Chapter 23…

Chapter 23

Not so, bold knight, no deed of thine Can ever win my hand; That hope, poor youth, thou must resign, For barriers ‘twixt us stand. Yet what doth part us I will now reveal, Nor, noblest one, from thee the truth conceal.

--FOUQUE

Arthur guessed rightly. Miss Gardner’s first leisure was spent in writing her tidings to Theodora.

It was on a strange state of mind that they fell. Theodora had gone abroad, softened and conscious of her faults, but her indomitable will boiling up at each attempt to conquer them; knowing that her fate hung in the balance, but helpless in the power of her own pride and temper. Miserable, and expecting to be more wretched, her outward demeanour, no longer checked by Violet, was more than ever harsh, capricious, and undutiful, especially under her present deprivation of the occupations that had hitherto been channels of kindly feeling.

She was less patient than formerly with her aunt, who was in truth more trying. Quickly gathering the state of affairs with regard to Lord St. Erme, she was very angry with Lord Martindale for not having consulted her, and at the same time caressed her great-niece beyond endurance. Besides, it was unbearable to hear sweet Violet scoffed at. Theodora spoke hastily in her defence; was laughed at for having been gained over; replied vehemently, and then repented of losing temper with one so aged and infirm. Her attention to Mrs. Nesbit had been one of her grounds of self-complacency; but this had now failed her--distance was the only means of keeping the peace and Theodora left her chiefly to her companion, Mrs. Garth, a hard-looking, military dame, who seemed so well able to take care of herself, that there was none of the compassion that had caused Theodora to relieve poor little Miss Piper.

It was not long before Lord St. Erme persuaded his aunt that her tour in Germany would not be complete without a visit to Baden-Baden. Mrs. Delaval and Lady Martindale immediately began to be as intimate as was possible with the latter. Theodora intended to stand aloof, and to be guarded and scornful; but Lady Lucy was such an engaging, affectionate, honest-hearted little thing, regarding Miss Martindale with all her brother’s enthusiastic devotion, and so grateful for the slightest notice, that it really was impossible to treat her with the requisite cold dignity.

And to admit Lady Lucy to her friendship was much the same thing as admitting the brother. ‘St. Erme’ was the one engrossing subject of the young girl’s thoughts and discourse, and it was soon plain that not a conversation passed but was reported to him. If Theodora expressed an opinion, ‘St. Erme’s’ remarks on it were certain to be brought to her the next day; if a liking or a wish, he was instantly taking measures for its gratification. She might try to keep him at a distance, but where was the use of it when, if his moustached self was safely poetizing in the Black Forest, his double in blue muslin was ever at her elbow?

By and by it was no longer a moustached self. The ornaments were shaved off, and she heartily wished them on again. What could be said when Lucy timidly begged to know how she liked the change in St. Erme’s face, and whether she shared her regrets for his dear little moustache? Alas! such a sacrifice gave him a claim, and she felt as if each departed hair was a mesh in the net to ensnare her liberty.

And what could she say when Lucy WOULD talk over his poems, and try to obtain her sympathy in the matter of that cruel review which had cut the poor little sister to the heart? It had been so sore a subject in London, that she could not then bear to speak of it, and now, treating it like a personal attack on his character, she told how ‘beautifully St. Erme bore it,’ and wanted Miss Martindale to say how unjust and shocking it was. Yet Miss Martindale actually, with a look incomprehensible to poor Lucy, declared that there was a great deal of truth in it.

However, in process of time, Lucy came back reporting that her brother thought so too, and that he had gathered many useful hints from it; but that he did not mean to attend to poetry so much, he thought it time to begin practical life; and she eagerly related his schemes for being useful and distinguishing himself.

It was not easy to help replying and commenting on, or laughing at, plans which showed complete ignorance of English life, and then Theodora found herself drawn into discussions with Lord St. Erme himself, who took her suggestions, and built his projects with a reference to her, as his understood directress and assistant; till she grew quite frightened at what she had let him take for granted, and treated him with a fresh fit of coldness and indifference, soon thawed by his sister. She could not make up her mind to the humiliating confession by which alone she could have dismissed him, and the dominion she should enjoy with him appeared more and more tempting as she learnt to know him better, and viewed him as a means of escape from her present life. If it had not been for recollections of Violet, she would have precipitated the step, in order to end her suspense, but that perfect trust that she would not accept him unless she could do so with a clear conscience always held her back.

It was at this juncture that, one day when walking with her father, there was a sudden stop at the sight of another elderly gentleman. ‘Ha! Hugh!’ ‘What, you here, Martindale!’ were mutually exclaimed, there was an ardent shaking of hands, and she found herself introduced to a cousin, whom she had not seen since she was a child.

He and her father had been like brothers in their boyhood, but the lines they had since taken had diverged far and wide. The hard-working clergyman had found himself out of his element in visits to Martindale, had discontinued them, and almost even his correspondence, so that Lord Martindale had heard nothing of his cousin since his wife’s death, two years ago, till now, when he met him on the promenade at Baden, sent abroad to recruit his worn-out health and eyesight.

All have either felt or beheld, how two such relations, on the verge of old age, meet and refresh themselves with looking back, beyond the tract of middle life, to the days shared together in youth! Lord Martindale had not looked so bright, nor talked and laughed so much for years, as over his boyish reminiscences, and his wanderings up and down the promenade with his cousin seemed as if nothing could terminate them.

Clergymen and school-loving young ladies have a natural affinity, and Theodora found a refuge from the Delavals and an opportunity for usefulness. She offered to read to Cousin Hugh, she talked over parish matters, and after relieving her mind with a conversation on the question of how much the march of intellect ought to penetrate into country schools, it was wonderful how much more equable and comfortable she became. The return to the true bent of her nature softened her on every side; and without the least attempt to show off, she was so free from the morose dignity with which she had treated her own family since going abroad, that Mr. Hugh Martindale could hardly believe the account of her strange ungovernable character, as it was laid before him by her father, in his wish for counsel.

He watched her anxiously, but made no attempt to force her confidence, and let her talk to him of books, school discipline, parish stories, and abstruse questions as much as she pleased, always replying in a practical, sobering tone, that told upon her, and soothed her almost like Violet’s mild influence, and to her great delight, she made him quite believe in Violet’s goodness, and wish to be acquainted with her.

But all the time, Lord St. Erme was treated as her acknowledged suitor. Perhaps Mr. Martindale thought it might be better if she were safely married; or, at any rate, only knowing her personally as a high-minded person of much serious thought, he believed her to be conscientiously waiting to overcome all doubts, and honoured her scruples: while it might be, that the desire for his good opinion bound Theodora the more to Lord St. Erme, for with all her sincerity, she could not bear the idea of his discovering the part she was playing, at the very time she was holding such conversations on serious subjects. The true history of her present conduct was that she could not endure to be known as the rejected and forsaken of Mr. Fotheringham, and thus, though outwardly tamer, she was more melancholy at heart, fast falling into a state of dull resignation; if such a name can be applied to mere endurance of the consequences of her own pride and self-will.

Now came Jane Gardner’s letter. Theodora read it through, then, with calm contempt, she tore it up, lighted a taper, and burnt it to ashes.

‘There, Jane!’ said she, as it shrivelled, black and crackling, ‘there is all the heed I take. Violet would no more allow me to be supplanted than Percy could be inconstant.’

Inconstant! Where was her right so to term him? Was he not released, not merely by the cold ‘Very well,’ which seemed to blister her lips in the remembrance, but by her whole subsequent course? That thought came like the stroke of a knife, and she stood motionless and stunned. Love of Percival Fotheringham was a part of herself! Certain from her confidence in Violet that Jane’s news was untrue, the only effect of hearing it was to reveal to her like a flash that her whole heart was his. He had loved her in spite of her faults. Suppose he should do so still! Her spirits leapt up at this glimpse of forfeited unattainable joy; but she beheld a forlorn hope. At least she would restore herself to a condition in which she might meet him without despairing shame. The impulse was given, and eager to obey it, while it still buoyed her above the dislike to self-abasement, she looked round for the speediest measure, caring little what it might be.

Her father was reading his letters in the next room, when, with flushed cheek, and voice striving for firmness, she stood before him, saying, ‘It is time to put an end to this. Will you let Lord St. Erme know that it cannot be!’

‘Now, Theodora!’ exclaimed the much-astonished Lord Martindale, ‘what is the meaning of this?’

‘It cannot be,’ repeated Theodora. ‘It must be put a stop to.’

‘What has happened! Have you heard anything to change your mind?’

‘My mind is not changed, but I cannot have this going on.’

‘How is this? You have been encouraging him all this time, letting him come here--’

‘I never asked him to come here,’ said Theodora, temper coming in, as usual.

‘Theodora! Theodora! did I not entreat you to tell me what you wished, when I first heard of this in London? Could I get a reasonable answer from you?’

Theodora was silent.

‘Do you know what the world thinks of young ladies who go on in this manner?’

‘Let it think as it may, I cannot accept him, and you must tell him so, papa--’

‘No, indeed. I will not be responsible for such usage! It must be your own doing,’ said Lord Martindale, thoroughly displeased. ‘I should be ashamed to look him in the face!’

Theodora turned to leave the room.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked her father.

‘I am going to write to Lord St. Erme.’

‘Come back, Theodora. I must know that you are not going to carry further this ill-usage of a most excellent man, more sincerely attached to you than you deserve. I insist on knowing what you intend to say to him.’

To insist was not the way to succeed with Theodora.

‘I do not exactly know,’ said she.

‘I wish I knew what to do with you!’ sighed Lord Martindale, in anger, grief, and perplexity. ‘You seem to think that people’s affections are made to serve for your vanity and sport, and when you have tormented them long enough, you cast them off!’

Theodora drew her head up higher, and swelled at the injustice. It was at that moment that Lord St. Erme entered the room. She went forward to meet him, and spoke at once. ‘I am glad you are here,’ said she, proudly pleased that her father should see her vindication from the charge of trifling. ‘You are come to hear what I had been desiring my father to tell you. I have used you very ill, and it is time to put a stop to it.’

Lord St. Erme looked from her to her father in wonder and dismay.

‘First understand,’ said Lord Martindale, ‘that this is no doing of mine; I am heartily grieved, but I will leave you. Perhaps you may prevail on this wilful girl--’

Theodora began a protest, and desired him to remain; but he would not, and she found herself alone with her bewildered lover.

‘What is this? what have I done?’ he began.

‘You have done nothing,’ said she. ‘It is all my own fault. The truth will be a cure for your regrets, and I owe you an explanation. I was engaged to one whom I had known from childhood, but we disputed--my temper was headstrong. He rejected me, and I thought I scorned him, and we parted. You came in my way while I was angry, before I knew that I can never lose my feelings towards him. I know I have seemed to trifle with you; but false shame hindered me from confessing how matters really stood. You ought to rejoice in being freed from such as I am.’

‘But with time!’ exclaimed Lord St. Erme, in broken words. ‘May I not hope that time and earnest endeavours--?’

‘Hope nothing,’ said Theodora. ‘Every one would tell you you have had a happy escape.’

‘And is this all? My inspiration!--you who were awakening me to a sense of the greatness of real life--you who would have led me and aided me to a nobler course--’

‘That is open to you, without the evils I should have entailed on you. I could never have returned your feelings, and it would have been misery for both. You will see it, when you come to your senses, and rejoice.’

‘Rejoice! If you knew how the thought of you is entwined in every aspiration, and for life!’

‘Do not talk so,’ said Theodora. ‘It only grieves me to see the pain I have given; but it would be worse not to break off at once.’

‘Must it be so?’ said he, lingering before his fleeting vision.

‘It must. The kindest thing by both of us is to cut this as short as possible.’

‘In that, as in all else, I obey. I know that a vain loiterer, like myself, had little right to hope for notice from one whose mind was bent on the noblest tasks of mankind. You have opened new views to me, and I had dared to hope you would guide me in them; but with you or without you, my life shall be spent in them.’

‘That will be some consolation for the way I have treated you,’ said Theodora.

His face lighted up. ‘My better angel!’ he said, ‘I will be content to toil as the knights of old, hopelessly, save that if you hear of me no longer as the idle amateur, but as exerting myself for something serviceable, you will know it is for your sake.’

‘It had better be for something else,’ said Theodora, impatiently. ‘Do not think of me, nor delude yourself with imagining you can win me by any probation.’

‘I may earn your approval--’

‘You will earn every one’s,’ she interrupted. ‘Put mine out of your head. Think of life and duty, and their reward, as they really are, and they will inspirit you better than any empty dream of me.’

‘It is vain to tell me so!’ said the Earl, looking at her glancing eye and earnest countenance. ‘You will ever seem to beckon me forwards.’

‘Something better will beckon you by and by, if you will only begin. Life is horrid work--only endurable by looking after other people, and so you will find it. Now, let us have done with this. Wish your sister good-bye for me, and tell her that I beg her to forgive me for the pain I have given you. I am glad you have her. She will make you happy--I have only tormented those I loved best; so you are better off with her. Good-bye. Shake hands, to show that you forgive me.’

‘I will not harass you by pertinacity,’ said poor Lord St. Erme, submissively. ‘It has been a happy dream while I was bold enough to indulge in it. Farewell to it, though not, I trust, to its effects.’

Lingering as he held her hand, he let it go; then, returning to the grasp, bent and kissed it, turned away, as if alarmed at his own presumption, and hastened from the room.

She flung herself into her father’s chair to consider of seeing Lady Lucy, of writing to Violet, of breaking the tidings to her aunt, of speaking to her Cousin Hugh; but no connected reflection could be summoned up--nothing but visions of an Athenian owl, and green cotton umbrella. At length the sound of the opening door made her start up.

‘Have I interrupted you?’ asked her cousin. ‘I thought I should find your father here.’

‘I do not know where he is,’ said Theodora. ‘Can I do anything for you? Oh! I beg your pardon; I had forgotten it was time to read to you.’

‘You know I always hoped that you would not make it a burden.’

‘If you knew the relief it is to be of any sort of use,’ returned she, hastily setting his chair, and fetching the books.

Perhaps her attention wandered while she read, for they had hardly finished before she looked up and said, ‘That always puts me in mind of Arthur’s wife. The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is so entirely her adorning--her beauty only an accessory.’

‘Yes; I wish I knew her,’ said Mr. Martindale.

‘Oh! how I wish she was here!’ sighed Theodora.

‘For any special reason?’

‘Yes; I want her to soften and help me. She seems to draw and smooth away the evil, and to keep me from myself. Nothing is so dreary where she is.’

‘I should not have expected to hear you, at your age, and with your prospects, talk of dreariness.’

‘That is all over,’ said Theodora. ‘I have told him that it cannot be. I am glad, for one reason, that I shall not seem to deceive you any more. Has papa told you what he thinks my history!’

‘He has told me of your previous affair.’

‘I wonder what is his view?’

‘His view is one of deep regret; he thinks your tempers were incompatible.’

Theodora laughed. ‘He has a sort of termagant notion of me.’

‘I am afraid you do no justice to your father’s affection and anxiety.’

‘It is he who does me no justice,’ said Theodora.

‘Indeed, I do not think that can be your sister’s teaching,’ said Mr. Martindale.

‘I wish she was here!’ said Theodora, again. ‘But now you have heard my father’s story, you shall hear mine;’ and with tolerable fairness, she related the history of the last few months. The clergyman was much interested in the narrative of this high-toned mind,--‘like sweet bells jangled,’ and listened with earnest and sorrowful attention. There was comfort in the outpouring; and as she spoke, the better spirit so far prevailed, that she increasingly took more blame to herself, and threw less on others. She closed her confession by saying, ‘You see, I may well speak of dreariness.’

‘Of dreariness for the present,’ was the answer; ‘but of hope. You put me in mind of some vision which I have read of, where safety and peace were to be attained by bowing to the dust, to creep beneath a gateway, the entrance to the glorious place. You seem to me in the way of learning that lesson.’

‘I have bent to make the avowal I thought I never could have spoken,’ said Theodora.

‘And there is my hope of you. Now for the next step.’

‘The next! what is it?’

