist”, and grew hotter and hotter till she felt ready to box his ears for intoning German instead of speaking plain English, and having it over. A cotton umbrella arose before her eyes, she heard the plashing gravel, and an honest voice telling her she was a grand creature in great need of being broken in.

The critical stanza had commenced, the reader’s voice trembled; Theodora did not heed, her mind was in the avenue at home. An opening door startled them.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Albert Moss.’

Her brother’s brother-in-law! the son and partner of Lord St. Erme’s steward! Was it thus his suit was to be checked?

There was no recognition; he went on reading his German to himself, while Albert presented Mrs. Albert Moss, resplendent in bridal finery, and displaying her white teeth in a broad smile, as with a nod, half-gracious, half-apologetic, she said, ‘I fear we interrupt a lesson; but we will not inconvenience you; we will go at once to our dear convalescent.’

‘Thank you, you do not interrupt me, and I do not think my sister is dressed yet. Indeed, I doubt whether I ought to allow her to see any one.’

‘O, you cannot be so cruel!’ cried Mrs. Moss, holding up her hands; ‘one little peep! our only day in town.’

‘Yes,’ said Albert. ‘I could not but gratify my Louisa’s anxiety to be introduced to her new relatives.’

‘I am afraid you must be disappointed, for my brother is with his regiment at Windsor, and my sister is still so weak that she ought to have no excitement.’

‘And we have only a few hours in town. The inexorable claims of business have recalled us to Wrangerton.’

The Earl looked up surprised, as if the word had recalled him from the clouds.

‘You have been in Wales, I think,’ said Theodora. ‘Were you pleased?’

‘Oh, I was enraptured!’ exclaimed the bride; ‘the sublime and romantic could be carried no higher! It makes me quite discontented with our home scenery.

‘Your sister would not approve of that,’ said Theodora to Albert;’ she can bear no slight to Helvellyn.’

‘I forget--is there a view of Helvellyn from Wrangerton?’ said Lord St. Erme, still somewhat dreamily.

Mrs. Moss started at hearing such good English from the German master, and patronizingly said, ‘Yes. Helvellyn is monarch of our picturesque. Do you ever come northwards?’

‘Not so often as, perhaps, I ought. I am afraid I know more of the Alps than of Helvellyn.’

‘I am sure,’ continued the voluble lady, ‘if ever you thought of such a scheme when the season is over, it would be well worth your while. I could reckon up many respectable families, who with such introductions--let me see, there are the Joneses, and the Dunlops, and the Evelyns, to say nothing of my new sisters, the Miss Mosses.’

‘I have no doubt it is a very good neighbourhood,’ said Lord St. Erme, rising. ‘I must go, or we shall miss the train. Can you tell me how soon you expect Lord Martindale?’

‘About the tenth or eleventh,’ said Theodora.

‘Thank you. Then I must wish you good-bye--’

‘And I must thank you in my sister’s name for the pleasure she will take in what you have done for her little boy. Remember me to Lady Lucy.’

That name was a revelation to Albert, and the door had scarcely closed before he exclaimed--‘Surely, Miss Martindale, that could not be Lord St. Erme!’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Well!’ cried Mrs. Moss, ‘there was something decidedly the aristocrat in his moustache!’

Albert could not recover from his vexation at having missed such a chance, and was nearly setting off in pursuit of his lordship. Theodora was glad to escape for a moment, on the plea of seeing whether Violet could receive a visit.

In her absence the bride began--‘I can’t see that she is so handsome, after all! And I should be ashamed to wear such a dress as that!’

‘Distinguished people have freaks, my love. Bless me! if I had but known the Earl!’

‘I see how it is,’ said the wife; ‘a proud Countess we shall have.’

‘If one of the girls had but been here! Every one of them is prettier than this Miss Martindale. Who knows?’

‘Ah! I shall take care in a friendly way to let your sister know how her own family feel at her keeping aloof--’

‘I do not believe it is her fault, poor child,’ said Albert. ‘Martindale has set this haughty young lady to keep guard over her--’

‘We shall see,’ said the bride. ‘I am not used to be refused, and once with your sister, I will discover all her secrets.’

Fortunately for Violet, Theodora had found her so much exhausted by the fatigue of dressing, that she thought it safest, considering what a bride it was, not to divulge her presence in the house; and she came down with this intelligence, trying to compensate for it by civility, and by showing the children.

Mrs. Moss was not easily repulsed, she begged Miss Martindale to reconsider her verdict.

‘I must not relent; I am accountable to the doctor and to my brother.’

‘It shall not be your fault. You shall know nothing of it. I will find my way. Ah! I’m a giddy young thing. Nothing can stop me!’ and she stepped forward, laughing affectedly, and trying to look arch.

‘I cannot permit this. It might do serious harm,’ said Theodora, obliged to stand in her path, and to put on such a look of haughty command, that she was positively subdued and frightened, and went back to her seat in a meek state of silence, whence she only recovered to overwhelm poor Johnnie with her attentions. He cried and was sent away, and Mrs. Moss was obliged to be satisfied with the baby, though she looked as dignified and as little to be taken liberties with as any Martindale of them all.

They lingered on, hoping to weary out Miss Martindale’s patience, or that some chance might reveal their presence to Violet; but in vain; Theodora’s politeness was exemplary, and she endured Mrs. Albert Moss’s familiarity so well, that when at length they departed, the last words were a parting whisper, ‘Good morning, Miss Martindale. If we had known what we interrupted--but ah! I have gone through those things so lately, that I know how to feel for you, and can keep your secret.’

‘There is no subject of secrecy that I know of,’ said Theodora, more coldly than ever.

Hateful woman! Poor Violet! There, now, it will be all over the country that I am engaged to him! I must take him now, or I hope he will give it up on discovering my connections! Then I can despise him. Foolish man! why could he not say what he wanted? I should have got rid of him then; I was in the mood! However, he is out of the way for the present. Now to make the best of it with Violet.

Violet was grieved, both for her own sake and the vexation at home, but she so sweetly acquiesced in its having been right, and was so sure that her sister meant nothing but kindness, that Theodora, knowing that she herself could not have submitted with anything like patience, admired and loved her more than ever.

The gentleness and quietness of her demeanour were a refreshment to Theodora’s tossed and undecided mind; and in administering to her comfort and pleasure, the anxieties and remorse subsided into a calm like her own. How delightful was the day of her introduction to Johnnie’s portrait; her admiration, and tearful gratitude to the kind deviser of the gift, were the greatest pleasure Theodora had known for months; the discussion of every feature, the comparison of Johnnie with it, the history of the difficulties, and of his papa’s assistance, seemed a never-ending treat to both giver and receiver. The poem, too; it was very amusing to see how she could hardly believe that original verses could possibly be written on her boy, and then when set to guess whose they were, she began with a hesitating ‘Miss Marstone is the only person near who makes verses, and these are too pretty to be hers.’

‘Ah! if you would follow Emma’s advice, and call the baby Osyth, after the first Prioress, you might have a chance from that quarter.’

It could not be Mr. Fotheringham, the only poet she could think of, and she could only beg to be told.

‘There is one whom a Wrangerton woman should not forget.’

‘Lord St. Erme! You ARE laughing at me, Theodora. He never even saw Johnnie!’

Theodora explained the two meetings, anxious to see her way of thinking. ‘It is a wonderful thing!’ was her first remark. ‘Who would have told me how it would be three years ago? They are very pretty.’

‘I do not think you like them the better for being his,’ said Theodora.

‘I ought,’ said Violet; ‘no other great man ever seems to me so grand as our own Earl.’

‘I want your real feeling.’

‘You know,’ said Violet, smiling, ‘I cannot think them done only for Johnnie’s sake--’

‘And, therefore, they do not please you.’

‘Not exactly that; but--if you don’t mind my saying so, I feel as if I had rather--it might be better--I don’t want to be ungrateful, but if you were getting into a scrape for the sake of pleasing me, I should be sorry. Forgive me, Theodora, you made me say so.’

‘You are consideration itself,’ said Theodora, affectionately. ‘Never mind, he is out of the way. We will let him go off poetizing to Germany; and under your wing at home, I will get into no more mischief.’

That was a pleasant prospect, and Violet reposed on the thought of the enjoyment of Martindale without its formidable inhabitants; trying in it to forget the pain of parting with her husband for a month, and her longings to spend it at her own home, and see Johnnie strengthened by Helvellyn breezes; while to Theodora it seemed like the opening into peace and goodness.

One forenoon, Violet, on coming down-stairs, found her sister writing extremely fast, and seeing an envelope on the table in Lord Martindale’s writing, asked if it was his answer to Theodora’s plan.

‘Yes.’

‘Ah!’ said Violet, perceiving something was amiss, ‘they have spared you to me a long time already.’

‘Don’t be uneasy,’ said Theodora; ‘I’ll settle it.’

‘But,’ exclaimed Violet, ‘I could not bear that you should be with me if they want you.’

‘That is not it; papa has something in his head; I will settle it.’

Violet knew what was indicated by the over-erectness of Theodora’s head. To be the cause of family discussion was frightful, but she had a nervous dread of thwarting Theodora.

‘I wish you would not look at me,’ exclaimed Theodora.

‘I beg your pardon,’ sighed she.

‘What’s the use of that when I know you are not satisfied, and do not trust me?’

‘Don’t be angry with me,’ implored Violet, with a quivering voice, and tears of weakness in her eyes. ‘I cannot help it. I do not want to interfere, but as it is for me, I must beg you to tell me you are not pressing to stay with me when Lady Martindale wishes for you.’

‘No one ever wants me. No, but papa thinks that you and I cannot be trusted together. He says he cannot leave me with one who has so little authority.’

That indignant voice contrasted with the gentle answer, ‘I do not wonder; I have always thought if I had been older and better able to manage--’

‘No such thing!’ exclaimed Theodora; ‘you are the only person who ever exercised any control over me.’

‘O, hush! you do not know what you are saying.’

‘It is the truth, and you know it. When you choose, every one yields to you, and so do I.’

‘Indeed, I did not know it,’ said Violet, much distressed. ‘I am very sorry if I am overbearing; I did not think I was.’

Theodora fairly laughed at such a word being applied to the mild, yielding creature, who looked so pale and feeble. ‘Very domineering, indeed!’ she said. ‘No, no, my dear, it is only that you are always right. When you disapprove, I cannot bear to hurt and grieve you, because you take it so quietly.’

‘You are so very kind to me.’

‘So, if papa wishes me to come to good, he had better leave me to you.’

‘I don’t think that ought to be,’ said Violet, feebly.

‘What, not that you should be my only chance--that you should calm me and guide me when every one else has failed--’

‘Theodora, dear, I do not think I ought to like to hear you say so. It cannot be safe for you to submit to me rather than to your father.’

‘He never had any moral power over me. He never convinced me, nor led me to yield my will,’ said Theodora, proud perhaps of her voluntary submission to her gentle sister-in-law, and magnifying its extent; but Violet was too right-minded, in her simplicity, to be flattered by an allegiance she knew to be misplaced.

‘I should not like baby to say so by and by,’ she whispered.

‘There’s an esprit de corps in parents,’ cried Theodora, half angrily; ‘but Helen will never be like me. She will not be left to grow up uncared for and unloved till one-and-twenty, and then, when old enough for independence, be for the first time coerced and reproached. If people never concern themselves about their children, they need not expect the same from them as if they had brought them up properly.’

‘That is a sad thought,’ pensively said the young mother.

‘I declare you shall hear the letter, that you may own that it is unreasonable--unbearable!’ And she read--

‘“I have been considering your request to spend the time of our absence at home with Mrs. Martindale, but I cannot think fit to comply with it. Arthur’s income is fully sufficient to provide change of air for his family; and he ought not to expect always to leave his wife on other people’s hands, while he is pursuing his own diversions.”’

Theodora was glad to see that this did rouse Violet’s indignation.

‘Oh! he does not know. Do tell him it was all your kindness! Tell him that Arthur is not going for long. He must not think such things.’

‘He thinks much more injustice,’ said Theodora. ‘Listen:--“After so long an absence, it is high time you should rejoin us; and, considering what has occurred, you cannot be surprised that I should be unwilling to leave you with one so young and of so little authority over you. Though I acquit her of all blame for your indiscretions--” (There, Violet, I hope you are much obliged to him!) “I should not have consented to your remaining with her up to the present time, if it had not been a case of urgent necessity, as I wish to have you under my own eye.” (As if he had ever made any use of it?) “You might as well be alone here as with her; and, after your late conduct, I cannot put the confidence in your prudence that I should desire. Violet has, I have no doubt, acted amiably; and her youth, inexperience, and gentleness fully excuse her in my eyes for having been unable to restrain you; but they are reasons sufficient to decide me on not leaving you with her at present. We shall be in London on Monday, the 11th, and I wish you to be in readiness to join us when we embark for Ostend on the following evening. Give my kind love to Violet, and tell her I am glad she is going on well, and that I am much pleased with my grand-daughter’s intended name.” There, Violet, what do you think of that?’

‘Pray make him understand that Arthur wanted a change very much, and will not be long gone.’

‘Arthur! You cannot feel for any one else!’

‘I did not mean to be selfish!’ said Violet, sorry for having seemed to be wanting in sympathy.

‘No, indeed! You never think what would become of you left alone, with two babies that cannot walk!’

‘Never mind me, I shall manage very well, I don’t like to have a disturbance made on my account. I cannot think how you can hesitate after such a letter as this.’

‘That is the very thing. He would never have dared to say these things to my face! Now let me tell you. I know I have been much to blame; you made me feel it. You are taming me; and if he leaves me to you I may be more dutiful when he comes back. But if he strains his new notion of authority too far, and if you throw me off, I shall be driven to do what will grieve and disappoint you.’

‘But surely,’ said Violet, ‘it cannot be the right beginning of being dutiful to resist the first thing that is asked of you.’

‘You wish me to go to be fretted and angered! to be without one employment to drown painful thoughts, galled by attempts at controlling me; my mind poisoned by my aunt, chilled by my mother--to be given up to my worse nature, without perhaps even a church to go to!’

‘It is very hard,’ said Violet; ‘but if we are to submit, it cannot be only when we see fit. Would it not be better to make a beginning that costs you something?’

‘And lose my hope of peaceful guidance!’

‘I do believe,’ said Violet, ‘that if you go patiently, because it is your duty, that you will be putting yourself under the true guidance; but for you to extort permission to stay with me, when your father disapproves, would be only following your own way. I should be afraid. I will not undertake it, for it would not be right, and mischief would be sure to ensue.’

‘Then you give me up?’

‘Give you up! dear, dear sister;’ and Violet rose and threw her arms round Theodora. ‘No, indeed! When I am so glad that I may love you as I always wished! I shall think of you, and write to you, and pray for you,’ whispered she. ‘All I can I will do for you, but you must not say any more of staying with me now. I can help you better in my right place than out of it.’

Theodora returned the caress and quitted the room, leaving Violet to her regrets and fears. It was a great sacrifice of herself, and still worse, of her poor little pale boy, and she dreaded that it might be the ruin of the beneficial influence which, to her amazement, she found ascribed to her, in the most unexpected quarter. It had gone to her heart to refuse Theodora’s kindness, and all that was left for her was to try to still her fluttering, agitated spirits by the consciousness that she had striven to do right, and by the prayer that all might work for good.

Indeed, it was very remarkable how, in this critical period of Theodora’s life, when repentance was engaged in so severe a conflict with her long-nourished pride and passion, in all the tossings of her mind she had, as it were, anchored herself to her docile, gentle sister-in-law, treating her like a sort of embodiment of her better mind. Violet’s serenity and lowliness seemed to breathe peace on a storm-tossed ocean; and her want of self-assertion to make Theodora proud of submitting to her slightest wish without a struggle. Those vehement affections were winding themselves about her and her children; and the temper that had flown into fierce insubordination at the first control from lawful authority, laid itself at the feet of one whose power was in meekness. It was the lion curbed by the maiden; but because the subjection was merely a caprice, it was no conquest of self-will.