‘Thankfully and meekly to accept the consequences of these sad errors.’

‘You mean this lonely, unsatisfactory life?’

‘And this displeasure of your father.’

‘But, indeed, he misjudges me.’

‘Have you ever given him the means of forming a different judgment?’

‘He has seen all. If I am distrusted, I cannot descend to justify myself.’

‘I am disappointed in you, Theodora. Where is your humility?’

With these words Mr. Martindale quitted her. He had divined that her feelings would work more when left to themselves, than when pressed, and so it proved.

The witness within her spoke more clearly, and dislike and loathing of her proceedings during the last year grew more strongly upon her. The sense of her faults had been latent in her mind for months past, but the struggle of her external life had kept it down, until now it came forth with an overpowering force of grief and self-condemnation. It was not merely her sins against Mr. Fotheringham and Lord St. Erme that oppressed her, it was the perception of the wilful and rebellious life she had led, while making so high a profession.

Silently and sadly she wore through the rest of the day, unmolested by any remark from the rest of the family, but absorbed in her own thoughts, and the night passed in acute mental distress; with longings after Violet to soothe her, and to open to her hopes of the good and right way of peace.

With morning light came the recollection that, after all, Violet would rejoice in what she had just done. Violet would call it a step in the right direction; and she had promised her further help from above and within, when once she should have had patience to take the right move, even in darkness. ‘She told me, if I put my trust aright, and tried to act in obedience, I should find a guide!’

And, worn out and wearied with the tossings of her mind, Theodora resolved to have recourse to the kind clergyman who had listened to her confidence. Perhaps he was the guide who would aid her to conquer the serpents that had worked her so much misery; and, after so much self-will, she felt that there would be rest in submitting to direction.

She sought him out, and joined his early walk.

‘Help me,’ she said; ‘I repent, indeed I do. Teach me to begin afresh, and to be what I ought. I would do anything.’

‘Anything that is not required of you, Theodora, or anything that is?’

‘Whatever you or Violet required of me,’ said she, ‘that I would do readily and gladly, cost me what it might.’

‘It is not for me to require anything,’ said Mr. Martindale. ‘What I advise you is to test the sincerity of your repentance by humbling yourself to ask your father’s forgiveness.’

He watched her face anxiously, for his hopes of her almost might be said to depend upon this. It was one of those efforts which she made with apparent calmness. ‘You and Violet ask the same thing,’ she said; ‘I will.’

‘I am glad to hear you say this. I could not think you going on right while you denied him the full explanation of your conduct.’

‘Did you mean that I should tell him all?’ exclaimed Theodora.

‘It would be a great relief to his mind. Few fathers would have left you such complete liberty of action, consented to your engagement, and then acted so kindly and cautiously in not forcing on you this, for which he had begun to wish ardently. You have grieved him extremely, and you owe it to him to show that this has not all been caprice.’

I have promised,’ repeated Theodora.

‘Your second effort,’ said Mr. Martindale, encouragingly. They were nearly opposite an hotel, where a carriage was being packed. Theodora turned, he understood her, and they walked back; but before they could quit the main road, the travellers rolled past them. Lord St. Erme bowed. Theodora did not look up; but when past asked if any one was with him.

‘Yes; his sister.’

‘I am glad of it,’ said Theodora. ‘She is an excellent little thing, the very reverse of me.’

Without failure of resolution, Theodora returned to breakfast, her mind made up to the effort, which was more considerable than can be appreciated, without remembering her distaste to all that bore the semblance of authority, and the species of proud reserve that had prevented her from avowing to her father her sentiments respecting Mr. Fotheringham, even in the first days of their engagement; and she was honest enough to feel that the manner, as well as the subject of conversation, must show the sincerity of her change. She would not let herself be affronted into perverseness or sullenness, but would try to imagine Violet looking on; and with this determination she lingered in the breakfast-room after her mother and cousin had left it.

‘Papa,’ said she, as he was leaving the room, ‘will you listen to me?’

‘What now, Theodora?’ said poor Lord Martindale, expecting some of those fresh perplexities that made him feel the whole family to blame.

It was not encouraging, but she had made up her mind. ‘I have behaved very ill about all this, papa; I want you to forgive me.’

He came nearer to her, and studied her face, in dread lest there should be something behind. ‘I am always ready to forgive and listen to you,’ he said sadly.

She perceived that she had, indeed, given him much pain, and was softened, and anxious for him to be comforted by seeing that her fault, at least, was not the vanity and heartlessness that he supposed.

‘It was very wrong of me to answer you as I did yesterday,’ she said. ‘I know it was my own fault that Lord St. Erme was allowed to follow us.’

‘And why did you consent!’

‘I don’t know. Yes, I do, though; but that makes it worse. It was because my perverse temper was vexed at your warning me,’ said Theodora, looking down, much ashamed.

‘Then you never meant to accept him!’ exclaimed her father.

‘No, not exactly that; I thought I might,’ said she, slowly, and with difficulty.

‘Then what has produced this alteration?’

‘I will tell you,’ said she, recalling her resolution. ‘I did not know how much I cared for Percy Fotheringham. Yesterday there came a foolish report about his forming another attachment. I know it was not true; but the misery it gave me showed me that it would be sin and madness to engage myself to another.’

Lord Martindale breathed more freely. ‘Forgive me for putting the question, it is a strange one to ask now: were you really attached to Percy Fotheringham?’

‘With my whole heart,’ answered Theodora, deliberately.

‘Then why, or how--’

‘Because my pride and stubbornness were beyond what any man could bear,’ she answered. ‘He did quite right: it would not have been manly to submit to my conduct. I did not know how bad it was till afterwards, nor how impossible it is that my feelings towards him should cease.’

‘And this is the true history of your treatment of Lord St. Erme!’

‘Yes. He came at an unlucky moment of anger, when Violet was ill, and could not breathe her saving influence over me, and I fancied--It was very wrong, and I was ashamed to confess what I have told you now.’

‘Have you given him this explanation?’

‘I have.’

‘Well, I am better satisfied. He is a most generous person, and told me he had no reason to complain of you.’

‘Yes, he has a noble character. I am very sorry for the manner in which I have treated him, but there was nothing to be done but to put an end to it. I wish I had never begun it.’

‘I wish so too!’ said Lord Martindale. ‘He is grievously disappointed, and bears it with such generous admiration of you and such humility on his own part, that it went to my heart to talk to him, especially while feeling myself a party to using him so ill.’

‘He is much too good for me,’ said Theodora, ‘but I could not accept him while I contrasted him with what I have thrown away. I can only repent of having behaved so badly.’

‘Well! after all, I am glad to hear you speak in this manner,’ said her father.

‘I know I have been much to blame,’ said Theodora, still with her head bent down and half turned away. ‘Ever since I was a child, I have been undutiful and rebellious. Being with Violet has gradually brought me to a sense of it. I do wish to make a fresh beginning, and to ask you to forgive and bear with me.’

‘My dear child!’ And Lord Martindale stepped to her side, took her hand, and kissed her.

No more was needed to bring the drops that had long been swelling in her eyes; she laid her head on his shoulder, and felt how much she had hitherto lost by the perverseness that had made her choose to believe her father cold and unjust.

There was another trial for the day. The departure of Lord St. Erme and his sister revealed the state of affairs to the rest of the world; Mrs. Delaval came to make Lady Martindale a parting visit, and to lament over their disappointment, telling how well Lord St. Erme bore it, and how she had unwillingly consented to his taking his sister with him to comfort him at that dull old place, Wrangerton.

Lady Martindale, as usual, took it very quietly. She never put herself into collision with her daughter, and did not seem to care about her freaks otherwise than as they affected her aunt. Mrs. Nesbit, who had thought herself on the point of the accomplishment of her favourite designs, was beyond measure vexed and incensed. She would not be satisfied without seeing Theodora, reproaching her, and insisting on hearing the grounds of her unreasonable conduct.

Theodora was silent.

Was it as her mother reported, but as Mrs. Nesbit would not believe, that she had so little spirit as to be still pining after that domineering, presuming man, who had thrown her off after she had condescended to accept him?

‘I glory in saying it is for his sake,’ replied Theodora.

Mrs. Nesbit wearied herself with invectives against the Fotheringhams as the bane of the family, and assured Theodora that it was time to lay aside folly; her rank and beauty would not avail, and she would never be married.

‘I do not mean to marry,’ said Theodora.

‘Then remember this. You may think it very well to be Miss Martindale, with everything you can desire; but how shall you like it when your father dies, and you have to turn out and live on your own paltry five thousand pounds! for not a farthing of mine shall come to you unless I see you married as I desire.’

‘I can do without it, thank you,’ said Theodora.

Mrs. Nesbit burst into a passion of tears at the ingratitude of her nephews and nieces. Weeping was so unusual with her that Lady Martindale was much terrified, sent Theodora away and did her utmost to soothe and caress her; but her strength and spirits were broken, and that night she had another stroke. She was not in actual danger, but was a long time in recovering even sufficiently to be moved to England; and during this period Theodora had little occupation, except companionship to her father, and the attempt to reduce her temper and tame her self-will. Mr. Hugh Martindale went to take possession of the living of Brogden, and she remained a prisoner at Baden, striving to view the weariness and enforced uselessness of her life, as he had taught her, in the light of salutary chastisement and discipline.

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Part III

Heartsease In thy heart shall spring If content abiding, Where, beneath that leafless tree, Life’s still stream is gliding. But, transplanted thence, it fades, For it bloometh only Neath the shadow of the Cross, In a valley lonely.

--J. E. L.

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Chapter 1

Love, hope, and patience, these must be thy graces, And in thine own heart let them first keep school.

--COLERIDGE

The avenue of Martindale budded with tender green, and in it walked Theodora, watching for the arrival of the sister-in-law, scarcely seen for nearly four years.

Theodora’s dress was of the same rigid simplicity as of old, her figure as upright, her countenance as noble, but a change had passed over her; her bearing was less haughty; her step, still vigorous and firm, had lost its wilfulness, the proud expression of lip had altered to one of thought and sadness, and her eyes had become softer and more melancholy. She leaned against the tree where the curate had brought her the first tidings of Arthur’s marriage, and she sighed, but not as erst with jealousy and repining.

There was, indeed, an alteration--its beginning may not be traced, for the seed had been sown almost at her birth, and though little fostered, had never ceased to spring. The first visible shoot had been drawn forth by Helen Fotheringham; but the growth, though rapid, had been one-sided; the branches, like those of a tree in a sea-wind, all one way, blown aside by gusts of passion and self-will. In its next stage, the attempt to lop and force them back had rendered them more crooked and knotty, till the enterprise had been abandoned as vain. But there was a soft hand that had caressed the rugged boughs, softened them with the dews of gratitude and affection, fanned them with gales from heaven, and gently turned them to seek training and culture, till the most gnarled and hardened had learnt patiently to endure the straightening hand and pruning knife.

Under such tranquil uneventful discipline, Theodora had spent the last four years, working with all her might at her labours in the parish, under Mr. Hugh Martindale, and what was a far more real effort, patiently submitting when family duties thwarted her best intentions. Parish work was her solace, in a somewhat weary life, isolated from intimate companionship.

She had, indeed, Mr. Hugh Martindale for a guide and adviser, and to her father she was a valuable assistant and companion; but her mother was more than ever engrossed by the care of Mrs. Nesbit; her eldest brother was still in the West Indies and Arthur only seen in fleeting visits, so short that it had never been convenient for his family to accompany him, nor had Theodora even been spared to attend Violet, when a little girl, now nearly two years old, had been added to her nursery.

Letters ill supplied the lack of personal intercourse: Theodora did not write with ease, and Violet could not pour herself out without reciprocity; so that though there was a correspondence, it languished, and their intimacy seemed to be standing still. Another great and heavy care to Theodora was a mistrust of Arthur’s proceedings. She heard of him on the turf, she knew that he kept racers; neither his looks nor talk were satisfactory; there were various tokens of extravagance; and Lord Martindale never went to London without bringing back some uncomfortable report.

Very anxious and sad at heart, she hoped to be better satisfied by judging for herself; and after long wearying for a meeting, her wishes were at length in the way of fulfilment--Arthur’s long leave was to be spent at home.

The carriage turned in at the lodge gates. She looked up--how differently from the would-be careless air with which she had once watched! But there was disappointment--she saw no brother! In a moment Violet had descended from the carriage, and warmly returned her embrace; and she was kissing the little shy faces that looked up to her, as all got out to walk up the avenue.

‘But where is Arthur?’

‘He is soon coming,’ said the soft sweet voice. ‘He would not let us wait for him.’

‘What! Has he not got his leave?’

‘Yes; but he is going to stay with some of his friends. Mr. Herries came yesterday and insisted.’

Theodora thought there was a mournful intonation, and looked anxiously at her face. The form and expression were lovely as ever; but the bright colouring had entirely faded, the cheeks were thin, and the pensive gentleness almost mournful. A careworn look was round the eyes and mouth, even while she smiled, as Theodora gave a second and more particular greeting to the children.

Johnnie was so little changed that she exclaimed at finding the same baby face. His little delicate features and pure fair skin were as white as ever; for not a spring had gone by without his falling under the grasp of his old enemy the croup; and his small slight frame was the more slender from his recent encounter with it. But he was now a very pretty boy, his curls of silken flax fringing his face under his broad-leafed black hat, and contrasting with his soft dark eyes, their gentle and intelligent expression showing, indeed, what a friend and companion he was to his mother; and it was with a shy smile, exactly like hers, that he received his aunt’s notice.

‘And Helen, my godchild, I have not looked at her! Where are you?’

But the tread of country turf seemed to have put wildness into little Helen. She had darted off, and hidden behind a tree, peeping out with saucy laughter flashing in her glorious black eyes, and dimpling in the plump roseate cheeks round which floated thick glossy curls of rich dark chestnut. Theodora flew to catch her; but she scampered round another tree, shouting with fun, till she was seized and pressed fast in her aunt’s arms and called a mischievous puss, while Theodora exulted in the splendour of her childish beauty, exuberant with health and spirits. The moment she was released, with another outcry of glee, she dashed off to renew the frolic, with the ecstasy of a young fawn, while the round fat-faced Annie tumbled after her like a little ball, and their aunt entered into the spirit of the romp, and pursued them with blitheness for the moment like their own. Johnnie, recovering his mamma’s hand, walked soberly beside her, and when invited to join in the sport, looked as if he implored to be excused. Violet, rather anxiously, called them to order as they came near the house, consigned Annie to Sarah, and herself took Helen’s hand, observing, gravely, that they must be very good.

‘One thing,’ she half-whispered; ‘I once had a hint from Miss Piper that Mrs. Nesbit did not like Lady Martindale to be called grandmamma. What do you think?’

‘What nonsense! Mamma ought to be proud of her grandchildren, and my aunt will probably never see them or hear them at all. She never comes out of the room.’

‘Indeed! Is she so much more infirm?’

‘Yes, very much aged. Her mind has never been quite itself since the last stroke, though I can hardly tell the difference, but I think it has softened her.’

‘I suppose Lady Martindale is very much with her!’

‘Almost always. She seems to cling to our presence, and I am never quite secure that Mrs. Garth does not domineer over her in our absence, but with all my watching I cannot discover. My aunt says nothing against her, but I sometimes fancy she is afraid of her.’

‘Poor Mrs. Nesbit. She must be altered indeed!’

‘She is altered, but I never am clear how far it is any real change, or only weakness. One comfort is, that she seems rather to like Cousin Hugh’s coming to read to her twice a week. How he will delight in these creatures of yours.’

‘Ah! we know him,’ said Violet. ‘You know he comes to us if he is in London. How pleasant it must be for you.’

‘Ah, very unlike the days when poor Mr. Wingfield used to come to ask me how to manage the parish,’ said Theodora, between a laugh and a sigh. ‘When did you hear from John?’

‘His godson had a letter from him on his birthday.’

‘O, Johnnie! that was an honour! Could you write and answer him?’

‘Mamma helped me,’ whispered the boy, while eyes and mouth lengthened into a bright blushing smile.