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Chapter 21

But when the self-abhorring thrill Is past, as pass it must, When tasks of life thy spirit fill Risen from thy tears and dust, Then be the self-renouncing will The seal of thy calm trust.

--Lyra Apostolica

Arthur quitted London the day after his little girl’s christening, talking of being absent only a fortnight, before taking his wife to Windsor; and promising to return at once, if she should find herself in the least unwell or dispirited. She was delighted to be well enough not to spoil his sport, and Theodora was too anxious to have him at a distance from Mr. Gardner to venture on any remonstrance.

It was the day the family were to come to London, and he left orders with the ladies to say ‘all that was proper’, but the twelfth of August was to him an unanswerable reason for immediate departure.

Theodora and Violet went to receive the party in the house in Belgrave Square, both silent, yet conscious of each other’s feelings. Theodora paced the room, while Violet leant back in a great blue damask chair, overcome by the beatings of her heart; and yet, when the carriage arrived, it was she who spoke the word of encouragement: ‘Your father is so kind, I know he forgives us!’

Theodora knew Violet thought her own weakness and inefficiency needed pardon, and therefore could bear the saying, and allow it to turn her defiant shame into humility.

Mrs. Nesbit came in, supported between Lord and Lady Martindale, and as Theodora hastened to wheel round the large arm-chair, and settle the cushions for her, her eye glanced in keen inquiry from one niece to the other, and they felt that she was exulting in the fulfilment of her prediction.

Lord Martindale kissed his daughter with grave formality; and, as if to mark the difference, threw much warm affection into his greeting of Violet, and held her hand for some moments, while he asked solicitously if she were well and strong, and inquired for her little ones.

She made Arthur’s excuses and explanations, but broke off, blushing and disconcerted, by that harsh, dry cough of Mrs. Nesbit’s, and still more, by seeing Lord Martindale look concerned. She began, with nervous eagerness and agitation, to explain that it was an old engagement, he would not be away long, and then would take her out of town--she was hardly yet ready for a journey. From him she obtained kind smiles, and almost fatherly tenderness; from Lady Martindale the usual ceremonious civility. They asked her to dinner, but she was not equal to this; they then offered to send her home in the carriage, and when she refused, Lord Martindale said he would walk back with her, while Theodora remained with her mother.

He was much displeased with his son for leaving her, especially when he saw how delicate and weak she still looked; and he was much annoyed at being unable to prevent it, without giving Arthur a premium for selfishness; so that all he could do was to treat her with a sort of compassionate affection, increased at each of her unselfish sayings.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I wish to have a little conversation with you, when it suits you. I am anxious to hear your account of this unfortunate affair.’

‘Very well;’ but he felt her arm tremble.

‘You must not alarm yourself. You are the last person deserving of blame. I am only sorry that you should have had so much to harass you.’

‘O, Theodora has been so very kind to me.’

‘I rejoice to hear it; but tell me, will this evening or to-morrow morning suit you best?’

‘Thank you, to-morrow, if you please,’ said Violet, glad to defer the evil day.

At that moment she was astonished by the sudden apparition of Lord St. Erme, and still more by his shaking hands with her. She thanked him for his touches to her little boy’s portrait; he smiled, rejoiced that she did not think he had spoilt it, and remarked upon the likeness. Lord Martindale, who knew him but slightly, listened in surprise; and having now come to her own door, she bade them farewell, and entered the house.

Theodora came back much later than Violet had expected, with a flush on her cheek, and hurry and uncertainty in her manner. She had previously made a great point of their spending this last evening alone together, but her mood was silent. She declared herself bent on finishing the volume of Miss Strickland’s “Queens”, which they were reading together, and went on with it till bed-time without intermission, then wished Violet good night without another word.

But Violet was no sooner in bed than Theodora came in, in her dressing-gown, and sat down at her feet, looking at her, but hardly answering the few words she ventured to speak. It was not till the clock struck twelve that she rose from her seat.

‘Well, I must go; but I don’t know how to tear myself from the sight of you. I feel as if I was driven from the only place where I ever might be good.’

‘No,’ whispered Violet; ‘wherever our duty lies, we can be good.’

‘I could, if you were with me, to calm me, and tell me such things.’

‘You do not want me to tell you them. You have the Bible and Prayer Book.’

‘I never saw the right way to follow them; till now, when it was gleaming on me, I have to go away.’

‘The same grace that has shown you your way so far, dearest, will go on to show you further, if you follow it on, even though the way be hard!’

‘The grace may be with you--it is!’ said Theodora, in a heavy, hopeless manner; ‘but oh! Violet, think how long I have been driving it away!’

Violet sat up, took her hand, pressed it between both hers, and with tears exclaimed: ‘You must not speak so. If you had not that grace, should you be sorry now?’

‘I don’t know. I can hope and see my way to peace when you look at me, or speak to me; but why should I be forced into the desert of my own heart, to loneliness and temptation?’

‘If you are really resting on me, instead of on the only true help, perhaps it is better you should be left to it. Theodora, dearest, may I tell you something about myself? When first I saw my difficulties, and could not get at mamma, I felt as if there was no one to help me, but somehow it grew up. I saw how to find out guidance and comfort in the Bible and in such things, and ever since I have been so much happier.’

‘How did you find it out?’

‘John helped me; but I think it comes without teaching from without, and there is my hope for you, Theodora.’

‘Them that are meek shall He guide in judgment, and such as are gentle, them shall He learn His way,’ murmured Theodora, hanging over her, with tears fast dropping.

‘He shows Himself to those who will follow Him, and yield their own will,’ said Violet.

‘Good night! Oh! what shall I do when I have not you to send me to bed comforted? I had more to say to you, but you have smoothed it all, and I cannot ruffle it up again.’

A night of broken sleep, and perplexed waking thoughts, was a bad preparation for the morning’s conference. Lord Martindale came to breakfast, and, as before, reserved all his kindness for Violet and the children. Theodora disappeared when the little ones were carried away, and he began the conversation by saying to Violet, ‘I am afraid you have had a great deal of trouble and vexation.’

She replied by warm assurances of Theodora’s kindness; whence he led her to tell the history of the rupture, which she did very mournfully, trying to excuse Theodora, but forbidden, by justice to Percival; and finding some relief in taking blame to herself for not having remonstrated against that unfortunate expedition to the races.

‘No, my dear, it was no fault of yours. It was not from one thing more than another. It was owing to unhappy, unbroken temper. Take care of your children, my dear, and teach them submission in time.’ Then presently resuming: ‘Is it your idea that she had any attachment to poor Fotheringham?’

‘Much more than she knew at the time,’ said Violet.

‘Ha! Then you do not think she has given encouragement to that absurd-looking person, Lord St. Erme?’

‘Lord St. Erme!’ cried Violet, startled.

‘Yes; when I parted with you yesterday, he walked back with me, and proceeded to declare that he had been long attached to her, and to ask my sanction to his following us to Germany to pay his addresses.’

‘Surely he has not spoken to her?’

‘No; he said something about not presuming, and of having been interrupted. I could only tell him that it must rest with herself. There is no objection to the young man, as far as I know, though he is an idle, loitering sort of fellow, not what I should have thought to her taste.’

‘I do not believe she likes him,’ said Violet.

‘You do not? I cannot make out. I told her that she was at liberty to do as she pleased; I only warned her neither to trifle with him, nor to rush into an engagement without deliberation, but I could get nothing like an answer. She was in one of her perverse fits, and I have no notion whether she means to accept him or not.’

‘I do not think she will.’

‘I cannot say. No one knows, without a trial, what the notion of a coronet will do with a girl. After all her pretensions she may be the more liable to the temptation. I have not told her aunt, that she may be the more unbiassed. Not that I say anything against him, it is everything desirable in the way of connection, and probably he is an amiable good sort of man. What do you know of him! Are you intimate with him?’

Violet explained the extent of their acquaintance. ‘I do not see my way through it,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘I wish I could be clear that it is not all coquetry. I wish John was at home.’