‘Steady, Helen, my child! Quiet!’ exclaimed Violet, as the little girl’s delight grew beyond bounds at the sight of the peacock sunning himself on the sphinx’s head, and Johnnie was charmed with the flowers in the parterre; and with ‘look but not touch’ cautions, the two were trusted to walk together hand-in-hand through the gravelled paths.

‘The spirits will break out in little skips!’ said Theodora, watching Helen. ‘She preserves her right to be called a splendid specimen! What a pair they are!’

‘Poor Helen! I shall be in dread of an outbreak all the time we are here,’ said Violet; ‘but she means to be good, and every one cannot be like Johnnie.’

‘Ah! Johnnie one speaks of with respect.’

‘I don’t know what I should do but for him,’ said Violet, with her sad smile; ‘he is so entirely my companion, and I suppose he seems more forward in mind from being so much in the drawing-room.’

‘Well! he is come to a time of life to merit his papa’s notice.’

‘More than the rest,’ said Violet; ‘but unluckily he is a little bit of a coward, and is afraid when papa plays with him. We make resolutions, but I really believe it is a matter of nerves, and that poor Johnnie cannot help it.’

‘What! Arthur is rough and teasing?’

‘He does not understand this sort of timidity; he is afraid of Johnnie’s not being manly; but I believe that would come if his health would but be stronger. It is very unlucky,’ said Violet, ‘for it vexes papa, and I think it hurts Johnnie, though I am always forced to blame him for being so silly. One comfort is, that it does not in the least interfere with Johnnie’s affection--he admires him almost as he used when he was a baby.’

They were at the foot of the steps, where Charles Layton, now a brisk page, was helping to unpack the carriage, more intelligently than many a youth with the full aid of his senses.

Lord Martindale met them with his grave kind welcome, which awed even Helen into quiet and decorum, though perhaps, from the corners of her eyes, she was spying the Scagliola columns as places for hide-and-seek. She opened them to their roundest extent as her grandmamma came down-stairs, and she tried to take shelter behind her brother from the ceremonious kiss, while Johnnie tightly squeezed his aunt’s hand, and Lady Martindale was quite as much afraid of them as they could be of her.

So began the visit--a very different one from any Violet had hitherto paid at Martindale. Theodora’s room was now her chief resort in the morning, and there Johnnie went through his lessons with almost too precocious ease and delight, and Helen was daily conquered over Mrs. Barbauld. There they were sure to be welcome, though they were seldom seen downstairs. Johnnie used to appear in the space before dinner, very demure and well-behaved, and there seemed to be a fellow-feeling arising between him and his grandfather, who would take possession of him if he met him out-of-doors, and conduct him to any sight suited to his capacity; but who was so much distressed at his forwardness in intellect and his backwardness in strength, that Violet hardly dared to hold a conversation about him for fear of a remonstrance on letting him touch a book.

One day Mrs. Nesbit suddenly said to Theodora, ‘Arthur’s wife and children are here, are not they?’

‘Yes; Violet would have come to see you, but we doubted if you were equal to it.’

‘I have nothing to say to Mr. Moss’s daughter, but bring that eldest boy here, I want to see him.’

Theodora stepped out into the gallery, where Johnnie was often to be found curled up in the end window, poring over and singing to himself the “White Doe of Rylstone”, which he had found among his uncle’s books.

She led him in, exhorting him not to be shy, and to speak out boldly in answer to Aunt Nesbit; but perhaps this only frightened him more. Very quiet and silent, he stood under his aunt’s wing with eyes cast down, answering with a trembling effort the questions asked in that sharp searching tone.

‘His mother all over!’ she said, motioning him away; but, the next day, she sent for him again. Poor Johnnie did not like it at all; he could hardly help shuddering at her touch, and at night begged his mamma not to send him to Aunt Nesbit; for he could not bear it without her. She had to represent that Aunt Nesbit was old and ill, and that it would be unkind not to go to her: but then came the difficult question, ‘Why don’t you go, mamma?’ However, when his compassionate feelings were aroused, he bore it better; and though he never got beyond standing silently by her chair for ten minutes, replying when spoken to, and once or twice reading a few sentences, or repeating some verses, when Theodora thought it would please her, it was evident that his visit had become the chief event of her day. One day she gave him a sovereign, and asked what he would do with it. He blushed and hesitated, and she suggested, ‘Keep it, that will be the wisest.’

‘No,’ came with an effort, and an imploring glance at Aunt Theodora.

‘Well, then, what? Speak out like a man!’ Still reluctant, but it was brought out at last: ‘Cousin Hugh told us about the poor sick Irish children that have no potatoes. May I give it to him to send them?’

‘Never mind the Irish children. This is for yourself.’

‘Myself?’ Johnnie looked up, bewildered, but with a sudden thought, ‘Oh! I know, Aunt Theodora, won’t it buy that pretty work-basket to give mamma on her birthday? She said she could not afford it. And Helen wanted the great donkey in the shop-window. Oh! I can get Helen the great donkey; thank you, Aunt Nesbit!’

The next day Aunt Nesbit received Johnnie by giving him five sovereigns to take to Cousin Hugh for the Irish, desiring him to say it was his own gift; and while Johnnie scrupulously explained that he should say that she gave it to him to give, she began to instruct him that he would be a rich man by and by, and must make a handsome and yet careful use of his money. ‘Shall I?’ said Johnnie, looking up, puzzled, at his younger aunt.

‘Yes, that you will,’ replied Mrs. Nesbit. ‘What shall you do then?’

‘Oh! then I shall buy mamma and my sisters everything they want, and mamma shall go out in the carriage every day.

‘She can do that now,’ said Theodora, who had expected less commonplace visions from her nephew.

‘No,’ said Johnnie, ‘we have not got the carriage now. I mean, we have no horses that will draw it.’

It was another of those revelations that made Theodora uneasy; one of those indications that Arthur allowed his wife to pinch herself, while he pursued a course of self-indulgence. She never went out in the evening, it appeared, and he was hardly ever at home; her dress, though graceful and suitable, had lost that air of research and choiceness that it had when everything was his gift, or worn to please his eye; and as day after day passed on without bringing him, Theodora perceived that the delay was no such extraordinary event as to alarm her; she was evidently grieved, but it was nothing new. It was too plain that Arthur gave her little of his company, and his children none of his attention, and that her calmness was the serenity of patience, not of happiness.

This was all by chance betrayed; she spoke not of herself, and the nightly talks between the two sisters were chiefly of the children. Not till more than a week had passed to renew their intimacy, did Theodora advert to any subject connected with the events of her memorable stay in London, and then she began by asking, ‘What did I overhear you telling papa about Lord St. Erme?’

‘I was speaking of his doings at Wrangerton.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Oh! they are admirable. You know he went there with that good little Lady Lucy, and they set to work at once, doing everything for the parish--’

‘Do your sisters know Lady Lucy?’

‘Very little; it is only formal visiting now and then. She leads a very retired life, and they know her best from meeting her at the schools and cottages.’

‘Good little girl! I knew there was something in her!’

‘She is always with her brother, walking and riding and writing for him, carrying out all his views.’

‘I saw how he came forward about those poor colliery children. Such a speech, as that, was turning his talents to good account, and I am glad to hear it is not all speechifying.’

‘No, indeed, it is real self-denial. The first thing he did was to take his affairs into his own hands, so that my father has comparatively nothing to do with them. He found them in a bad state, which papa could not help, with him living abroad, and attending to nothing, only sending for money, whatever papa could say. So there was a great outlay wanted for church and schools for the collieries at Coalworth, and nothing to meet it, and that was the way he came to sell off all the statues and pictures.’

‘Did he? Well done, Lord St. Erme!’ cried Theodora. ‘That was something like a sacrifice.’

‘O yes! My sisters say they could have cried to see the cases go by the windows, and I cannot help grieving to think of those rooms being dismantled. I am glad they have kept the little Ghirlandajo, that is the only one remaining.’

‘I honour them,’ said Theodora.

‘And it was for the sake of such a set,’ proceeded Violet; ‘there is a bad Chartist spirit among those colliers, and they oppose him in every way; but he says it is his own fault for having neglected them so long, and goes on doing everything for them, though they are as surly and sullen as possible.

Theodora looked thoughtful. ‘Poor Lord St. Erme! Yes, he has found a crusade! I wish--! Well, I ought to be thankful that good has been brought out of evil. I deserved no such thing. Violet, I wish he would marry one of your sisters!’

‘O no, don’t wish that. I am glad there is no chance of it. Ranks had better not be confounded,’ said Violet, with a sad seriousness of manner.

‘You have just had a wedding in the family. A satisfactory one, I hope?’

‘Yes, I think so. Mamma and Annette like Mr. Hunt very much. They say there is such a straightforward goodness about him, that they are sure dear Olivia will be happy.’

‘Was there any difficulty about it!’

‘Why--Matilda and Albert seemed to think we should not think it grand enough,’ said Violet, half-smiling. ‘He is a sort of great farmer on his own estate, a most beautiful place. He is quite a gentleman in manners, and very well off, so that my father made no difficulty, and I am very glad of it. Olivia is the very person to enjoy that free country life.’ Violet sighed as if town life was oppressive.

‘To be sure! If one could be a farmer’s daughter without the pretension and vulgarity, what a life it would be! That was my favourite notion when I used to make schemes with poor Georgina Gardner. Do you ever hear what she is doing, Violet? They have quite left off writing to me.’

‘Last time I heard of them they were in Italy.’

‘Going on in the old way, I fear. Poor Georgina! she was sadly thrown away. But, at least, that Mark is not with them.’

‘O no,’ said Violet, sighing more deeply this time; ‘he is always about in London.’

‘Ah! you see more of him than you wish, I fear?’

‘I see very little of him. Arthur would not ask him to our house at Chichester for the Goodwood races, and it was such an escape!’

‘I am glad at least Arthur does not trouble you with him.’

Violet sat with her forehead resting on her hand, and there was a short space of thoughtful silence. It resulted in Theodora’s saying, in a sad, low, humble tone, her eyes looking straight into the red fire, ‘Do you ever hear of Mr. Fotheringham?’

‘I believe he is still at Paris,’ said Violet. ‘I only hear of him through John, who said he had been thinking of going to Italy. When he came through London, after Lady Fotheringham’s death, he left his card, but we were at Chichester. Have you seen that last article of his?’

‘What, that on modern novels? I was almost sure it was his, and yet I doubted. It was like and yet not like him.’

‘It was his,’ said Violet. ‘He always has his things sent to me. I am glad you observed the difference. I thought it so much kinder and less satirical than his writings used to be.’

‘It was so,’ exclaimed Theodora. ‘There were places where I said to myself, “This cannot be his; I know what he would have said,” and yet it was too forcible and sensible to have been written by any one else.’

‘The strength is there, but not the sort of triumph in sarcasm that sometimes made one sorry,’ said Violet; ‘and were you not struck by his choice of extracts! I have fancied a different strain in his writings of late.’

Theodora squeezed Violet’s hand. ‘I feared I had hardened him,’ she said. ‘Thank you, good night.’

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Chapter 2

St. Osyth’s well is turned aside.

--CRABBE

On the first convenient day, Lord Martindale sent Violet to call at Rickworth Priory, a visit which she was the more desirous of making, as Emma’s correspondence, after languishing for awhile, had ceased, excepting that she sent a fresh allegory of Miss Marstone’s to Johnnie on each birthday; and the Brandons having given up coming to London for the season, she scarcely knew anything about them, excepting through Theodora, who reported that they retired more and more from society, and that Miss Marstone was much with them.

Theodora would have accompanied Violet, but she was sure that her absence would be a boon to Emma, whom she had of late tried in vain to draw out; and, besides, one of the housemaids was ill, and Theodora, whom her Cousin Hugh called the mother of the maids, wished not to be away at the doctor’s visit. So little Johnnie was his mother’s only companion; but she was disappointed in her hopes of introducing him to his godmother. To her surprise Lady Elizabeth was alone, Emma was at Gothlands with her friend Miss Marstone.

‘They were very kind in asking me,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘and so was Emma about leaving me; but I do not wish to be a drag upon her.’

‘Oh! how can you say so?’ exclaimed Violet.

‘It did not suit,’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘The uncle, old Mr. Randal, is an old-fashioned, sporting squire, and the other Miss Marstones are gay ladies. I felt myself out of my element when I was there before; but now I almost wish I was with her.’

‘You must miss her very much, indeed.’

‘It is what we must all come to, my dear,’ said Lady Elizabeth, looking at the young mother, with her boy leaning against her knee, deep in a book of illustrations. ‘You have a good many years to look forward to with your little flock; but, one way or other, they will go forth from us.’

Lady Elizabeth thought Johnnie too much absorbed to hear; but Violet found his hand lightly squeezing hers.

‘I thought you at least had kept your daughter,’ she said.

‘Emma will be five-and-twenty in the autumn.’

‘But, oh! Lady Elizabeth, I thought--’

‘I cannot tell, my dear. I hope Emma’s arrangements may be such that we may go on together as before.’

‘How do you mean?’ exclaimed Violet, confounded.

‘Her judgment is sound,’ continued Lady Elizabeth, ‘if she will only use it; and when it comes to the point, Miss Marstone’s may be the same.’

‘Is she gone to Gothlands to settle her plans?’

‘Yes; I could not well have gone with her, for we have four little orphan girls in the house, whom I could not well leave to the servants. That is quite as I wish, if the rest could be added without Theresa Marstone making this her home, and introducing all the plans they talk of.’

‘She could not introduce anything to make you uncomfortable!’

‘It is not so much comfort that I mean, my dear. I do not think that I should object to giving up some of the servants, though in my time it was thought right to keep up an establishment. Perhaps a family of women are not called upon to do things in the same style, and there is no doubt that our means may be better employed. We have too many luxuries, and I would not wish to keep them. No, if it was entirely Emma’s doing. I should be satisfied; but there is more influence from Miss Marstone than I quite like. I cannot fully rely on her judgment, and I think she likes to manage.’

‘She could never presume to manage in your house!’

‘Emma’s house, my dear.’

‘But that is the same.’

Lady Elizabeth sighed, and made a movement with her head, then said, ‘All that they think right and conscientious they will do, I am sure, but the worst of it is that Theresa has friends who are not of our Communion, and she does speak strongly of things that do not accord with her notions. I cannot go along with her, and I must confess she sometimes alarms me.

‘And does Emma think with her entirely?’

‘I fear--I mean I think she does; and, by the bye, my dear, do you know anything of a Mr. Gardner?’

‘I do know a Mr. Mark Gardner.’

‘That is his name. He is staying in the neighbourhood of Gothlands, and seems very deep in their counsels. I am afraid he is leading them farther than Theresa Marstone herself would have gone.’

‘Oh, then, he cannot be the same person. I meant a very different style of man, a cousin to those Miss Gardners who used to be friends of Theodora.’

‘Ah! I meant to ask you about Miss Gardner and Percival Fotheringham. What! you have not heard?’

‘No, nothing. What do you mean?’

‘Married.’

‘Married! No, never!’

‘I thought you would have known, all about it, and I was anxious to hear what kind of connection it was for Percival.’

‘Do tell me, how did you hear of it? When was it?’

‘Not long ago, in Italy. I heard of it the other day from my nephew, Edward Howard, who is just returned, and he told me that Mrs. Finch was leading a dashing life at Florence, and that her sister had just married Mr. Fotheringham, “the author.”’

‘O, I do not know how to think it possible! Yet it is such an uncommon name.’

‘Do you know whether his name is Antony?’

‘Yes, it is his first name. I remember Arthur’s laughing at him for being ashamed of it, as he said.’

‘That confirms it. I asked Edward if the Christian name was Percival, and he said it was Antony, and some such name, but he could not be sure.’

‘Ah! there would be a confusion owing to his being always called Percy.’

‘He said, too, that it was a good match for Miss Gardner, as he was heir to an estate in Yorkshire.’

‘Worthbourne! Then I am afraid it must be too true. The author, too!’

‘So Edward was told.’

‘I must write and ask John Martindale. He will be sure to know the whole history.’