‘I do not think,’ said Violet, gathering courage--‘I do not think you know how much Theodora wishes to be good.’

‘I wish she was half as good as you are, my dear!’ said Lord Martindale, as if he had been speaking to a child. And he talked to her warmly of her own concerns, and hopes of her visiting Martindale on their return; trying to divest himself of a sense of inhospitality and harshness, which grew on him whenever he looked at her slender figure, and the varying carnation of her thin cheek.

She felt herself obliged to set forth to call on Lady Martindale. Theodora was busy, packing up, and could not accompany her; unfortunately for her, since Mrs. Nesbit took the opportunity of examining her on the same subject, though far from doing it in the same manner; commenting with short sarcastic laughs, censuring Mr. Fotheringham for trying to domineer, but finding much amusement in making out the grounds of his objection to Mrs. Finch, and taking pleasure in bringing, by her inquiries, a glow of confusion and distress on Violet’s cheeks. Next she began to blame her for having visited such an imprudent person; and when Lady Martindale ventured to suggest something about her not knowing, and Mrs. Finch having formerly been a friend of the family, she put her down. ‘Yes, my dear, we are not blaming Mrs. Arthur Martindale. We know it is not possible for every one to be fastidious. The misfortune was in Miss Martindale’s being brought into society which could not be expected to be select.’

Violet did not think herself called upon to stay to be insulted, and rose to take leave, but did not escape without further taunts. ‘So you are to be in London alone for the next month?’

‘Perhaps only for a fortnight!’

‘I can promise you that it will be a month. Young men are not apt to spend more time at home than they can help. I am sorry to interfere with your scheme of being installed at Martindale, but it is out of the question. Theodora’s absence has been much felt by the curate, and our past experience has prepared us for anything. I hope you will take care of yourself.’

Mrs. Nesbit, as she lost her power of self-command and her cleverness, without parting with her bitterness of spirit, had pitiably grown worse and worse, so that where she would once have been courteously sarcastic, she was now positively insolent.

It was too much for Lady Martindale, who, as she saw Violet colour deeply, and tremble as she left the room, followed her to the head of the stairs, and spoke kindly. ‘You must not imagine, my dear, that either my aunt, or any of us, find fault with you. We all know that you are inexperienced, and that it is not easy to cope with Theodora’s eccentricity of character.’

Violet, still very weak, could have been hysterical, but luckily was able to command herself, though, ‘thank you!’ was all she could say.

‘Of course, though such things are unfortunate, we cannot regret the match; Lord Martindale and I are quite convinced that you acted amiably by all parties. Good-bye, my dear; I am sorry I have not time to call and see the children.’

‘Shall I send them to you when they wake?’ said Violet, pleased that they were at length mentioned.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Lady Martindale, as if much tempted. ‘I am afraid not, it might be too much for my aunt. And yet, I should have liked to see the little girl.’

‘She is such a beauty,’ said Violet, much brightened. ‘So exactly like her papa.’

‘I should like to see her! You have your carriage here, of course!’

‘No; I walked.’

‘Walked, my dear!’ said Lady Martindale, dismayed.

Violet explained how short the distance was; but Lady Martindale seemed not to know how to let her go, nor how to relinquish the thought of seeing her grand-daughter. At last she said, as if it was a great resolution, lowering her voice, ‘I wonder if I could walk back with you, just to see her.’

She took Violet into her room while she put on her bonnet, much as if she feared being found out; and in passing the drawing-room door, gathered her dress together so as to repress its rustling.

Wonder of wonders, to find Lady Martindale actually on foot by her side! She went up at once to the nursery, where the children were asleep. At Johnnie she looked little, but she hung over the cot where lay the round plump baby face of little Helen. Though dreadfully afraid of being missed, she seemed unable to turn away from the contemplation.

‘My dear,’ said she, in an agitated voice, as they left the nursery, ‘you must not keep these children here in London. You must not sacrifice their health. It is the first consideration. Don’t let them stay in that hot nursery! Pray do not.’

‘We shall be in the country soon,’ said Violet.

‘Why not at once? Does expense prevent you? Tell me, my dear, what it would cost. I always have plenty to spare. Would £100 do it? and you need tell no one. I could give you £200,’ said Lady Martindale, who had as little idea of the value of money as any lady in her Majesty’s dominions. ‘I must have that dear little girl in the country. Pray take her to Ventnor. How much shall I give you?’

Much surprised, and more touched, Violet, however, could not accept the offer. She felt that it would be casting a slight on Arthur; and she assured Lady Martindale that she hoped soon to leave London, and how impossible it was for her to move house without Arthur. It seemed to be a great disappointment, and opened to Violet a fresh insight into Lady Martindale’s nature; that there was a warm current beneath, only stifled by Mrs. Nesbit’s power over a docile character. There seemed to be hopes that they might love each other at last! In the midst there was a knock at the door, and Lord Martindale entered, much surprised, as well as pleased, to find his wife there, though put in some perplexity by her instantly appealing to him to tell Violet that it was very bad for the children to remain in town, and asking if it could not be managed to send them to the sea-side. He made a grave but kind reply, that he was sorry for it himself, but that Violet had assured him it would not be for long; and Lady Martindale (who did not seem able to understand why the lady of the house could not make everything give way to her convenience)--now becoming alive to the fear of her aunt’s missing her, and taking to heart her stolen expedition--hurried him off with her at once. It was not till after their departure that Violet discovered that he had been trying to atone for deficiencies, by costly gifts to herself and her children.

All this time Theodora had been in her own room, packing, as she said, but proceeding slowly; for there was a severe struggle of feelings, and she could not bear that it should be seen. In the pain of parting with Violet, she shrank from her presence, as if she could not endure to prolong the space for last words.

They came at last. Theodora sat ready for her journey, holding her god-daughter in her arms, and looking from her to Violet, without a word; then gazing round the room, which had been the scene of such changes of her whole mind.

At last she spoke, and it was very different from what Violet expected,

‘Violet, I will try to endure it; but if I cannot--if you hear of me as doing what you will disapprove, will you refrain from giving me up, and at least be sorry for me?’

After what Lord Martindale had said, Violet could guess at her meaning. ‘Certainly, dear Theodora. You would not do it if it was wrong?’

‘You know what I mean?’

‘I think I do.’

‘And you are not infinitely shocked?’

‘No; for you would not do it unless you could rightly.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Not if there was--anything remaining--of the former--’

‘You are a good little thing, Violet,’ said Theodora, trying to laugh; ‘nearly as simple as your daughter. You will save her a great deal of trouble, if you tame her while she is young.’

Then came a pause, lasting till Theodora thought she heard the carriage.

‘You will forgive me if I accept him?’

‘I shall know it is all right. I trust you, dear sister.’

‘Tell me something to help me!’

Violet drew out Helen’s cross. ‘Be patient, be patient,’ she said. ‘The worse things are, the more of the cross to be borne.’

Theodora held out her hand for it. ‘I hope I am mending,’ said she, as she gave it back with a melancholy smile. ‘It does not give me the bad jealous thoughts I had when first I knew you possessed it. Tell me something to make me patient.’

‘May I tell you what came into my head after you were talking last night of not seeing your way, and wanting to be led. I thought of a verse in Isaiah.’ Violet found the place and showed it.

‘Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of His servant, that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord and stay upon his God.’

‘Thank you, Violet,’ said Theodora, looking on to the next verse. ‘I will try to be patient; I will try not to kindle a fire for myself. But if they tease me much, if I am very weary--’

The summons cut her short--Lord Martindale ran up to hasten her; a fervent embrace--she was gone!

And Violet, with worn-out strength and spirits, remained to find how desolate she was--left behind in dreary summer London. There was nothing for it but to be as foolish as in old times, to lie down on the sofa and cry herself to sleep. She was a poor creature, after all, and awoke to weariness and headache, but to no repining; for she had attained to a spirit of thankfulness and content. She lay dreamily, figuring to herself Arthur enjoying himself on the moors and mountains, till Helvellyn’s own purple cap came to brighten her dreams.

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Chapter 22

Sigh no more, lady, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, One foot on shore and one on land, To one thing constant never.

--Percy’s Reliques

‘So, you say Miss Martindale has left town?’

‘Yes; Violet writes me that the family passed through London, and took her to the continent on Tuesday.’

‘Then let Annette know she is to be ready to come with me to town on Monday. We shall see if it is the young lady’s doing, or whether Mrs. Martindale intends to give herself airs with her father and sister.’

‘Poor dear,’ sighed the good care-worn mother, ‘I do long to hear of her; but may I not write first? I should not like to get the dear child into trouble.’

‘On no account write, or we shall have some excuse about pre-engagements. I shall take Annette at once, and see with my own eyes. Martindale can never have the face to hinder her from asking her own sister to stay in the house, when once she is there.’

‘I hope he is kind to her!’ said Mrs. Moss. ‘I long to hear whether she is quite recovered; and she says so little of herself. She will be glad to see her sister, and yet, one does not like to seem pushing.’

‘Never you mind,’ said the acute, sharp-faced attorney, putting her aside as if she was presuming beyond her sphere; ‘only you get Annette ready. Since we found such a match for Violet, she is bound to help off her sisters; and as to Annette, a jaunt is just what is wanting to drive that black coat out of her head. I wish he had never come near the place. The girl might have had the Irish captain, if she had not been running after him and his school. Tell her to be ready on Monday.’

Meek Mrs. Moss never dared to question her husband’s decision; and she had suffered too much anxiety on her daughter’s account, not to rejoice in the prospect of a trustworthy report, for Violet’s letters were chiefly descriptions of her children.

There was much soreness in the Moss family respecting Violet, and two opinions with regard to her; some inclining to believe her a fine lady, willing to discard her kindred; others thinking her not a free agent, but tyrannized over by Miss Martindale, and neglected by her husband. So Annette, who had pined and drooped under the loss of the twin-like companionship of her sister, was sent out as on an adventure, in much trepidation and mysterious dread of Captain Martindale, by no means consistent with the easy good nature of his days of courtship. And thus her first letter was written and received with such feelings as attend that of an explorer of a new country.

‘Cadogan-place, August 19th.

‘Well, dearest mamma, I am writing from Violet’s house. Yes, she is her own sweet self, our precious flower still--nobody must think anything else--she is not changed one bit, except that she is terribly pale and thin; but she calls herself quite well, and says that if I had seen her when Johnny was five weeks old, I should give her credit now. But Matilda will say I cannot write a comprehensible letter, so I will begin regularly.

‘We slept at Uncle Christopher’s, and after an early breakfast walked here. The man did not think his mistress could see any one, but when he heard who we were, showed us to the drawing-room, and there was Violet, quite alone, breakfasting by herself, for he is gone to Scotland! Poor dear girl! When she saw us, she gave a little scream, and flew up to me, clinging round my neck, and sobbing as she did on her wedding-day; it was as if the two years were nothing. However, in a moment, she composed herself, and said it was silly, but there was still a sob in her throat, and she was shy and constrained as she used to be with papa, in old times. She says she would not tell us Captain Martindale was going to Scotland, because of not tantalizing us with his passing so near, but I fear it is that she will not confess how often she is left alone. I am so glad we are come, now he is out of the way. She has asked us to stay while papa has to be in London, and I shall, but papa finds it more convenient to sleep at Uncle Christopher’s. If we are not here oftener, I am sure it is no fault of hers; and her husband cannot be displeased with this little visit--at least he ought not. She sent for the children; the babe was asleep, but Johnnie came, and oh! how curious it seemed to hear the voice calling her mamma, and see the little creature holding out his arms to go to her. I felt, indeed, how long we have been apart--it was our own Violet, and yet some one else. You would have been amused to see how altered she was by having her son in her arms; how the little morsel seemed to give her confidence, and the shy stiffness went away, and she looked so proud and fond, and smiled and spoke with ease. There was the dear little fair fellow standing on her lap, leaning against her shoulder, with his arm round her neck, hiding his face when I looked at him too much. She said he was puzzled not to see the aunt he knew, and how I grudged his knowing any aunt better than me! They do look lovely together, and so much alike; but I could cry to see them both so white and wan; not a shade of her pretty colour on her cheek, and the little darling so very tiny and weak, though he is as clever as possible, and understands all you say to him. If I had but got them both in our fresh north countree!

‘Papa could not stay, and as soon as he was gone, she set her boy down on the sofa, and threw her arms round my neck, and we were like wild things--we kissed, and screamed, and laughed, and cried, till poor Johnnie was quite frightened. “Now, Annette, come and see,” said Violet, and took me up-stairs to the nursery, and there half-waking, under the archway of her cradle, lay, like a little queen, that beautiful creature, Helen, opening her black eyes just as we came up, and moving her round arms. How I longed for mamma to see her, and to see Violet’s perfect look of happiness as she lifted her out and said, “Now, is not she worth seeing?” and then Sarah came up. Violet says Sarah threatened to go away, when there were two to be always racketing, but when it came to the point, could not leave Johnnie, whom she keeps in great order, and treats with much ceremony, always calling him Master John. She believes Sarah disapproves of poor Helen altogether, as an intruder upon Johnnie’s comfort; and she is quite savage at admiration of her, as if it was a slight on him; but she has turned out an admirable nurse, in her own queer way. Such a morning as we have had, chattering so fast! all about you all. I am sure she loves us as much as ever, and I do not believe she is unhappy. She talks of her husband as if they were happy, and he has given her such quantities of pretty things, and I hear of so much that seems as if she was on comfortable terms with them all. I am satisfied about her, pray be so too, dear mamma.

‘I am writing while waiting for her to drive to fetch my things from Uncle Christopher’s--She tells me to finish without minding her visitor--I was interrupted by Sarah’s bringing Johnnie down, and he was very good with me, but presently a gentleman was announced, without my catching his name. I feared Johnnie would cry, but he sprang with delight, and the stranger saying, “Ha! master, you recollect me?” took him in his arms. I said my sister would come directly, and he gave a good-natured nod, and muttered half to himself, “Oh! another of the genus Viola. I am glad of it.” I cannot make him out; he must be a relation, or one of the other officers. Violet did not know he was there, and came in with the baby in her arms; he stepped towards her, saying, “So you have set up another! Man or woman?” and then asked if she was another flower. Violet coloured, as she spoke low, and said, “Her name is Helen.” I must ask Violet the meaning, for he looked gravely pleased, and answered gratefully, “That is very good of you.” “I hope she will deserve it,” Violet said, and was introducing me, but he said Johnnie had done him that honour. He has been talking of Captain Martindale (calling him Arthur), and telling curious things he has seen in Ireland. He is very amusing, bluff, and odd, but as if he was a distinguished person. Now I see that Violet is altered, and grown older--he seems to have such respect for, and confidence in her; and she so womanly and self-possessed, entering into his clever talk as Matilda would, yet in the simple way she always had. You would be proud to see her now--her manners must be perfection, I should think; so graceful and dignified, so engaging and quiet. I wish Louisa had seen her. What are they talking of now?

‘Violet.--How did you find Pallas Athene?

‘Unknown.--Alas, poor Pallas! With the judgment of the cockney who buttered his horse’s hay, the ragged boy skinned her mice and plucked her sparrows in my absence. The consequence was her untimely end. I was met by my landlady with many a melancholy “Ah, sir!” and actually the good creature had had her stuffed.

‘Violet.--Poor Pallas! then the poor boy has lost his employment?

‘Unknown.--Happily, his honesty and his grief so worked upon my landlady, that she has taken him as an errand boy. So that, in fact, Minerva may be considered to have been the making of his fortune.

‘I leave this for a riddle for the sisters. I am longing to ask Violet who this gentleman is who seems to know all the negroes so well.’ (Scratched out.) ‘What nonsense I have written! I was listening to some letters they were reading from the Mr. Martindale in the West Indies. Violet tells me to finish with her dearest love.

‘Your most affectionate,

‘A. Moss.

‘P.S.--He will come to-morrow to take us to a private view of the Royal Academy, before the pictures are removed.’