The rest of the visit and the homeward drive were like a dream. Violet was lost in amazement, compassion, and disappointment, and in the debate how Theodora should be informed. Should she wait till there were further particulars to confirm it! But when she thought it over, there seemed no more wanting. She knew that Percy had been thinking of visiting Italy a year ago, and the name, the authorship, and connection with Worthbourne swept away all doubt. As to making inquiries, she did not know Arthur’s present address; and even if she had had it, she would have shrunk from saying anything that should lead to one additional conversation with Mark Gardner; besides which, Arthur had a fashion of never answering any question asked by letter.

Nor could Violet venture to delay. It was better that such tidings should come from sympathizing lips than through the gossip of the neighbourhood; and Theodora ought to be aware of them as soon as possible, that she might no longer cherish the shade of her affection. Alas! that he should have done this at the very moment when she had truly become worthy of him, or, at least, of what he had once been!

At night, when Theodora came to linger over her fire, the intelligence was reluctantly and hesitatingly spoken; Violet’s eyes were bent down, for she knew how little that spirit could brook that its suffering should be marked.

Theodora stood up before her, at her full height, with flashing eye and indignant voice: ‘Do you think I believe it? No, indeed! I may have lost him for ever, but he would never lose himself. I scorn this as I did Jane Gardner’s own story that you were going to marry him to your sister. I knew you both too well.’

Violet put her arm round Theodora. ‘Dearest, I am the more afraid that we must believe this, because he was not always constant. He did think of Annette.’

‘Think of her! What do you mean! Did he make her an offer!’

‘Yes. I would never have told you if I did not think it might help you in this.’

‘I don’t want help,’ said Theodora, raising her head and turning from Violet. ‘Let him do as he likes.’

But, ere she had made two steps towards the door, her breast heaved with a convulsive sob. She threw herself on the ground, and rested her face on Violet’s lap. The sobs came at long intervals, with a tight, oppressed sound. Much alarmed, Violet caressed her, and tried to soothe her with gentle words, and at last they unlocked her lips.

‘It is not myself! Oh, no! I knew I had forfeited him long ago. I had proved myself unworthy. I had no right to hope. But that he should have changed--let his clear sense be blinded by her art! He, to whom I could have looked up all my life!--who was so noble in rejecting me!’

The large drops had gathered and flowed, seeming to scald their course down her cheeks. ‘O Violet! I wish your sister had married him! Then he would have been happy--he would not have degraded himself. Oh! what change can have come over him?’

‘You know Lady Fotheringham was fond of Jane Gardner, and he might have taken her upon her word.’

‘As if Percy would see with any old woman’s eyes, when once he came in contact with her! No, I see but one explanation. It must have been I who lowered his estimate of woman. Well I might do so, when I treated like a toy the happiness he had confided to me. I, on whom he had fixed his ardent soul for so many years past. No wonder he learnt to hold all women cheap alike! O, that summer of madness! If I have dimmed the brightness of that noble nature!’

‘Dear, dear Theodora, what can I say to comfort you? She may be altered; he may have improved her.’

‘She is not capable of it,’ said Theodora; ‘there is nothing in her but time-serving and selfishness. And he, with that large true heart, so detesting falsehood--he must either be wretched or deceived--debased! No, there is no comfort--there never will be.’

‘Except the best sort,’ tenderly whispered Violet. Theodora rested her head on her hands, and remained perfectly still for some moments, then looked up, and spoke in a depressed voice.

‘I cannot talk any more. I feel shattered from head to foot. I must be quiet.’

‘Then, dearest, pray go to bed at once, and I will come and see you.’

‘I cannot. I undertook to give Maria her draught at one o’clock. May I stay here while you go to bed?’

‘Anything, dearest, dearest sister.’

‘Only let me be in the room with you, and be quiet.’

She would not, as Violet entreated, lie down on the bed beside her, but remained seated on the floor, her eyes riveted on the fire, never looking round, her face stupefied, her hands hanging motionless, like one stunned; and when Violet’s anxious gaze was closed by irresistible sleep, that dark head was still motionless before the fire.

Her mind was indeed a blank, sensible of nothing but the effect of the shock. The phrase now and then occurred, ‘Percy is married to Jane;’ but her perceptions were so sluggish that she scarcely knew that it concerned her. She seemed to have forgotten who Percy was, and to shrink from recalling the remembrance. There was a repose in this state of stupor which she was reluctant to break; and after the great clock, so melancholy in the silence, had tolled half-past twelve, her sensations were absorbed in the dread of hearing One! the summons to exertion.

The single note pealed out, and died quivering slowly away; she rose, lighted her candle, and quitted the room, feeling as if the maid’s illness and the doctor’s directions belonged to some period removed by ages.

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Chapter 3

This house of splendour and of princely glory Doth now stand desolated, the affrighted servants Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last Therein.

--Wallenstein

Theodora was no sooner in the gallery than she was recalled to the present. There was a strange gleam of light reflected on the avenue. Roused at once to action, she hurried towards the window. The fire was within the house. She pushed open the door leading to Mrs. Nesbit’s apartments. Light was flashing at every chink of the bed-room door. She threw it back. Out rolled a volume of smoke, the glare of flame burst on her, the curtains were blazing! ‘Aunt! Aunt Nesbit, are you there? she cried, in tones low with horror and choked with smoke; she plunged between the burning curtains, felt that she had a hold of something, dragged it out, found it move and gasp, bore it from the room, and, depositing it on a couch in the gallery, only then could perceive that it was indeed Mrs Nesbit, uninjured, though half-suffocated.

Mrs. Garth, who slept in the adjoining room, with the door open, had been waked by her call, and came running out. An old soldier, she had full self-possession, and was at once effective, and it was well, for she exclaimed, ‘Miss Martindale, you are on fire,’ just as the light and the scorching were revealing the same to herself. There was no time for personal terror, barely for pain, the fire was crushed out between them by the help of a woollen table-cover, they scarcely knew how, they only saw that the draught had increased the blaze in the room, and dense clouds of smoke came bursting out upon them.

Mrs. Nesbit clung terrified to her niece, but Theodora, with a word or two of encouragement, freed herself from her grasp, and leaving her to Mrs. Garth’s care, flew up the nursery stairs. She must have the children in their mother’s sight before the alarm should reach her. Sarah’s first waking impulse was to growl, that Master Johnnie would catch his death of cold, but the next moment she was equal to any emergency; and the little ones were at their mother’s door just as she was opening it, thinking the noise more than Maria’s illness could occasion, and setting forth to see whether there was anything amiss in the nursery. Theodora put Annie into her arms. ‘All safe. It is only the north wing. Don’t be frightened. Stay where you are.’

Violet could only obey, thankful at having her three around her, and trying to keep her terror from being visible enough to increase Johnnie’s exceeding alarm, or to frighten Helen out of her happy state of inquisitive excitement and curiosity.

Theodora had hurried to call her parents. They were already in motion. Lord Martindale’s first care was for Violet and the children, Lady Martindale’s for her aunt, and almost instantly she was embracing and supporting the pale shrunken figure, now feebly tottering along the gallery, forsaken by Mrs. Garth, who had gone back to secure her own valuables.

By this time, the gallery was full of screaming maids, whom Sarah had, with difficulty, prevented from leaping at once from attic windows; and staring men, hallooing for water, which no one brought, except little Helen, who, escaping from her mother’s room, ran barefooted into the midst, holding aloft the water-bottle triumphantly, and very indignant at being captured, and carried back in the butler’s arms.

The fire was spreading so fast that Lord Martindale decided on removing all the helpless to the gardener’s house at the end of the pleasure ground. He came himself to call Violet, told her not to be alarmed, and, taking his grandson in his arms, led the way. Mrs. Nesbit was carried on a mattress between two of the servants, Lady Martindale walking beside her, absorbed in trying to guard her from injury or alarm; Annie, asleep and unconscious, was in her mother’s arms, and Theodora carried the amused and chattering Helen. At the foot of the stairs, Violet exclaimed, ‘My cross, I must not leave it!’ and would have turned, but Theodora prevented her. ‘I know where it is,’ she said, ‘I am going to see how they are moving Maria;’ and putting Helen into the nearest pair of arms, she ran back.

Harrison’s successor, Mr. Armstrong and his wife were on foot, and ready to receive them. Their spare bed was for Mrs. Nesbit, in their own the three children were placed. In all his haste, Lord Martindale paused till he could lay his little shivering ice-cold charge in the bed, and see him hide his head in his mother’s bosom. ‘Good boy!’ he said, ‘I told him not to cry for you, and he has not made a sound, though I have felt him trembling the whole way. Take care of him.’

Little did she need the recommendation, though it sent a thrill of gladness through her that it should have been made at such a time. She had great apprehension of the effect of the shock on the child’s tender frame and timid nature, his obedience and self-command seeming almost to enhance the excess of terror. The shuddering horror and convulsive clinging were beyond control, and were renewed whenever a fresh glare broke out from the burning house; to turn him away from the window, or to put up blinds and curtains made it worse, for the shadows of the trees, flickering mysteriously, seemed still more terrific. His sister screamed with excitement and delight at each brighter burst of flame, till she suddenly laid down her head and fell fast asleep; but still his nervous trembling continued at intervals, and his mother could not leave him, nor cease from saying consoling words of his heavenly Guardian, the only means that soothed him, especially when his sighing exclamation recurred, ‘O, if papa was but here!’ the tune to which her heart was throbbing throughout that dreadful night. She felt guilty of being useless, but he was her first care, and her power of real service was small: so she could only hang over him, and as she watched the healthful sleep of her little girls, join her prayers and thanksgivings with his, that all papa’s treasures were safe. Not till the flames were dying down, morning twilight showing cold and gray, and Sarah coming in with bundles of rescued garments, was Johnnie’s mind free enough to unclasp his hand, and show something fast held in it. ‘Aunt Helen’s cross, mamma; I thought I might keep hold of it, because I was frightened.’

Her caresses lulled him at last to sleep, while she grieved at Theodora’s having gone in search of the cross. She knew of her safety from Sarah, who reported that she had been working like any ten; but she had not yet seen her, and the silence and suspense became oppressive.

Theodora had hardly spent a moment in seeking the cross, she tied on Violet’s bonnet over the hair falling round her, hurried to assist in carrying the sick maid to a bed made up for her at the stables, and then, missing the dumb page from among the servants, she rushed back to look for him, dashed up the stairs through thick smoke, found him asleep, and crossing a floor that almost burnt her foot, she shook him awake, and saw him too in safety. She bethought her of her brother John’s possessions, now that the living were all secure; she hurried into the work, she tore down his prints and pictures, carried them and his books out,--desks, drawers, weights she would never have dreamt of lifting, were as nothing to her. Many times did her father meet her, exclaim and urge her to desist, and to go to Armstrong’s; she said she was just going: he went in one of the thousand directions in which he was called at once, and presently again encountered her, where he least expected it, coming out of a cloud of smoke with a huge pile of books in her arms! On she worked, regardless of choking, blinding smoke--regardless of the glare of flame--never driven from the field but by a deluge from a fire-engine; when stumbling down-stairs, guided by the banisters, she finally dismayed her father, who thought her long ago in safety, by emerging from the house, dragging after her a marble-topped chess table, when half the upper windows were flashing with flame.

Then he locked her arm into his, and would not let her stir from his side.

Water had been the great deficiency. Fire-engines were slow in coming, and the supply from the fountains was as nothing, so that the attempt had necessarily been to carry out property rather than to extinguish the fire. Sarah, after coolly collecting all that belonged to her mistress or the children, had taken the command of Miss Altisidora Standaloft, (who usually regarded her as vulgarity personified,) scolded away her hysterics, and kept guard over her, while she packed up her lady’s jewels and wardrobe, not until then allowing her the luxury of shrieking at every jet of flame. The other servants and the villagers had worked with hearty goodwill below stairs; and when Theodora had time to look around, the pleasure-ground presented a strange scene. Among the trodden plants and shrubs lay heaps of furniture, sofas, chairs lying tumbled here and there, with plate, pictures, statues, ornaments heaped in wild confusion, crowds of people, in every variety of strange dishabille, gathered round; two long lines of them handing bucket after bucket, with machine-like regularity, from the fountain; others removing the furniture from the terrace; cushions, ormolu, fine china, handed out of the lower windows; the whole seen by the wild lurid light that flashed from the windows above, strangely illuminating the quiet green trees, and bringing out every tiny leaf and spray by its fierce brilliancy, that confused every accustomed shadow, while the clouds of smoke rolled down as if to wither all around.

And above the rushing roaring sound! the thunder of falling ceilings; the red light within some familiar windows; the gray sky reflected in others, till, after a few uncertain flickers, the glow awoke in them also. Then arose the whiter gusts of vapour, when water, hissing and boiling, contended with fire.

In vain! the flame surmounted! Shouts, cries! Lord Martindale pushing nearer, calling to all for heaven’s sake to come out, leave all, only come out; men rushing from the doors, leaping from the lower windows; one dark figure emerging at the moment before a tremendous crash shook the earth beneath their feet; the fire seemed for a moment crushed out, then clouds of smoke rose wilder and denser, yellowed by the light of the morning; the blaze rushed upwards uncontrolled, and the intensity of brightness, behind and above the walls, glared on the mass of awe-struck faces. There was not a movement, not a word, not a sound, save that of the roaring flame.

The first voice was Lord Martindale’s: ‘Are all out? Is every one safe?’

‘Yes, my lord, all but the claret of 1826,’ said that last to escape, half-clad, grimy, and singed, only in courteous voice, the butler.

‘Thank God!’ said Lord Martindale, fervently. ‘And, Simmonds, thank you for what you have done to-night;’ and he heartily shook the butler’s hand.

‘Oh, my lord, if it had been more! If that claret was but safe, I should feel I had done my duty,’ said Simmonds, almost overcome, but giving place to Mr. Hugh Martindale, who, just released from a chain of buckets in the kitchen yard, was coming up to wring his cousin’s hand, say there seemed no more to be done, and repeat his congratulations on the safety of life and limb. But a fresh alarm arose, lest the fire might extend to the stabling; and in watching the horses led out, the spreading of wet tarpaulins on the roof, the engines playing on the burning mass in the house, and the flames rising with diminishing fierceness in the intervals of the bursts of steam, there was such intense excitement that no one could think of aught but the sight before them.

At last there was a touch on Lord Martindale’s arm; a message from the gardener’s house that he must come directly: Mrs. Nesbit was in a fit.

The morning dewiness and calmness of the garden had a curious effect, as they walked hastily through it, out of sight of the confusion on the lawn; everything looked so blue and pale, especially Violet, who came down to meet them.

‘I have sent for Mr. Legh,’ she said. ‘It is very terrible. She is quite insensible, but--’

She broke off suddenly. Theodora had sat down, untied her bonnet, then tried to rise, but tottered, and sank senseless on the floor.

Her father lifted her, so as to place her with her head on Violet’s lap. Violet removed the bonnet, the hair came with it, burnt off in masses, the very eyelashes and brows were singed, the forehead, cheeks, and neck frightfully reddened and blistered. Lord Martindale took her hands to chafe them: they were bleeding, and purple from bruises, the arms scorched and burnt--injuries overlooked in the excitement, but ready to repay themselves after her five hours’ violent and incessant exertion. It was a frightfully long swoon; and her father, almost in despair, had sent a second messenger for medical aid before Violet could look up consolingly, and direct his attention to the signs of returning animation. She presently half opened her eyes, perceived in whose arms she lay, and who was bending over her--she heard his fond words; but reviving no further, closed her eyes, without attempting to speak.

Lord Martindale could no longer delay going up-stairs. There the scene was most distressing; there was complete insensibility, with a tendency to convulsive movement, a condition so plainly hopeless that he would fain have removed his wife, hitherto so unaccustomed to any spectacle of suffering. But Lady Martindale was not to be detached from her who had absorbed her affection from infancy. Wrapped in that one idea, she hardly heard his representations of their daughter’s state, and, with piteous looks, repelled his assurances that her care was unavailing, and ought to be relinquished to Mrs. Garth and the maids. He was obliged at length to desist, and returned just as Violet and Mr. Martindale had succeeded in moving Theodora to a slippery horse-hair sofa. She looked up and replied, ‘Better, thank you,’ to his first inquiry; but when asked if she was in pain, was forced to answer, ‘Yes, not much,’ and closed her eyes, as if she only wished not to be disturbed.

They held council over her: Mr. Martindale urged taking her at once to his parsonage; he would find the carriage, and Violet should bring her, leaving the children to follow under Sarah’s charge when they should awake. Violet only demurred at leaving Lady Martindale; but Lord Martindale authoritatively told her, that it was not fit for her to be in Mrs. Nesbit’s room, and he should be much obliged to her to see Theodora properly taken care of.

The transit was serious, every one longed to have it over, but dreaded the arrival of the carriage, which came before it was expected. Resolute as ever, Theodora astonished them by springing at once on her feet, disdaining aid, but she had hardly taken a step, before she faltered, and was just falling, when her father caught her in his arms and carried her to the carriage, where Violet was ready to uphold her sinking head. Mr. Martindale took the short way, and was at home before them, to lift her out, and transport her at once to her room. Since the marriage of Pauline, Theodora had given up a personal attendant, and no ladies’ maids were forthcoming, except Miss Standaloft, whose nerves could not endure the sight of Mrs. Nesbit, far less of Miss Martindale, so the whole business of undressing fell upon Violet, and the rector’s little under-maid, who, having been a school-girl, was of course devoted to Miss Martindale. A difficult task it was, for besides the burns, bruises, and faintness, every muscle and sinew were so strained and tender from the violent exertion, and the blows she had unconsciously received, that the gentlest touch and slightest movement were severely painful. Violet was most grateful for her never-failing resolution. Every move was made unhesitatingly the moment it was requisite, and not a complaint was uttered, scarcely even a confession of suffering; on anxious inquiry, ‘Never mind, it can’t be helped,’ was the utmost reply, given in a blunt, almost annoyed manner, as if she could not bear to be disturbed out of that silence of endurance.

In the same manner, between stupefaction and fortitude, the surgeon’s visit was gone through, and Violet heard from him that there was no serious consequence to be apprehended, provided fever could be averted. Violet, much alarmed as to the effect of the tidings of the previous night, thought it right to mention that she had undergone a severe shock, and perceived that he thought it greatly increased the chance of serious illness; but he could do nothing but insist on tranquillity; and, as Theodora had now fallen into an exhausted sleep, he returned to his other patient.

The hours seemed to have forgotten their reckoning; it was to Violet as if she had been years without looking after her children, and when she found it was only half-past nine, she was dismayed to think of the length of day yet to come. Leaving Theodora’s sleep to be guarded by the little maid, she ventured down. The dumb boy was watching, with tearful eyes, at the foot of the stairs, his whole face one question about Miss Martindale. Answering him reassuringly on the slate, she opened the dining-room door, and a refreshing sight met her eyes. Round the breakfast-table sat her own three, from their glossy heads to their little shining shoes, in order trim, as if no disaster had ever come near them;--little Annie on Cousin Hugh’s knee; Helen’s tongue going as fast as ever; Johnnie in shy good behaviour. A general cry of joy greeted her, and they were in an instant around her, telling of the wonders of the lawn, how the dying gladiator was lying on the blue damask bed, and the case of stuffed humming-birds on the top of the kitchen dresser, and the poor peacock so frightened that he hid himself in the laurels, and would not come near them.

All alarms had gone away like a dream of the night, and the day had dawned on the happy creatures in all its freshness and newness, which their elders would fain have shared, but the necessity of attending to them had something reviving in it, and Violet could not look at them without renewed thrills of thankfulness. It was like rescued mariners meeting after a shipwreck, when her father-in-law came in and embraced her and the children affectionately, with a special caress for Johnnie, ‘the best little boy he ever saw.’ He looked worn and depressed, and Violet hastened to help Mr. Martindale in setting breakfast before him, while he anxiously bade her rest, hoped she had not been hurt by all she had undergone; and asked for Theodora, whose illness, and his wife’s despair at her aunt’s condition, were the chief actual distress. For the rest, he was so thankful that no life had been lost, as to have hardly a thought to bestow on the ruin and destruction.

There was now time for the question, how did the fire begin? Mrs. Nesbit, before her attack came on, had said, that wishing to take a draught, and not liking to call Mrs. Garth, she had drawn the light near to the curtains, and had, doubtless, left it there. It seemed as if Mrs. Garth had taught her to dread disturbing her at night, and now Lady Martindale shrank with horror from letting her even approach the patient.

But how had Mrs. Nesbit been rescued without the slightest burn, and what had occasioned Theodora’s injuries? Not till Violet began to explain did it dawn on her what a heroine she was describing. All had been so simply and fearlessly done, that it had not struck her till she heard it in her own narration.

Lord Martindale was much affected. ‘My brave girl!’ he said; ‘then under Providence the safety of every one of us is owing to her. I wish she was awake that I might tell her so this minute!’

It was delightful to see how this seemed to compensate for everything; and, indeed, he said it was almost worth while to have been burnt out for the sake of seeing how nobly every one had behaved, servants and neighbours, rich and poor, working alike at the risk of their lives, and he was positively overcome as he spoke of the warm sympathy that met him on all sides, testifying the universal respect and affection with which he was regarded. Notes and messages were coming in from all the neighbourhood to intreat to be allowed to shelter his family; but it was impossible to move at present, and his views were fixed on occupying the house which had so long stood empty.

‘Arthur can have a room fitted up there directly,’ he said. ‘Where is he, my dear? How soon can he come?’

Violet was obliged to confess her ignorance. He had said he should be going about, and had given her no address. Much vexed, Lord Martindale forbore to distress her by remarks, and replied to his cousin’s question whether the house was insured--

‘For twenty thousand pounds, but that is nothing like the amount of damage. I hardly know how we shall meet it. I must have John at home to settle matters. How strange it is to look back. I remember as if it was yesterday, when John was born, Mrs. Nesbit insisting on my pulling down the poor old house, to make the place fit, as she said, for my son’s inheritance, and there is an end of it! Who would have told her that she would burn it down herself, poor woman? She always detested the old hall. Don’t you remember the stags’ antlers, Hugh? Ay, Johnnie, you would have wondered at those--a dozen stags’ heads with branching horns in the hall.’

‘Oh! tell me, grandpapa! Was it where you lived when you were a little boy?’

‘Ay, Johnnie,’ said Lord Martindale, pausing to take him on his knee. ‘Cousin Hugh could tell you how we went on together there! Such jackdaws’ nests as used to be in the chimneys--’

‘I do believe,’ said his cousin, ‘you have more regret at this moment for the old house than for this one!’

‘Well! when I think of going home, the old red pediment with the white facings always comes into my mind, as it used to look up the avenue, when we came back for the holidays. Those old shields with the martlets--see, Johnnie, like that--’ holding up the crest on a spoon, ‘where the martins used to build their nests over the windows, were such as I never saw anywhere else. I found one of them lying about at the farm the other day.’

‘Do you remember the hornet’s nest in the wall of the garden--?’

‘What a garden that was! They have never found any pear equal to that jargonelle, where you ate twenty the first day of the holidays. What do you think of that, Johnnie?’

‘Ay, Johnnie, and I can tell you of something grandpapa did,’ retorted Mr. Hugh Martindale; and to Violet’s diversion, the two old cousins continued to make Johnnie an excuse for bringing up their boyish memories, which seemed to rise on them the more vividly, now that the great mansion no longer obstructed their view. It was complete oblivion of everything else, and seemed to do infinite good to Lord Martindale, but soon it was interrupted; Lady Elizabeth had driven over to beg to carry the whole party back to Rickworth with her, or at least to take home Violet and the children; but this could not be; Violet could not leave Theodora, and though Lord Martindale pressed her to consult her own comfort by removing, he was evidently gratified by her begging to be allowed to remain at the parsonage. He then returned to his wife, and Lady Elizabeth, after offers of every service in her power, took leave, while Violet returned to her charge.

Theodora awoke with less fever than they had ventured to hope, and quite composed, though much surprised with her first acquaintance with illness, and not even comprehending that she could not get up, till the pain of the attempt corroborated Violet’s assurance.

‘How base it is,’ said she, ‘not to be able to do a few hours’ work without having to take to one’s bed. I flattered myself I was not so despicably weak, for a woman.’

‘You might be satisfied,’ said Violet, her heart too full to say more.

‘Not while your Sarah walks about as if nothing had happened.’

‘Where should any of us be but for you?’ said Violet, bending over her.

‘There’s not an inch of me fit for kissing!’ exclaimed Theodora, turning away.

‘Lord Martindale will soon come to tell you what he thinks of it.’

‘Papa! Where is he? I don’t remember him since we went down to Armstrong’s. Yes, I do though!’ she paused, ‘but I can’t think of it. Crying would be worse. What a queer thing fainting is! I used to speculate what it was like.’

‘How do you like it?’ said Violet, perceiving her mood.

‘Tolerably, in some respects; but it makes one’s memory hazy. What has become of mamma? I suppose she is afraid of the sight of my visage.’

‘Oh! no, no!’

‘My aunt, of course! How could I forget! Mrs. Armstrong spoke of her being ill. Was it another stroke!’ said Theodora, alarmed as her recollection returned, and Violet was obliged to tell the whole.

‘My poor mother!’ said Theodora, gravely, ‘I wish I could help--’

There was a knock at the door. Miss Standaloft stood hesitating and making signs to Violet.

‘Is there any news of Mrs. Nesbit?’ asked Theodora. ‘There can be only one thing to hear. Is it over?’

It was, and the end had been quiet. Theodora drew a long breath, and repeated, ‘Poor mamma!’

‘Do you want me? Do you think I might go to her!’ said Violet. ‘She has no one with her but the gentlemen.’

‘I should be very glad if you were there. Only don’t hurt yourself, or Arthur will be angry; and to have you to nurse would be more than could be borne. My poor aunt! I think she softened at the last, and she loved us all very much at one time.’

‘I am glad she was kind to Johnnie,’ said Violet.

Miss Altisidora was induced to sit on the other side the curtain, intending to call Sarah if anything was wanted, and Violet walked across the park, dreading to enter for the first time the presence of the shadow of death, fearing in her lowliness to intrude or presume, but drawn onwards by the warmhearted yearning to perform a daughter’s part, if perchance her husband’s mother could derive the least solace from her attentions.

She crossed the trodden grass, and gazed on the ruin of the abode that had once almost oppressed her with its grandeur. Past away! and with it, she whose hopes and schemes were set on the aggrandizement of the family--she had gone where earthly greatness was weighed in its true balance! And the lime trees budded, new and young in their spring greenness, as when the foundation-stone was laid!

Violet thought how she had been taught to look on this as her boy’s inheritance, and therewith came the prayer that he might win his true inheritance, made without hands, ever spring-like and beyond the power of the flame! She looked up at the shell, for it was no more, she only recognized the nursery windows by their bars; the woodwork was charred, the cement blackened by the fire, where yesterday Helen’s and Annie’s faces had been watching her return! A sick horror passed over her as she thought how much had depended on Theodora’s watchful night, and imagined what might have awaited Arthur!

Then with hopeful, grateful anticipation, she looked to his coming, and his greeting after such perils endured in his absence. ‘O, will not thankfulness bring him those thoughts! It must! He must join with me, when he owns the mercy and sees our children safe. Oh! then blessings on this night’s danger! Let me see, he will learn it from the paper! When can he come? Oh! how his looks and one word from him will reward Theodora!’

She felt as if her happy anticipation had been selfish when she came near the cottage with its blinded windows. Lord Martindale was speaking to some one, but turned at once to her. ‘You here, my dear? You have heard?’

‘Yes, I have; but Theodora and I thought as Lady Martindale has no maid here, that I had better come and see if I could do anything for her. Can I?’ said she, with her humble sweetness.

‘I cannot tell, my dear,’ he answered. ‘She attends to nothing, and has not been able to shed tears. We cannot rouse her. Indeed, I am sorry you came; you ought to be resting.’

‘O, no, we both wished it. Should I be troublesome to her?’

‘No, indeed, my dear child,’ said he, affectionately. ‘It is a great relief to me that you should be with her, for here is much that I must attend to, and I wish nothing so much as to get her to the parsonage. The carriage is waiting, but she will not hear of coming away, and I do not know how to leave her here.’

So saying, he led her into the room; Violet gave one shrinking glance towards the bed, while the chill of awe shot through her veins; but the chief thought was needed for her who sat rigid and motionless, with fixed tearless eyes, and features in cold stillness more than ever like marble. Violet felt as if that deathly life was more painful to look upon than death itself, and her hand trembled in Lord Martindale’s grasp; he pressed it closer, and going up to his wife, said, ‘Anna, my dear, here is our child Violet so kind as to come and see you.’

Lady Martindale made a courteous movement, as if by mechanism, but without looking up. He was delaying, unable to leave them thus, though he was much wanted below stairs.

‘I will stay while you go,’ whispered Violet, though she longed to keep him, for that presence filled her with trembling, and promising speedy return, he departed.

For some minutes she could venture nothing, and the silence in which she heard only the beatings of her own heart seemed more than she could bear; but at last she collected herself, and an impulse suddenly occurring to her, she ventured to touch her mother-in-law, and said, ‘Theodora has been asking for you.’

Lady Martindale shook her head. ‘I cannot come, I cannot leave her.’

‘Poor Theodora is so much hurt!’ pleaded Violet; ‘you will be surprised to see how she is scorched! Such arms and hands, that she cannot help herself--and she wants cold applications continually.’

Lady Martindale once looked attentive, but a glance at her aunt brought back her face of silent misery. Violet was perplexed, but strove on--‘Poor Theodora! I hope you will come to her. She wants care very much. Did you know that it was in saving her that she was so sadly burnt?’

‘No: was it?’

‘Yes; she snatched her out through the burning curtains. That was the way Theodora’s hair was all burnt off, and her arms are so blistered!’ continued Violet, controlling her trembling, and speaking as when she was persuading one of the children--‘Poor Theodora! Will you not come and see her?’

‘Where is she?’

‘She is at the parsonage. They are ready to take us.’

‘Oh, no! I cannot go. You go to her.’

‘Pray, pray come with me. Theodora is so ill! It would do her so much good to see you; and we are afraid of her being anxious or distressed, lest she should have fever. Won’t you come?’

A motion, as if she could not bear this, made Violet fear she must desist, and she paused for a short interval, then said, ‘SHE was very fond of Theodora.’

‘Oh! Yes, yes--’

‘She would not like her to be left so long.’

‘I thought you were taking care of her.’

‘Oh, yes! but I cannot be the same as you would. One always wants one’s mother so much in illness.’

‘She was always a mother to me!’ The tears came at last, and she wept unrestrainedly; while Violet hung over her with soft caressing words of sympathy that cannot be detailed, till the first grief had had its course, and she again tried the experiment of repeating Theodora’s name, and saying how much she was suffering.

Lady Martindale did not reply, but suffered Violet to put on her cloak, and gradually lead her from the room, saying at each pause something of ‘poor Theodora.’

The deed was done; it might be by importunity, but it was worth achieving, even at the risk of being vexatious. Lord Martindale could hardly believe his eyes when he saw his wife on her way to the carriage, and Theodora was equally astonished when she appeared at her bedside.

It was a new thing to see one, hitherto healthy and independent, so completely prostrated; and no more was needed to awaken the natural affection so long stifled or thrust aside. Lady Martindale was greatly shocked, and, perhaps magnifying her daughter’s illness, had no room for any other thought. She wished to do everything for her herself--would hardly admit Violet’s assistance--and took every care, with skilfulness that was marvellous in one trained to ineffectiveness.

To Theodora her attendance was a new and exquisite repose. It was the first taste of her mother’s love, and made her content to be helpless; as there she lay, murmuring thanks, and submitting to be petted with a grateful face of childlike peace, resting in her mother’s affection, and made happy by the depth of warm feeling in her father’s words.

‘It is a good speculation to be ill,’ said she, with a smile of strong feeling when they had bidden her good night, and left her to Violet, who was to sleep on a mattress on the floor.