The same post carried a letter from Violet to her husband, communicating the arrival of her guests, and telling him she knew that he could not wish her not to have Annette with her for these few days, and that it did make her very happy.

Having done this, she dismissed doubts, and, with a clear conscience, gave herself up to the enjoyment of her sister’s visit, each minute of which seemed of diamond worth. Perhaps the delights were the more intense from compression; but it was a precious reprieve when Arthur’s answer came, rejoicing at Violet’s having a companion, and hoping that she would keep her till his return, which he should not scruple to defer, since she was so well provided for. He had just been deliberating whether he could accept an invitation to the Highlands.

If the wife was less charmed than her sister, she knew that, under any circumstances, she would have had to consent, after the compliment had been paid of asking whether she could spare him; and it was compensation enough that he should have voluntarily extended her sister’s visit.

Annette, formerly the leader of her younger sister, was often pleasantly surprised to find her little Violet become like her elder, and that not only from situation, but in mind. With face and figure resembling Violet’s, but of a less uncommon order, without the beauteous complexion and the natural grace, now enhanced by living in the best society, Annette was a very nice-looking, lady-like girl, of the same refined tone of mind and manners; and having had a longer space of young ladyhood, she had more cultivation in accomplishments and book knowledge, her good taste saving her from being spoilt, even by her acquiescence in Matilda’s superiority. She saw, however, that Violet had more practical reflection, and though in many points simple and youthful, was more of a woman than herself; and it was with that sweet, innocent feeling, which ought not to bear the same name as pride, that she exulted in the superiority of her beloved sister. Selfish jealousies or petty vanities were far from her; it was like a romance to hear Violet describe the splendours of Martindale, or the gaieties of London; and laugh over the confession of the little perplexities as to proprieties, and the mistakes and surprises, which she trusted she had not betrayed.

Still Violet missed the power of fully reciprocating her sister’s confidence. Annette laid open every home interest and thought, but Violet had no right to disclose the subjects that had of late engrossed her, and at every turn found a separation, something on which she must not be communicative.

The view of the Exhibition was happily performed under Mr. Fotheringham’s escort. Annette, thanks to Lord St. Erme’s gallery, had good taste in pictures; she drew well, and understood art better than her sister, who rejoiced in bringing out her knowledge, and hearing her converse with Percy. They had the rooms to themselves, and Annette was anxious to carry away the outline of one or two noted pictures. While she was sketching, Percy wandered to another part of the room, and stood fixedly before a picture. Violet came to see what he was looking at. It was a fine one by Landseer of a tiger submitting to the hand of the keeper, with cat-like complacency, but the glare of the eye and curl of the tail manifesting that its gentleness was temporary.

‘It may be the grander animal,’ muttered he; ‘but less satisfactory for domestic purposes.’

‘What did you say?’ asked Violet, thinking it addressed to her.

‘That is a presumptuous man,’ he said, pointing to the keeper. ‘If he trusts in the creature’s affection, some day he will find his mistake.’

He flung himself round, as if he had done with the subject, and his tone startled Violet, and showed her that more was meant than met the ear. She longed to tell him that the creature was taming itself, but she did not dare, and he went back to talk to Annette, till it ended in his promising to come to-morrow, to take them to the Ellesmere gallery.

‘That’s the right style of woman,’ soliloquized Percy, as he saw the carriage drive off. ‘Gentleness, meekness, and a dash of good sense, is the recipe for a rational female--otherwise she is a blunder of nature. The same stamp as her sister, I see; nothing wanting, but air and the beauty, which, luckily for Arthur, served for his bait.’

When he came, according to appointment, Annette was in the drawing-room, unable to desist from touching and retouching her copy of her nephew’s likeness, though Violet had long ago warned her to put it away, and to follow her up to dress.

He carried the portrait to the light. ‘M. Piper,’ he read. ‘That little woman! That mouth is in better drawing than I could have thought her guilty of.’

‘Oh! those are Lord St. Erme’s touches,’ said unconscious Annette. ‘He met Miss Martindale taking it to be framed, and he improved it wonderfully. He certainly understood the little face, for he even wrote verses on it.’

Here Violet entered, and Annette had to hurry away for her bonnet. Percy stood looking at the drawing.

‘So, Johnnie has a new admirer,’ he said. Violet was sorry that he should hear of this; but she laughed, and tried to make light of it.

‘I hear he is in Germany.’

‘Yes; with his sister and their aunt.’

‘Well,’ said Percy, ‘it may do. There will be no collision of will, and while there is one to submit, there is peace. A tigress can be generous to a puppy dog.’

‘But, indeed, I do not think it likely.’

‘If she is torturing him, that is worse.’

Violet raised her eyes pleadingly, and said, in a low, mournful tone: ‘I do not like to hear you speak so bitterly.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘it is not bitterness. That is over. I am thankful to have broken loose, and to be able to look back on it calmly, as a past delusion. Great qualities ill regulated are fearful things; and though I believe trials will in time teach her to bring her religious principle to bear on her faults, I see that it was an egregious error to think that she could be led.’

He spoke quietly, but Violet could not divest herself of the impression that there was more acute personal feeling than he was aware of. In the Ellesmere gallery, he led them to that little picture of Paul Potter’s, where the pollard willows stand up against the sunset sky, the evening sunshine gleaming on their trunks, upon the grass, and gilding the backs of the cows, while the placid old couple look on at the milking, the hooded lady shading her face with her fan.

‘There’s my notion of felicity,’ said he.

‘Rather a Dutch notion,’ said Violet.

‘Don’t despise the Dutch,’ said Percy. ‘Depend upon it, that respectable retired burgomaster and his vrow never had words, as we Brogden folk say.’

‘I think you would find that very stupid,’ said Violet.

‘Not I,’ said Percy. ‘When I want to pick a quarrel, I can get it abroad.’

‘When?’ said Annette, smiling.

‘Yes, I like to keep my teeth and claws sharpened,’ said Percy; but one wants repose at home. That burgomaster is my model.’

He continued to find sights for them, showing Violet more lions of London than had ever come in her way. One day, when a thunder-storm hindered their going to the Zoological Gardens, he stayed the whole afternoon reading to them. In the midst, Violet thought of last September’s storm; she looked up--an idea flashed upon her!

‘How delightful! How well they suit! I shall have my Annette close to me! They can marry at once! My father will be satisfied. How happy they will be! It will be the repose he wants. Dear Annette, what will she not be under his training!’ The joyous impulse was to keep him to dinner; but she had scruples about inviting him in Arthur’s absence, and therefore only threw double warmth into her farewells. Her spirits were up to nonsense pitch, and she talked and laughed all the evening with such merriment as Annette had hardly ever known in her.

But when she was alone, and looked her joy in the face, she was amazed to find how she had been forgetting Theodora, whose affairs had lately been uppermost. Annette might be worth a hundred Theodoras: but that did not alter right and justice.

If Theodora was accepting the Earl! Violet knew he was at Baden; he could not yet have been dismissed: and the sister-in-law had proved a disappointing correspondent, her nature being almost as averse to letter-writing as was Arthur’s. Let her marry him, and all would be well. The question, however, really lay between Percy and Annette themselves; and Violet thought he had made a wise discovery in preferring her gentle, yielding sister to the former lady of his choice. Matters might take their course; Arthur would be gratified by this testimony to her family’s perfections; John would rejoice in whatever was for his friend’s real happiness; to herself, in every way, it would be complete felicity.

Still she hesitated. She had heard of pique driving persons to make a fresh choice, when a former attachment appeared obliterated by indignation, only to revive too late, and to be the misery of all parties. Percy’s late words, harsh when he fancied them indifferent, made her doubtful whether it might not be so in his case. In his sound principle she had entire confidence, but he might be in error as to the actual state of his sentiments; and she knew that she should dread, for the peace of mind of all parties, his first meeting, as her sister’s husband, with either Miss Martindale, or the Countess of St. Erme.

She decided that Annette ought to hear the whole, so as to act with her eyes open. If she had been engaged, she should never have heard what was past, but she should not encourage him while ignorant of the circumstances, and, these known, Violet had more reliance on her judgment than on her own. The breach of confidence being thus justified, Violet resolved, and as they sat together late in the evening, found an opportunity of beginning the subject. ‘We used to expect a closer connection with him, or I should never have learnt to call him Percy--’

‘You told me about poor Mr. Martindale.’