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Chapter 4

Will you walk into my parlour?’ said a spider to a fly.

--MARY HOWITT

And where was Arthur?

Spending the day with his sporting friends, much to his own satisfaction, till in the evening, greatly against his will, he was taken out to dine with an old Mr. Randall, of Gothlands, the master of the hounds.

His nieces, the Misses Marstone, were the ladies of the house--well-dressed people, a little ‘passees’, but apparently not having found it out. Arthur watched the arrivals hoping that the order of precedence might not consign him to the flow of talk, of which he had already had quite a sufficiency, when, to his surprise, two ladies, evidently at home, entered together.

One--thin, sallow, spectacled--was, as he knew, an inhabitant; but the other--small, slight, and retiring, and, in spite of clinging unfresh muslin and shrinking figure, with the unmistakable air of high breeding, was a most unexpected sight. At least, thought he, here was one lady who would not bore him, and making his way to her, he inquired for Lady Elizabeth. Emma, on the other hand, asked after Violet; and it was curious that both questions were put and answered with constraint, as if each was conscious of being something like a truant.

Another surprise. ‘Mr. Gardner.’ In walked Mark himself, and, after shaking hands with the elder Miss Marstone, came towards Emma and her friend, and was received with cordial familiarity. He entered into conversation with Arthur, drawing a little further from Miss Brandon at each step, till having brought him close to old Mr. Randall, and placed him under the infliction of a long prose about the hounds, he retreated, and was soon again in conversation with the two friends, Emma’s face raised and lighted up with eagerness.

Colonel Martindale had no escape from the head of the table and the eldest of the Misses Marstone. Resigning himself to his fate, he made talk; and, though now broader, redder, and somewhat coarser in feature and complexion than he had been a few years ago, he looked so gay and unencumbered, that his neighbour speculated as to whether he could be the eldest son, and resolved to discover what her sister, Sarah Theresa, knew of him.

‘It is so pleasant when friends meet unexpectedly,’ said she. ‘I did not know you were acquainted with either of our guests.’

‘Miss Brandon is a near neighbour of my father, and a great friend of Mrs. Martindale.’

Death to any incipient scheme of Miss Marstone; but she smiled on, and remarked, ‘A very amiable girl, and a beautiful place, is it not, Rickworth?’

‘Very pretty, a fine property,’ said Arthur, talking as if in his sleep, for he had caught Mark Gardner’s voice saying something about an oratory.

‘My sister is often staying there,’ proceeded the lady. ‘You know Miss Brandon’s scheme of restoring the Priory?’

‘I did not know that was anything more than talk.’

‘I used to think so,’ said Miss Marstone; ‘but both she and my sister Sarah treat it quite seriously, and Mr. Gardner is their prime counsellor.’

Arthur started, and with difficulty refrained from laughing.

‘Ah! I believe he has been a little wild, but that is all over now. He has taken quite a different turn now, and given up everything of that sort--throws himself into all their views.’

‘Indeed!’ said Arthur, who knew to his cost that if the reform had taken place at all, it must have been of extremely recent date.

‘O, yes, I assure you. He is staying with the curate, Mr. Silworth.’

‘Ha! that is an old name at school.’

‘Yes; he was an old schoolfellow--a very good man, to whose persuasions everything is owing.’

She pointed him out, and the first glance was a revelation to Arthur, who recognized him as the boy who, at school, had been the most easily taken in. He soon understood the state of affairs. Mark, clever, gentlemanly in appearance, and apt at catching the tone of the society around him, was making a bold stroke--had persuaded his kind-hearted, simple friend to believe him a sincere penitent, and to introduce him as such to the ladies at Gothlands, from whom he caught the talk most pleasing to them. At present it was all ecclesiastical aesthetics, and discontent with the existing system, especially as regarded penitence; by and by, when his hold should be secure, he would persuade the heiress that she had been the prime instrument in his conversion, and that she had gained his heart.

A bit of rhapsody from Miss Sarah Theresa, and poor Emma’s embellished and animated countenance, were sufficient indications that they were smoothly gliding into the snare; and accustomed as Arthur was to see Mark Gardner in a very different aspect, he was astonished at his perfect performance of his part--the humility and deference befitting the sense of his errors, and conversation so entirely at home in all their peculiar language and predilections, that Arthur was obliged to feel for the betting-book in his own pocket to convince himself that he was still deeply involved with this most admirable and devoted of penitents. He could not help, as he took leave, giving a knowing look, conveying how easily he could spoil his game.

However, Arthur was in reality much annoyed. Of late years his easy temper had well-nigh surrendered itself to the ascendency of Mark Gardner; and though dissatisfied, remorseful, and anxious, he had allowed himself to be led farther and farther into extravagance. The sight of his home excited regrets, therefore he shunned it; and though weary and discontented in his chains, he was devoid of force or will to break them, and a sort of torpor seemed to make it impossible for him to resist Mark Gardner. Their money matters were much entangled. They had entered into a partnership for keeping horses for the turf, and there was a debt shared between them, the amount of which Arthur dreaded to investigate.

That Gardner should obtain a rich wife would be the greatest relief to Colonel Martindale; but he had rather it should have been any heiress in the world but Emma Brandon. He had a friendly feeling towards her, and a respect for her mother, that made him shrink from allowing her to become a victim, especially when he would himself be the gainer; and, on the other hand, he could not endure to betray a friend,--while he knew that his wife, his father, and his sister would be horrified at his secrecy.

After a night spent in execrating the dinner-party, he received a call from Mr. Gardner, who, without being aware that he took any interest in Miss Brandon, came to put him upon his guard, but found him less manageable than usual. Arthur made a formidable description of Lady Elizabeth’s discretion, underrated the value of Rickworth, and declared that it would be so tied up that Mark would gain nothing but a dull, plain little wife. Not thus deterred, Mark only asked of him discretion; and when, trying to cloak his earnest under faltering jest, he declared that he had a regard for the Brandons, and should get into a scrape with his father, his friend held out the allurement of freedom from his difficulties, but was obliged to touch on this lightly, for Arthur’s honour was ready to take fire at the notion of being bought. It ended in Gardner’s treating the matter as if he had engaged not to betray him, and being hardly gainsaid, otherwise than by a sort of bantering proviso, that in case of an appeal direct, he could not be expected to vouch for Mark’s entire and disinterested reformation.

With an intense dislike to the world in general, Arthur was considering how to prevent his wife from meeting Lady Elizabeth, and how to be out of the way before the report should spread of Mark’s addresses, when everything else was driven from his mind by the arrival of the papers, with the announcement of the fire at Martindale.

The safety of the infant family of the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Martindale was the first news that met his eye; next, that of the death of Mrs. Nesbit,--the chief thought that occupied him in his hasty homeward journey.

He had been taught to think himself her heir; and though never forgiven for his marriage, hoped that the will might not have been altered, and considered that, whether it were in his favour or not, so large a property coming into the family could not fail to render his circumstances more easy, by enabling his father to augment his allowance, which, though ample in itself, appeared far from sufficient to a man with expensive tastes and an increasing family. The hope of independence, and of not being obliged to wish success to Gardner, was an opening into liberty and happiness.

By night he was at the parsonage, and Violet in his arms as soon as the door was opened. That moment was perfect--he was so eagerly tender, so solicitous lest she should have been injured by terror or exertion, so shocked at her peril in his absence. In the fulness of her heart she even asked him to come and see the children safely asleep.

‘Now? What should I do that for?’

There was no unkindness, but the full felicity of the evening was marred.

There was no room for him at the parsonage, and an apartment in the empty house had been fitted up for him, so that she only saw him for an hour of confused talk over the events of the fire, and Theodora’s condition, which was very uncomfortable; for though the fever was slight, the burns and bruises were in an unsatisfactory state, and eyes, arms, and hands of very little use. She was patient, and resolute as ever, and so grateful to her nurses that waiting on her was a pleasure.

In fact, attendance on her was the only resource for occupying Lady Martindale, who, when not thus engaged, was listless and dejected, attending to nothing that passed around her, and sometimes giving way to inconsolable bursts of grief. It was as if her aunt had been her one idea in life, and without her she could turn to nothing else. Violet was very anxious to prevent the children from molesting her, and in much dread of their troubling her, now that all were in such close quarters. It was trying to be engaged with Theodora, and to hear the little feet and voices where they were not intended to be.

But when she was able to hasten to the rescue, she beheld Helen in Lady Martindale’s lap, and Johnnie by her side, all three intent on making bouquets; and all apologies and proposals to fetch them away were replied to by assurances of their goodness, and the pleasure afforded by their company.

It appeared that while playing in the garden, the little brother and sister had been, as it were, fascinated by watching her fixed melancholy figure in the drawing-room. Again and again they had peeped in at the window, striving to forget, but ever attracted by the sweet compassion of their hearts; till at last, after much pausing and whispering, they had betaken themselves to the corner of the garden where Cousin Hugh had given permission to gather as they liked, and at the expense of his own small fingers, Johnnie had pulled the first bud of sweet-brier. Lady Martindale had felt a soft touch, and heard a little timid, coaxing voice--‘Grandmamma, may we? Would you like this little, young rose?’ while towards her was raised a face delicate and glowing with pale pink like the bud itself.

Grandchildren and flower were at once in her bosom. Warm, womanly child-love had been forced down to a far corner of her heart; but there it was, and like the rod piercing to the hidden spring, that fragrant gift of love touched it home, and thenceforth it was such fondling as Violet almost feared might be spoiling, especially of Helen; who, however unruly or exacting she might be, seemed only to endear herself the more, and was visibly far more her grandmother’s darling than her gentle, well-behaved brother. This new affection for the children opened her heart to their mother, on whom she leant more than she knew. To her she talked of all her aunt’s unwearied fondness and care, ever since she had come into her hands an orphan in her infancy. There had been real and entire devotion to each other on the part of the aunt and niece; and the affection she had been able to inspire, together with the solemn feelings towards the newly dead, gave her memory a softness that almost enabled Violet to think of her in Lady Martindale’s point of view, forget her harshness, and the worldly pride for her niece and her family, to which she had sacrificed their best happiness.

It was a melancholy retrospect. Mrs. Nesbit might be said to have perfectly succeeded in the object of her life. She had formed her beloved niece, like the fabled image of snow, moulded by the enchanter and animated by no will but his, and had seen her attain the summit of her wishes, universally admired and distinguished for every talent and grace; while still completely under her influence, and as affectionate and devoted as ever. Could any desire be more fully attained? But there had ever been further craving, disappointment, combats, hatred, avarice, disgust; and with all around that could make old age happy and honourable, it had been a querulous melancholy struggle for power, spent in clutching at the toys that had no pleasure in them--in trying to force worldly advantages on those who cared not for them, then revenging their indifference as a personal insult. She had sunk into the grave without any one having the power to regret her save that one fond, faithful niece, the one creature she had always regarded with genuine unselfish affection.

Lord Martindale, whose wife she had ruled, and whose children had been made unhappy by her, could hardly help owning to himself that her death was a relief to him; and Arthur barely made a fair show of moderate respect, in his anxiety for the property that would free him from embarrassment. His first inquiry was whether the will were burnt. No, it was in the hands of a lawyer, who would bring it on the day of the funeral. Lord Martindale might look reprovingly at Arthur’s eagerness, but the matter was no less important to him. He had begun life with an expenditure as large as his income could bear; and as his children had grown up, and unprosperous times had come, he had not been able to contract his expenses. Of late he had almost been in difficulty as to the means of meeting the calls for the year, economy was a thing unknown and uncomprehended by his wife; and the giving up the house in London had been the only reduction he could accomplish. No one else in the family had an idea of self-denial except Theodora, who, perceiving how matters stood, had refused to have a maid of her own, and had begged him no longer to keep a horse for her. Some change ought to be made, but he had gone on in this unsatisfactory manner, trusting that at Mrs. Nesbit’s death all would be straight. Her West Indian estates and accumulation of wealth must be bequeathed either to his wife or among his children; and in either case he would be set at ease--either relieved from supporting Arthur, or enabled to do so without difficulty.

The funeral took place in full grandeur. Lady Martindale had made it a special request that every one would mourn as if for her mother, and it was just one of the occasions when pomp was needed to supply the place of grief.

The only real mourner shut herself up in her own room, whither Theodora begged Violet to follow her. She found her stretched on her bed, abandoned to grief. It was the sense of orphanhood; the first time she had come so close to death and its circumstances, and it was overpowering sorrow; but Violet had better learnt how to deal with her, and could venture to caress and soothe--entreat her to remember how much was left to love her--and then listen to what Lady Martindale began as the rehearsal of her aunt’s care to shield her from sorrow; but Violet soon saw it was the outpouring of a pent-up grief, that had never dared to come forth. The last time the vault had been opened it had been for the infant she had lost, and just before for the little girls, who had died in her absence. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘you do not know how it is all brought back to me. It is as if your three darlings were the same I left when we went abroad. Your sweet Helen is exactly like my precious little Anna, whom I little thought I was never to see again! Oh, my babies!’

Violet was quite relieved to find this excessive grief was not spent on her aunt, but that it was the long-restrained sorrow for an affliction in which she could so much better sympathize. It had been of no avail for Mrs. Nesbit, in mistaken kindness, and ignorance of a mother’s heart, to prevent her from ever adverting to her darlings; it had only debarred her from the true source of comfort, and left the wound to ache unhealed, while her docile outward placidity was deemed oblivion. The fear of such sorrow had often been near Violet, and she was never able to forget on how frail a tenure she held her firstborn; and from the bottom of her heart came her soothing sympathy, as she led her on to dwell on the thought of those innocents, in their rest and safety. Lady Martindale listened as if it was a new message of peace; her tears were softer, and she dwelt fondly on little Anna’s pretty ways, speaking, and Violet hearing, as if it had been a loss of to-day, instead of more than thirty long years ago.

Lady Martindale opened a dressing-box, saying how relieved she had been to find it safe, and from a secret drawer drew out a paper and showed Violet some soft locks of chestnut hair. ‘Their papa gave me these,’ she said. ‘My dear aunt would not let me look at them--she thought it hurt me; but I must see if Anna’s hair is not just like Helen’s.’ And then she begged Violet not to be alarmed at the resemblance, and kissed her for saying she was glad of it, and had no fears on that score. She dwelt on these reminiscences as if they were a solace of which she could never taste enough, and did not cease talking over them till Lord Martindale entered. Violet understood his feeling and the reserve hitherto shown to him sufficiently to attempt breaking it down, and ventured, as she quitted the room, to lay her hand on the little curl, and say, ‘Grandmamma thinks Helen like her little Anna.’

Seeing Arthur leaning on the balusters, looking discomposed, she went down to him. ‘Where have you been!’ he said, rather sulkily.

‘With your mother; I hope she is growing more calm.’

‘Very absurd of her to take it so much to heart!’ said Arthur, entering the drawing-room. ‘Have you heard about this will?’

‘No. What?’

‘Never was such a will on this earth! It ought to be brought into court! I verily believe the old hag studied to make it a parting emanation of malice!’

‘Oh, hush! hush!’ cried Violet, shocked.

‘It is all very well saying Hush, hush; but I should like to know what you mean to live upon?’

‘What has she done?’

‘She has gone and left it all to that child!’

‘What child?’

‘My son--your boy John, I tell you; but, mark you, so as to do no good to a living soul. Not a penny is he to touch till we are all dead, if we starve meantime. She has tied it up to accumulate till my eldest son--or John’s, if he has one--comes to the title, and much good may it do him!’

‘Poor little dear!’ said Violet, inexpressibly pained by his tone.

‘Anything but poor! It is £100,000 to begin with, and what will it be when he gets it? Think of that doing nothing, and of us with no dependence but the trumpery £5000 by the marriage settlements. It is enough to drive one crazy.’

‘It is a pity,’ said Violet, frightened by his vehemence.

‘It is an end of all chance for me. When she had always taught me to look to it! It is absolute cheating.’

‘Of late she never led us to expect anything.’

‘No; and you never took pains to stand well with her. Some people--’

‘O, Arthur, Arthur!’

‘Well, don’t be foolish! You could not help it. Her spitefulness was past reckoning. To see her malice! She knew John and Theodora would not let me be wronged, so she passes them over, and my mother too, for fear it should be made up to me. Was ever man served so before? My own son, as if to make it more aggravating!’

At an unlucky moment Johnnie ran in, and pulled his mother’s dress. ‘Mamma, may Helen dig in the bed by the garden door!’

‘Go away!’ said Arthur, impatiently. ‘We can’t have you bothering here.’

Though inattentive and indifferent to his children, he had never been positively unkind, and the anger of his tone filled the timid child’s eyes with tears, as he looked appealingly at his mother, and moved away, lingering, and beginning a trembling, ‘but, mamma--’

‘Don’t stay here!’ cried Arthur, in an indiscriminating fit of anger, striking his hand on the table. ‘Did I not order you to go this moment, sir?’

Poor Johnnie fled, without hearing his mother’s consoling ‘I’ll come;’ which only, with her look of grief, further irritated Arthur. ‘Ay, ay! That’s always the way. Nothing but the boy, whenever I want you.’

Violet saw defence would make it worse, and tried to give him the attention he required; though quivering with suppressed distress for his harshness to his poor little boy, whom she could hardly help going at once to comfort. She hardly heard his storming on about the unhappy will, it only seemed to her like the apple of discord, and great was the relief when it was ended by Lord Martindale’s coming down, asking why Johnnie was crying. She hoped this might cause Arthur some compunction, but he only answered, gruffly, ‘He was troublesome, he is always fretting.’

Violet found the poor little fellow with tear-glazed face trying to suppress the still heaving sobs, and be grateful to his grandmamma, who had brought him into her room, and was trying to console him, though unable to discover the secret of his woe. As he sprung to his mother’s lap, his grief broke forth afresh. His affection for his father was a deep, distant, almost adoring worship; and the misery inflicted by those looks and words was beyond what could be guessed, save by his mother. He thought himself naughty, without knowing why, and could hardly be soothed by her caresses and assurances that papa was not really angry, but he must not interrupt another time.

‘But, mamma, Helen wanted to dig up all Cousin Hugh’s little green things.’

Violet was thus reminded that she must seek after her daughter, whom she found revelling in mischief, and was obliged to sentence to dire disgrace, causing general commiseration, excepting that her papa, ignorant that it was his own fault, declared children to be the greatest plagues in the world.

She saw him no more in private, but grieved at his moodiness all the evening, and at bed-time watched a red spark moving to and fro in the garden. Her heavy sigh made Theodora ask what was the matter.

‘I wish Arthur would not stay out in the dew. He has a little cough already,’ said she, putting forward the care that would best bear mention.

‘You used to be above caring for dews and night airs.’

‘I must for him and Johnnie!’ said Violet.

‘Ah! what do you say to your son’s prospects?’

‘I don’t suppose it will make much difference to him,’ was the dejected answer, Violet’s eyes still following the red end of the cigar in the darkness.

‘Well! that is contempt for wealth! Fancy what will be in his hands. I thought you would be moralizing on the way to bring him up to use it.’

‘I have not thought of that,’ said Violet; ‘besides, it will be long enough before he has it.’

‘What! will it not be when he is of age!’

‘No, when he comes to the title.’

‘Oh! I see. Mamma did not understand that! She thought it absolutely left to him. How is it, then?’

‘It is put in trust till either he, or John’s son, if he should have one, comes to the title.’

‘Then, it does you no good?’

‘Only harm,’ Violet could not help saying.

‘How harm? It might be worse for you to have it.’

‘Most likely,’ said Violet’s submissive voice. ‘But it vexes Arthur so much!’ and the tears fell unseen.

‘Well it may!’ said Theodora. ‘One cannot say what one thinks of it NOW, but--Poor Arthur! I was very much afraid she was going to leave it to me. Now I wish she had.’

‘I wish so too.’

‘It was silly of me to warn her that Arthur should have his share; but after all, I don’t regret it. I would not have had it on false pretences. Did you hear when the will was dated?’

‘September, 18--.’

‘When Johnnie was a baby. Ah! I remember. Well, I am glad we all forfeited it. I think it is more respectable. I only wish mamma had come in for it, because she is the right person, and papa is a good deal straitened. That really was a shame! Why did not she let them have it?’

‘Arthur thinks it was for fear we should be helped.’

‘No doubt,’ said Theodora. ‘Well. I wish--! It is a horrid thing to find people worse after they are dead than one thought them. There! I have had it out. I could not have borne to keep silence. Now, let us put the disgusting money matter out of our heads for good and all. I did not think you would have been distressed at such a thing, Violet.’

‘I don’t want it,’ said Violet, amid her tears. ‘It is Arthur’s disappointment, and the knowing I brought it on him.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Theodora. ‘If I had Arthur here, I would scold him well; and as to you, he may thank you for everything good belonging to him. Ten million fortunes would not be worth the tip of your little finger to him, and you know he thinks so. Without you, and with this money, he would be undone. Now, don’t be silly! You have got your spirits tired out, and sleep will make you a sensible woman.’

Violet was always the better for an affectionate scolding, and went to bed, trusting that Arthur’s disappointment might wear off with the night. But his aunt’s inheritance had been too much the hope of his life, for him to be without a strong sense of injury, and his embarrassments made the loss a most serious matter. He applied to his father for an increase of allowance, but he could not have chosen a worse time; Lord Martindale had just advanced money for the purchase of his company, and could so ill afford to supply him as before, that but for the sake of his family, he would have withdrawn part of his actual income. So, all he obtained was a lecture on extravagance and neglect of his wife and children; and thus rendered still more sullen, he became impatient to escape from these grave looks and reproofs, and to return to town before the disclosure of Mr. Gardner’s courtship. He made it his pretext that Violet was unwell and overworked in the general service; and she was, in truth, looking very ill and harassed; but he was far more the cause than were her exertions, and it was a great mortification to be removed from his parents and sister when, for the first time, she found herself useful to them, and for such an ungracious reason too, just when they were so much drawn together by the dangers they had shared, and the children seemed to be making progress in their grandmother’s affections. Poor Johnnie, too! it was hard to rob him of another month of country air, just as he was gaining a little strength and colour.

But pleading was useless; the mention of Johnnie revived the grievance, and she was told she must not expect everything to give way to that boy of hers; every one was ready enough to spoil him without his help. He would not stay crammed into this small house, with the children eternally in the way, and his father as black as thunder, with no diversion, and obliged to sleep out in that den of a cottage, in a damp, half-furnished room--an allegation hardly true, considering Violet’s care to see the room aired and fitted up to suit his tastes; but he was determined, and she had not even the consolation of supposing care for her the true reason; the only ground she could find for reconciling herself to the measure was, that night walks were not mending his cough, which, though so slight that he did not acknowledge it, and no one else perceived it, still made her uneasy. Especially Violet felt the ingratitude of leaving Theodora in her weak, half-recovered state; but it was almost as if he had a sort of satisfaction in returning his father’s admonitions on the care of his wife, by making it a plea for depriving them of her in their need, and he fixed his day without remorse.

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Chapter 5

E’en in sleep, pangs felt before, Treasur’d long in memory’s store, Bring in visions back their pain, Melt into the heart again. By it crost affections taught Chastened will and sobered thought.

--AESCHYLUS.--Anstice

Arthur did not succeed in eluding Lady Elizabeth. She called the day after the funeral, begging especially to see Mrs. Martindale. She looked absent and abstracted, while Lord Martindale was talking to her, and soon entreated Violet to come with her for a short drive.

No sooner were they in the carriage than she said, ‘Violet, my dear, can you or Arthur tell me anything of this Mr. Gardner?’

‘I know very little of him personally,’ said Violet, for he was too much an associate of her husband’s for her to be willing to expose him; ‘but are you sure we mean the same person?’

‘Quite sure. Did you not hear that Arthur met him at Gothlands?’

‘No; I have had very little talk with him since he came back, and this fire has put everything out of our minds.’

‘Of course it must, my dear. However, Arthur came with Mr. Herries to dine there, and met Mr. Gardner as an old friend; so he must be the same, and I am particularly anxious for some account of him. I must tell you why--I know I am safe with you--but you will be very much surprised, after all her declarations--’

‘O, Lady Elizabeth, it cannot be that.’

‘I have always been prepared for something of the sort. But what, my dear?’ seeing her agitation, and quickly infected by it.

‘O, don’t let her,’ was all Violet could utter.

‘Tell me! what is he?--what do you know of him? They spoke of him as once having been extravagant--’

Violet drew a long breath, and tried to speak with composure. ‘He is a dreadful man, gambling, betting, dissipated--such a person that Arthur never lets him come near me or the children. How could he dare think of her?’

‘Can it be the same?’ said Lady Elizabeth, infinitely shocked, but catching at the hope. ‘This man is Lady Fotheringham’s nephew.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Violet sadly. ‘There is no other cousin named Mark. Why, don’t you remember all the talk about Mrs. Finch?’

So little had Lady Elizabeth heeded scandal, that she had hardly known these stories, and had not identified them with the name of Gardner. Still she strove to think the best. ‘Arthur will be able to tell me,’ she said; ‘but every one seems fully satisfied of his reformation--the curate of the parish and all. I do not mean that I could bear to think of her being attached to a person who had been to blame. Her own account of him alarmed me enough, poor dear child, but when I hear of the clergyman, and Theresa Marstone, and all admiring his deep feeling of repentance--’

‘How can he be so wicked!’ exclaimed Violet.

‘You are convinced that he is not sincere?’

‘Why, of course, one does not like to say anything uncharitable; but there is something shocking in the notion of his talking of being good. If he did repent he would know how horrible it would be for him to marry Emma--’

‘He does affect great humility. He declares that no one can be more conscious of his unfitness than himself; but he was betrayed into this confession of his sentiments--Emma’s purity and devotedness, as Theresa writes to me, having been such powerful instruments in leading him to a better course. If it was not for poor Emma’s fortune, one might trust this more! Oh! Violet, I never so much was inclined to wish that her brother had been spared!’

‘But surely--surely Emma cannot like him?’

‘I grieve to say that she and her friend have been in one of their fits of enthusiasm. He seemed to accord with their idea of a penitent--only longing for stricter rules than are to be found with us. From what I have heard, I should have been much less surprised if he had become a monk of La Trappe; in fact, I was almost afraid of it.’

‘And does not this undeceive them?’

‘No; poor Emma’s only doubt is because she cannot bear to be unstable, and to desert the work to which she was almost pledged; but she says she is ashamed to perceive how much the sacrifice would cost her. She adds, that decide as she may, he concurs with her in devoting everything to the restoration of the Priory.’

‘Poor Emma! He has debts enough to swallow two-thirds! And Miss Marstone, what does she say?’

‘His becoming a suitor seems to have been a surprise and disappointment to her; but if she thinks him a pupil of her own, or expects to govern the Priory in poor Emma’s stead, she will be in his favour. No; I have no hope from Theresa Marstone’s discretion.’

‘The rest of the family?’

‘Theresa despises the others too much to attend to them. Mr. Randall seems to be startled at the present aspect of affairs, and asks me to come; and I should have set off this morning, but that I thought I might learn something from you and Arthur.’

‘Every one would tell you the same. He was expelled from the University, and has gone on shockingly ever since, breaking his mother’s heart! Poor Emma! after dreading every gentleman!’

‘I fear she has much to suffer. He made her think him not a marrying man, and put her off her guard. Did you say he was agreeable?’

‘Perhaps I might think so if I knew nothing about him; but I have always had a repugnance to him, and it is all I can do not to dislike him more than is right. If I saw him speak to Johnnie, I think I should!’

‘And now tell me, for I ought to have every proof, if you know anything that would convince Emma that this present repentance is assumed?’

Violet coloured excessively. ‘Arthur could tell’ she said, half choked, and as Lady Elizabeth still waited, she was obliged to add, He was active in the same way at the last races. I know there are things going on still that a man who really meant to reform would have broken off. Arthur could give you proofs.’

Violet could not bear to be more explicit. Her own secret feeling was that Mr. Gardner was her husband’s evil genius, leading him astray, and robbing her of his affection, and she was not far mistaken. Sneers, as if he was under her government, were often employed to persuade him to neglect her, and continue his ruinous courses; and if she shrunk from Gardner, he in return held her in malicious aversion, both as a counter influence and as a witness against him. It was the constant enmity of light to darkness, of evil to innocence.

The whole drive was spent in conversing on this engrossing theme; Lady Elizabeth lamenting the intimacy with Sarah Theresa, a clever, and certainly in many respects an excellent person, but with a strong taste for singularity and for dominion, who had cultivated Emma’s naturally ardent and clinging nature into an exclusive worship of her; and, by fostering all that was imaginative in her friends composition, had led her to so exalted an estimate of their own ideal that they alike disdained all that did not coincide with it, and spurned all mere common sense. Emma’s bashfulness had been petted and promoted as unworldly, till now, like the holes in the philosopher’s cloak, it was self-satisfaction instead of humility. This made the snare peculiarly dangerous, and her mother was so doubtful how far she would be guided, as to take no comfort from Violet’s assurances that Mr. Gardner’s character could be proved to be such that no woman in her senses could think, a second time, of accepting him.

‘I cannot tell,’ said poor Lady Elizabeth; ‘they will think all wiped out by his reform. Emma speaks already of aiding him to redeem the past. Ah! my dear,’ in answer to a look, ‘you have not seen my poor child of late: you do not know how much more opinionative she has become, or rather, Theresa has made her. I wish she could have been more with you.’

‘I never was enough of a companion to her, said Violet. ‘In my best days I was not up to her, and now, between cares and children, I grow more dull every day.’

‘Your best days! my dear child. Why, how old are you?’

‘Almost twenty-two,’ said Violet; ‘but I have been married nearly six years. I am come into the heat and glare of middle life. Not that I mean to complain,’ said she, rousing her voice to cheerfulness; ‘but household matters do not make people companions for those who have their youthfulness, and their readings, and schemes.’

‘I wish Emma could have been drawn to take interest in your sound practical life.’

‘If she would make a friend of Theodora!’

‘Yes, but the old childish fear of her is not gone; and Emma used to think her rather wild and flighty, and so indeed did I; but how she is changed! I have been much pleased with conversations with her of late. Do you think it is owing to Mr. Hugh Martindale’s influence?’

‘In great part it is. What a blessing it is to them all to have him here.’

‘Ah! it has been one of the things that made me most dread Theresa, that she will not like that good man.’

‘What can she say against him?’

‘I don’t exactly understand them. They called him a thorough Anglican, and said he did not feel the universal pulse! Now, I know it has been unfortunate for Emma that our own vicar does not enter into these ways of thinking; but I thought, when Mr. Hugh Martindale came into the neighbourhood, that there would be some one to appeal to; but I believe Theresa will trust to no one but of her own choosing.’

They had come back to the parsonage-gate, and Lady Elizabeth set Violet down, promising to write as soon as she arrived at Gothlands; Arthur was sauntering in the garden, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight, came to meet her.

‘O, Arthur, Lady Elizabeth wanted to speak to you. Cannot you catch her?’

‘I? No. Nonsense.’

‘She wanted to ask you about Mr. Gardner. Was it he whom you met at Gothlands?’

‘Well, what of that?’

‘Poor Lady Elizabeth! Is it not shocking that he has been making an offer to Emma?’

‘He has, has he? Well, and what is she going to do?’

‘There can be but one answer,’ said Violet. ‘Lady Elizabeth came to hear about him.’

‘A fine chance for gossip for you.’

‘I was forced to tell her,’ said she, trying to hide the pain given her by his contemptuous tone. ‘I would not have spoken if I could have helped it.’

‘Ay!’ said Arthur, ‘as he says, set on a lady to talk of her husband’s friends.’

‘But, oh! Arthur, what could I do? Think of poor Emma.’

‘Emma is a fool.’

‘Only you must not be angry with me. I would have said nothing without cause, but when it comes to this,--and he is pretending to be reformed.’

‘Well, so he might be if you would let him.’