‘Yes, but this was to have been a live connection. He was engaged to Theodora.’

Violet was satisfied that the responding interjection was more surprised and curious than disappointed. She related the main features of the story, much to Annette’s indignation.

‘Why, Violet, you speak as if you were fond of her!’

‘That I am. If you knew how noble and how tender she can be! So generous when most offended! Oh! no one can know her without a sort of admiring love and pity.’

‘I do not understand. To me she seems inexcusable.’

‘No, no, indeed, Annette! She has had more excuse than almost any one. It makes one grieve for her to see how the worse nature seems to have been allowed to grow beyond her power, and how it is like something rending her, when right and wrong struggle together for the mastery.’

So many questions ensued, that Violet found her partial disclosure had rendered the curtain over Martindale affairs far less impenetrable; but she had spoken no sooner than was needful, for the very next morning’s post brought an envelope, containing a letter for Miss Moss, and a few lines addressed to herself:--

‘My Dear Mrs. Martindale,--Trust me. I have discovered my error, and have profited by my lesson. Will you give the enclosed to your sister? I know you will act as kindly as ever by

‘Yours, &c.,

‘A. P. F.’

So soon! Violet had not been prepared for this. She gasped with wonder and suspense, as she laid the letter before the place where Annette had been sitting, and returned to her seat as a spectator, though far from a calm one: that warmhearted note had made her wishes his earnest partisans, and all her pulses throbbed with the desire that Annette might decide in favour of him; but she thought it wrong to try to influence her, and held her peace, though her heart leapt into her mouth at her sister’s exclamation on seeing the letter, and her cheeks glowed when the flush darted into Annette’s.

She glanced in a sort of fright over the letter, then looked for help to Violet, and held it to her. ‘Oh, Violet! do you know?’

‘Yes, I have a note myself. My darling Annette!’

Annette threw herself down by her side, and sat on the floor, studying her face while she read the note, which thus commenced:--

‘My Dear Miss Moss,--You will say that our acquaintance is too short to warrant my thus addressing you; but your sister knows me as well as most people; and in knowing your sister, and seeing your resemblance to her, I know you. If AM=VM, and VM=Wordsworth’s “spirit yet a woman too,” then AM=the same.’

From this curious opening he proceeded to a more ordinary and very earnest entreaty for her consent to his applying to her father.

‘Well, Violet!’

‘How exactly like him!’

‘How highly he does esteem you!’ said Annette; ‘but if he thinks me like you he would find his mistake. After what you told me--so soon! Oh, I wish it had not happened! Violet, do tell me what to do.’

‘I don’t think any one can advise in a matter like this.’

‘Oh! don’t say so, Violet; you know the people, and I don’t. Pray say something.’

‘He is a most excellent, admirable person,’ said Violet, in an unmeaning tone.

‘Yes, I know that, but--’

‘Really, I think nothing but your own feeling should decide.’

‘Ah! you did not hesitate when you were asked!’ said Annette, sighing; and Violet at once blushed, smiled, and sighed, as she spoke her quick conscious ‘No, no!’

‘Such a romance cannot always be expected,’ said Annette, a little mournfully. ‘He is everything estimable, in spite of his oddness. But then, this affair--so recent! Violet’ (impatiently), ‘what DO you think? what do you wish?’

‘What I wish? To have my own Annette near me. For two such people to belong to each other! Don’t you know what I like? But the question is what you wish.’

‘Yes!’ sighed Annette.

‘I don’t think you wish it much,’ said Violet, trying to get a view of her face.

‘I don’t know whether I ought to make up my mind. I am not much inclined to anything. But I dare say it would turn out well. I do like him very much. But Miss Martindale! Now, Violet, will you not tell me what you think? Take pity on me.’

‘Annette,’ said Violet, not without effort, ‘I see you have not the feeling that would make you unhappy in giving him up, so I may speak freely. I am afraid of it. I cannot be certain that he is so completely cured of his old attachment as he supposes himself to be while the anger is fresh. He is as good as possible--quite sincere, and would never willingly pain you, whatever he may feel. But his affection for Theodora was of long standing; and without any one’s fault there might be worries and vexations--’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Annette, in a voice that reassured her.

‘I think it wiser not, and perhaps more honourable to Theodora. Hitherto I have been wishing that it might yet be made up again. If you had been disposed that way, I should have been anxious,--as you seem doubtful, I fancy it would be safer--’

‘O, Violet, I am so glad! It is a great relief to me.’

‘But, you know, it is only I that say so.’

‘Better you than a hundred! My doubt was this. You know there are a great many of us, and papa wants to see us well married. He has talked more about it since you went. Now this is not romantic; but I was considering whether, for the sake of the rest, I ought not to try whether I could like him. But what you have said sets me quite at ease in refusing him.’

‘Poor Percy!’ said Violet. ‘I am afraid he will be vexed.’

‘And it is a great compliment, though that is to you. He takes me on trust from you.’

‘And he took me on trust from John,’ said Violet. ‘I wish he had known you before Theodora.’

‘I only hope papa will never hear of it,’ said Annette, shrinking. ‘How fortunate that he was not here. I shall tell no one at home.’

‘If it had not been for Theodora,’ sighed Violet, ‘I know nothing that would have been more delightful. It was too charming to come true!’

‘Violet,’ said Annette, with her face averted, ‘don’t be sorry, for I could not have been glad of it now; though for their sakes I might have tried to work myself into the feeling. I cannot help telling you, though you will think it more wrong in me, for I shall never see HIM again, and he never said anything.’

‘I know whom you mean,’ whispered Violet, rightly divining it was Mr. Fanshawe.

‘Don’t call it anything,’ said Annette, with her head drooping. ‘I would not have told even you, but to console you about this. Nothing ever passed, and I was silly to dwell on the little things they laughed at me about, but I cannot help thinking that if he had seen any prospect--’

‘I wonder if John could--’ Violet checked herself.

‘O, don’t say anything about it!’ cried Annette, frightened. ‘It may be only my foolish fancy--but I cannot get it out of my mind. You see I have no one to talk over things with now you are gone. I have lost my pair in you, so I am solitary among them, and perhaps that has made me think of it the more.’

‘Dearest! But still I think you ought to try to draw away your mind from it.’

‘You do not think I ought to try to like Mr. Fotheringham?’

‘Indeed, under present circumstances, I could not wish that.’

‘But do you think me very wrong for considering whether I could? I hope not, dear Violet,’ said Annette, who shared her sister’s scrupulous, self-distrustful character, and had not, like her, been taught, by stern necessity, to judge for herself.

‘No, indeed,’ said Violet; ‘but, since that is settled, he ought to know it at once, and not to be kept in suspense.’

It was not until after much affectionate exhortation that Violet could rouse her sister from talking rather piteously over the perplexity it would have been if his case or hers had been otherwise, arguing to excuse herself in her own eyes for the notion of the marriage for expediency, and describing the displeasure that the knowledge of the rejection would produce at home. It was the first time she had had to act for herself, and either she could not resolve to begin, or liked to feel its importance. Perhaps she was right in saying that Mr. Fotheringham would be disappointed if he supposed her Violet’s equal, for though alike in lowliness, amiability, and good sense, she had not the same energy and decision.

At last the letter was begun, in the style of Matilda and the “Polite Letter Writer” combined, though the meek-spirited Annette peeped through in the connecting links of the set phrases. Violet, who was appealed to at every stage, would fain have substituted the simple words in which Annette spoke her meaning; but her sister was shocked. Such ordinary language did not befit the dignity of the occasion nor Matilda’s pupil; and Violet, as much overruled as ever by respect for her elder sisters, thought it an admirable composition.

‘May I see yours?’ asked Annette, resting before making her fair copy.

‘And welcome, but it is not worthy of yours.’

‘My Dear Mr. Fotheringham,--I wish with all my heart it could be--I am very sorry it must not. Pray say nothing to my father: it would only put her to needless pain. I beg your pardon for not being able to do anything for you. You know how glad I should have been if I had not been obliged to perceive that it would not be really right or kind to either. Only do let me thank you for liking my dear sister, and forgive us if you are grieved. I am very, very sorry.

‘Yours, very sincerely,

‘V. H. MARTINDALE.’

Annette raised her eyes in surprise. ‘Ah!’ said Violet, ‘it is of no use for me to try to write like Matilda. I did once, but I am not clever enough; it looked so silly and affected, that I have been ashamed to remember it ever since. I must write in the only way I can.’

Her sister wanted to tear up her letter as a piece of affectation, but this she would not allow. It made her feel despairing to think of spending two hours more over it, and she hoped that she would be satisfied with the argument that the familiar style employed by Mrs. Martindale towards an old friend might not be suited to Annette Moss when rejecting his suit.

Each sentence underwent a revision, till Violet, growing as impatient as was in her nature, told her at last that he would think more of the substance than of the form.

Next, she had to contend against Annette’s longing to flee home at once, by Theodora’s own saying, ‘London was wide enough for both;’ and more effectually by suggesting that a sudden departure would be the best means of proclaiming the adventure. It was true enough that Mr. Fotheringham was not likely to molest her. No more was heard of him till, two days after, the owl’s provider brought a parcel with a message, that Mr. Fotheringham had given up his lodging and was going to Paris. It contained some books and papers of John’s, poor little Pallas Athene herself, stuffed, and directed to Master J. Martindale, and a book in which, under his sister’s name, he had written that of little Helen. Violet knew he had intended making some residence at Paris, to be near the public libraries, and she understood this as a kind, forgiving farewell. She could understand his mortification, that he, after casting off the magnificent Miss Martindale, should be rejected by this little humble country girl; and she could not help thinking herself ungrateful, so that the owl, which she kept in the drawing-room, as the object of Johnnie’s tender strokings, always seemed to have a reproachful expression in its round glass eyes.

The hope of seeing the expediency of her decision waxed fainter, when she received the unexpected honour of a letter from Lord Martindale, who, writing to intrust her with some commission for John, added some news. ‘I have had the great pleasure of meeting with my cousin, Hugh Martindale,’ he said; ‘who, since the death of his wife, has so overworked himself in his large town parish, as to injure his eyesight, and has been ordered abroad for his health. It does not appear that he will ever be fit to return to his work at Fieldingsby, and I am in hopes of effecting an exchange which may fix him at Brogden in the stead of Mr. Wingfield. When you are of my age, you will understand the pleasure I have in returning to old times. Theodora has likewise been much with him, and I trust may be benefited by his advice. At present she has not made up her mind to give any definite answer to Lord St. Erme, and since I believe she hesitates from conscientious motives, I am the less inclined to press her, as I think the result will be in his favour. I find him improve on acquaintance. I am fully satisfied with his principles and temper, he has extensive information, and might easily become a valuable member of society. His sister, Lady Lucy, spends much of her time with us, and appears to be an amiable pleasing girl.’

Lord Martindale evidently wished it to be forgotten that he had called Lord St. Erme absurd-looking.

Violet sighed, and tried to counterbalance her regrets by hopes that John would have it in his power to patronize his chaplain. However, these second-hand cares did not hinder her from thriving and prospering so that she triumphed in the hopes of confuting the threat that she would not recover in London, and she gloried in the looks with which she should meet Arthur. A dozen times a day she told her little ones that papa was coming home, till Johnnie learnt to repeat it; and then she listened in ecstasy as the news took a fresh charm from his lips.

She went to meet Arthur at the station; but instead of complimenting her on the renewed carnation of her cheeks, as perhaps, in her pretty conjugal vanity, she had expected, when she had taken such pains with her pink ribbons, he gazed straight before him, and presently said, abruptly, ‘Is your sister here?’

Had she been displeasing him the whole time? She only breathed a faint ‘Yes.’

‘Is Fotheringham in town?’

‘No; he is gone to Paris.’

‘Then it is humbug, as I thought. I met that precious Miss Gardner in the train going to Worthbourne, and she would have me believe you were getting up a match between those two! A fine story,--not a year since he proposed to Theodora! There was she congratulating me on the satisfaction it must be to Mrs. Martindale!’

‘So she wanted to make mischief between us,’ said Violet, much hurt.

‘Mischief is meat and drink to her. But not a jot did I believe, I tell you, silly child. You are not wasting tears on that crocodile tongue! I had a mind to tell her to her face that Percy is made of different stuff; and for my own Violet blossom--’

The tears dropped bright and happy. ‘Though, dear Arthur, it was true, as far as Percy was concerned. Annette has had to refuse him.’

‘A wise girl!’ exclaimed Arthur, in indignant surprise. ‘But Percy! I could not have believed it. Why would she not have him?’

‘Chiefly from thinking it not right to accept him. I hope I did not do wrong in telling her all about it. I thought it only fair, and she did not care enough for him to make the refusal an effort.’

‘I should think not! The fickle dog. To go and take up with--No disrespect to Annette,--but after Theodora! So soon, too!’

‘I fancied it more pique than inconstancy. There is so much anger about him that I suspect there is more affection than he knows.’

‘And you think that mends matters,’ said Arthur, laughing. ‘Well, I hope Theodora will marry St. Erme at once, so as to serve him right. I am sure she will if she hears of this.’

‘And I am afraid Miss Gardner will write to her.’

‘That she will, with nice histories of you and me and Annette. And she will tell them at Worthbourne till old Sir Antony disinherits Percy. No more than he deserves!’

She might well be glad of the part she had taken, now that she found her husband so much more alive to the affront to his sister than she had expected. He was in high good-humour, and talked merrily of his expedition, proceeding even to such a stretch of solicitude as to say he supposed ‘the brats were all right, as he had heard nothing of them.’

His greeting to Annette was warm and cordial, he complimented her on her sister’s recovered looks, and tried to extort a declaration that she looked just like what she had been when he took her from Wrangerton. Annette peeped out under her eyelashes, smiled, and shook her head timidly.

‘Ha! What’s your treason, Miss Annette? Does not she look as well as ever?’

‘Better, in some ways,’ said Annette, looking at Violet, glowing and smiling, with her husband’s hand on her shoulder.

‘And what in others!’

‘I like to look at her better than ever, but I cannot say she is not paler and thinner.’

‘Yes, and sober and matronly. That I am!’ said Violet, drawing herself up. ‘I must stand on my dignity now I have two children. Don’t I look old and wise, Annette?’

‘Not a bit now,’ said Annette.

There was an end of Annette’s doubt and dread of her grand brother-in-law. He talked and laughed, took her on pleasant expeditions, and made much of her with all his ready good-nature, till her heart was quite won. She did not leave them till just as they were departing for Windsor, and as she looked back from her railway carriage, at Violet and her husband, arm-in-arm, she sighed a sigh on her own account, repented of as soon as heaved, as she contrasted her own unsatisfactory home with their happiness.

But the heart knoweth its own bitterness, and Annette little guessed at the grief that lurked in the secret springs of her sister’s joy, increasing with her onward growth in the spirit that brought her sure trust and peace. It was the want of fellowship with her husband, in her true and hidden life. She could not seek counsel or comfort from above, she could not offer prayer or thanksgiving, she could not join in the highest Feast, without finding herself left alone, in a region whither he would not follow. It was a weariness to him. In the spring she had had hopes. At Easter, an imploring face, and timid, ‘Won’t you come?’ had made him smile, and say he was not so good as she, then sigh, and half promise, ‘Next time, when he had considered.’ But next time he had had no leisure for thinking; she should do as she liked with him when they got into the country. And since that, some influence that she could not trace seemed, as she knew by the intuition of her heart, rather than the acknowledgment of her mind, to have turned him away; the distaste and indifference were more evident, and he never gave her an opening for leading to any serious subject. It was this that gave pain even to her prayers, and added an acuter pang to every secret anxiety.

‘When his children are older, and he feels that they look up to him’ thought Violet, hopefully, and in the meantime she prayed.

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