‘But, Arthur!’ then eagerly seizing a new hope, ‘you don’t mean that he is really improving? Oh! has he given up those horses, and released you?

He turned petulantly away. ‘How can he? You have taken away any chance of it now. You have done for him, and it is of no use to go on any more about it.’

He marched off to his own abode, while she was obliged to sit down under the verandah to compose herself before Theodora should see her.

Theodora perceived that much was amiss; but was spared much anxiety by not being with the family, and able to watch her brother. The cottage was completely furnished from the wreck of Martindale; but the removal thither was deferred by her slow recovery. Though not seriously ill, she had been longer laid up than had been anticipated in a person so healthy and strong; the burns would not heal satisfactorily, and she was weak and languid. It seemed as if the unsparing fatigues she had been in the habit of undergoing; her immoderate country walks--her over late and over early hours, had told on her frame, and rendered the effects of her illness difficult to shake off. Or, thought Violet, those tidings might be the secret cause, although she never referred to them, and continued not merely patient, but full of vigour of mind, cheerful, and as independent and enterprising as submission to orders permitted. Her obedience to irksome rules was so ready and implicit, that Violet marvelled, till she perceived that it was part of her system of combat with self-will; and she took the departure of her sister in the same manner, forbearing to harass Violet with lamentations; and when her mother deplored it, made answer, ‘It is my fault. If I had not persuaded Arthur out of living at Brogden, we should be staying with them.’

As to the chance of permanent disfigurement, she treated it very coolly, listening with indifference to her mother’s frequent inquiries of the surgeon. ‘Never mind, mamma, you and Violet will keep up the beauty of the family till Helen comes out.’

The first time she was able to come down-stairs was the last evening before they were to depart. One of Arthur’s sparks of kindly feeling awoke when he beheld his once handsome, high-spirited sister, altered and wrapped up, entering the room with an invalid step and air; and though she tried to look about in a bright ‘degage’ manner, soon sinking into the cushioned chair by the window with a sigh of languor. The change was greater than he had anticipated from his brief visits to her in her bed-room; and, recollecting the cause of the injuries, he perceived the ingratitude of depriving her of Violet; but his contrition came too late, for he had already exchanged his leave of absence with another officer.

All that was in his power was to wait upon her with that engaging attention that rendered him so good a nurse. He was his pleasantest self, and she was so lively as to put every one else into good spirits. It was pretty to see the universal pleasure in her recovery--the weeding woman, going home late, and looking up at the window to see if she was there, as Miss Helen had promised, and curtseying, hardly able to speak for joy and grief together, when Theodora beckoned her to the window, and asked after her children. The dumb page, too, had watched an hour for her crossing the hall and when Arthur would have taken the tea from him, to hand to her, he gave such a beseeching glance as was quite irresistible, and the more affecting as Theodora’s hands were not yet in condition to converse with him, and she was forced to constitute Johnnie her interpreter.

It was long since any of them had spent so happy an evening; and at night Arthur insisted on helping her up-stairs, and said, ‘I declare it is a shame not to leave you Violet. Suppose you keep her till you are all right again?’

‘O, thank you, Arthur; but--’ for Violet looked doubtful.

‘Why, I thought you wanted to stay, Violet?’ said Arthur.

‘If you could.’

‘Too late for that; but you must settle it between you before to-morrow morning. Good night.’

Lady Martindale warmly pressed Violet to stay, and she found it much worse to have personally to make the choice than to be only a piece of property at Arthur’s disposal. She was, however, firm, saying that he would be uncomfortable without her; and she was grateful to Theodora for perceiving her motives, and preventing further entreaties.

‘You are right,’ said Theodora, when her mother was gone. ‘It would not be fit to leave him with an empty house, so I must yield you up; but I cannot bear to think of you in London.’

‘I am used to it,’ said Violet, with her patient smile.

‘And it will not be four years before we meet again. I shall try hard to come to you in the autumn.’

‘How comfortable that would be! But you must not be uneasy about me, nor put any one out of the way. I can get on very well, as long as I have Johnnie.’

It was not till both had laid down to rest, and the room was dark, that Theodora said, ‘I understand it now. Her poor sister must have brought her into some bad foreign society, from which he could only rescue her by marrying her.’

So abrupt was this commencement that Violet had to recollect who was meant, and so decided was the tone, that she asked, ‘What have you heard?’

‘Nothing fresh; have you?’

‘No. Arthur had heard nothing from Mr. Mark Gardner; and I am afraid we shall hear no more till John answers my letter.’

‘No matter; I have found out how it must have been. Lady Fotheringham, of whom he made a sort of mother, always liked Jane. Depend upon it, she was anxious about the way in which poor Georgina was reported to be going on abroad, and told Percy, when she died, to try if he could do anything to save Jane. You see he goes to Italy, and there finds, of course, that there is no way of fulfilling his aunt’s wishes but by sacrificing himself.’

‘You have arranged it all most fully!’

‘See if I am not right--or, rather, you will not see; but I know that was the way. It is his nature to be fantastically generous, as some people would call it; and as long as he is the same Percival Fotheringham, the rest is as nothing. I was unjust at the first moment. Jane has a better nature, which he can develop. There is a sense of religion to work on--a power of adaptation to those she is with, and if what she has seen in Italy has shocked her and made her turn to him, he may be the making of her. She is clever enough; and when she finds that nothing but truth and honesty will succeed with him, she will learn them at last.’

‘How glad I am you take it in this way.’

‘This quiet time has been good for me,’ said Theodora. ‘It would have been maddening to have had no pause before waking to ordinary life.’

‘Then the fire came at the right time for you.’

‘Have you not read of men rushing into battle, hoping each shot would strike them?’

‘O, Theodora!’

‘It did not last long. Don’t be frightened. Woman fear, and the stifling smell, and burning feel, and the sight of the red-hot gulf, were enough to drive it off. I shall never forget the touch of the floor in Charles’s room! I thought of nothing but the fire. The feeling only came back with the fainting. I remember a confused notion that I was glad to be dying with you holding my head and papa so kind. How savage I felt when every one would rouse me, and tell me I was better! I was in hopes the world was all over with me; but I see I have a great deal to do first, and the comfort of lying torpid here has been very great. I have had time to be stunned, and to get a grasp of it and of my own mind.’

‘Dear Theodora! It is indeed sometimes a blessing to be laid up. It brings out so much kindness. It is the easiest of all the crosses.’

‘I should not wonder if my rampant health had helped to make me the more wayward,’ said Theodora. ‘I would not but have been ill for the sake of the kindness from my father and mother. I was sure of you, but there is--It has given me spirit to look out upon life.’

‘I hope there is peace at least in the look.’

‘There is. It is not worse than before, except the vanishing of a lingering foolish hope, and that is safest. Repentance must always be there. My life is like myself; the wounds may heal, but the marks will remain and the freshness and glow will never return here. I am glad I am so much altered. I should not like to be again within the pale of attractive people.’

‘It is strange to hear you say such things so calmly.’

‘I made up my mind long ago. In following poor Georgina--or rather, my own self-will--I threw away the bloom of life. Percy warned me that those who reject light crosses have heavy loads imposed. I made what now seems hardly a cross of reed, into a scourge! Oh, Violet! would that I had done no harm but to myself by those races!’

‘Hush!’ said Violet’s smothered voice.

‘But for that,’ said Theodora, recovering steadiness of tone, ‘I should bear everything peacefully. I was unworthy of Percy, and am better off than I deserve. Oh, Violet! I have wished to thank you for making me go to Baden, and promising that if I would submit, guidance would come. There it was, the instant I really sought it. What would have become of me if I had not been haunted by your look and your words? How many times they saved me from accepting Lord St. Erme! And if I had, how my self-will, and pride, and jealousy would have grown! and how wretched I should be making him now!’

‘It is much better as it is.’

‘Yes, whatever pain I did give him by my very shameful usage, it would have been far worse to have gone on. I was thankful that I was stopped. Now I think I see my own life. There are my home duties; and oh! how could I have spoken as I once did of papa! How shocking it must have seemed to you!’

‘I do not know what it was, but it was under great provocation, and you did not understand him then.’

‘No, you and Hugh drove me to him, and in seeing him pleased with anything I can do for him, there is solid happiness. I have learnt to enter into his affection and deep feeling and anxieties, and I would not have missed these four years of reciprocity with him for anything! And I shall get on better with mamma now. I fancy she has a different nature after all, from what my aunt forced on her. Well, then, you know I have long set up for a maiden aunt, and there is John, who might want a housekeeper. Or if I am of no use to my own folks, there are the poor always. Perhaps I may come to Emma Brandon’s priory. It would be fine discipline to be under Mother Theresa.

This unexpected pleasantry Violet could only answer by a groan.

‘Seriously,’ continued Theodora, ‘my doubt would be whether it would be right to turn to such a course only when one has nothing else to do. It is a different thing from giving the energies and wishes and visions of youth, as Emma has done. I could only offer the worn-out. But that is speculation. There is present duty at home and in the village, and brightness in your children, and my hopes are on John. I have used him vilely, because he tried to teach me to take to you, and I do long to see him and ask his pardon, and you will help me, so that he shall believe in my sorrow, and we will be a sober old brother and sister together.’

‘I believe he wishes for nothing more. He will feel your having worked for him, instead of saving anything of your own.’

‘I had little to care for: my childhood had few recollections, and I had nothing of Helen’s. It was a pleasure to work for him. Do you know, when I saw that marble chess-table which had belonged to the parsonage, and which Percy had left in John’s charge, a horrid feeling came that I would not save it for Jane, and I left it. Then I remembered that was a nasty spiteful bit of revenge, and I hated myself, and dashed in when I really did know that it was not safe. I was altogether mad, I believe. I felt desperate, and rather enjoyed facing danger for it. And then I felt the heat of the fire from the gallery again, and the spout from the fire-engine came, and the smoke was so thick that I missed my footing with that great heavy thing, and fell down-stairs to the first landing, and I believe that must have been what hurt my hand and side so much.’

Then as she heard Violet’s tightened breath at the thought of the frightful peril,

‘Well for me I did not perish with these wild thoughts! I am glad I have told you at last. I have felt as if I ought to confess it, and yet I was ashamed. Is the thing safe?’

‘Yes, I saw it at Brogden; but oh, to think of it!’

‘I am glad it is safe; it was John’s charge, and he ought to restore it: but you will dream of it, like poor little Johnnie, if you take it so much to heart. I should not have told you at night. Put it out of your head, and let us sleep in peace.’

‘Good night, dear sister. Thank you for talking to me. O, this is better than the night we parted before.’

‘As much better as it is to have found one’s anchor than to be tossed at the will of the waves. That was a frightful time. Thank heaven that you made me feel for the cable! There is a dreary voyage to come, but after all, every day we end the Creed with “The life everlasting.”’

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Chapter 6

What have I? Shall I dare to tell? A comfortless and hidden well, A well of love, it may be deep, I trust it is, and never dry. What matter if the waters sleep In silence and obscurity?

--WORDSWORTH

Violet experienced the trials to which she knew she was returning. For some time past her husband’s habits had been growing less and less domestic, and his disappointment alienated him still more. It was as if Mrs. Nesbit had left behind her a drop of poison, that perverted and envenomed the pride he used to take in his son, as heir to the family honours, and made him regard the poor child almost in the light of a rival, while he seemed to consider the others as burdens, and their number a hardship and misfortune.

He was so impatient of interruption from them, that Violet kept them carefully out of his way, while he was in the house, and this was seldom for a long space of time. All the fancied trials of the first year of her marriage seemed to have actually come upon her! She hardly saw him from morning to night, and when he did spend an evening at home, he was sullen and discontented, and found fault with everything. She was far from well, but his days of solicitude were gone by, and he was too much wrapped up in his own concerns to perceive her failure in strength, and the effort it cost her to be cheerful. The children were her great solace, but the toil of attending to them was almost beyond her powers, and if it had not been for her boy, she felt as if she must have been quite overwhelmed. Quiet, gentle, and thoughtful, he was a positive assistance in the care of his sisters; and to read with him, hear his remarks, watch his sweet obedience, and know herself the object of his earnest affection, was her chief enjoyment, though even here there was anxiety. His innocence and lovingness had something unearthly, and there was a precocious understanding, a grave serious turn of mind, and a want of childish mirth, which added to the fears caused by his fragile health. Play was not nearly so pleasant to him as to sit by her, reading or talking, or to act as her little messenger; and it was plain that he missed fondness from his father almost as much as she did for him. To be in the room with papa was his most earnest desire, and it saddened her to see that little slight figure silent in the corner, the open book on his lap, but his pale face, soft dark eyes, and parted lips, intent on every movement of his father, till the instant a want was expressed, or the least occasion for a service offered, there was a bound to execute it, and the inattentive indifferent ‘thank you’ was enough to summon up the rosy hue of delight. Would Arthur only have looked, how could he have helped being touched? But he continued neglectful and unheeding, while the child’s affection seemed to thrive the more under disregard.

Violet’s only satisfaction was in the absence of Mr. Gardner. She heard constantly from Lady Elizabeth Brandon; but there was little that was hopeful in that quarter. Emma’s heart was more entirely in the power of her suitor than even their fears had anticipated. She had kept so entirely aloof from gentlemen, and so suspiciously repelled the most ordinary attention, that when once she had permitted any intimacy the novelty gave it a double charm. He had come upon her at first as one bowed down with sorrow for the follies of his youth, seeking only for the means of repairing what was past, and professing that happiness was over, and all he could hope was to evidence the depth of his repentance by his devotion and self-sacrifice in the cause of the Church. Then, when at unawares he allowed it to be discovered by Theresa that the heart, supposed to be awake only to remorse, had been gained by the earnestness and excellence of her young friend, and that in her was the most powerful means of consoling and aiding him, when he seemed sunk in the depths of despair at having allowed his sentiments to transpire, and only too much humiliated by the idea of being named together with Miss Brandon, it was impossible but that Emma’s gentle and enthusiastic spirit should go more than half way to raise him from his despondency. She could not believe his errors so great, after all; or even if they were, who would not overlook them, and rejoice to have the power of comforting such a penitent? Theresa Marstone, with a woman’s latent love of romance, was prime confidante to both, encouraged all, and delighted in the prospect of being supreme in the Priory, and moulding the pattern household of the pair formed and united under her auspices.

In the midst of such a dream as this, what chance had Lady Elizabeth of convincing the friends that their penitent, scarcely persuaded to relinquish plans of a hermitage, was a spendthrift adventurer, seeking to repair his extravagance with the estates of Rickworth?

Emma shed indignant tears, and protested that it was cruel to bring up his past faults; talked of the Christian duty of forgiving the returning sinner; and when Lady Elizabeth showed that he had very recently been engaged in his usual courses, Theresa, with a sensible face and reasonable voice, argued that ordinary minds could not enter into the power of the Church’s work, and adduced many cases of equally sudden change of life.

She did not mention whether there was always the heiress of ten thousand a year ready as a reward.

The list of charges against Mark’s character deepened every day, and added to poor Lady Elizabeth’s horror, but he always contrived to render them as nothing to Emma. He had always confessed them beforehand, either to her or to Theresa, with strong professions of sorrow, and so softened and explained away, that they were ready to receive each fresh accusation as an exaggeration of a fault long past, and deeply regretted, and only admired their injured Mark the more. Lady Elizabeth wrote to beg Violet to give her the clue which she had said Arthur possessed to Mark’s actual present character.

In much distress Violet wrote the letter, mentioning some disgraceful transactions which she knew to have been taking place at the very time when the good curate believed his friend sincerely repentant. She had heard them, not from Arthur, but from Mrs Bryanstone, who always learnt from her brother every such piece of gossip, but still, after what had passed, and Lady Elizabeth’s appeal direct to Arthur, she thought it her duty to tell him before she sent the letter, and to ask if the facts were correct.

It was a most unpleasant duty; but Arthur was not in such a mood as when first she had mentioned the subject to him. He muttered something about the intense folly of a woman who could believe a word out of Gardner’s mouth; said if Emma desired to be made miserable for life she could not take a better way; wished he had never set eyes on the fellow, and then, grumbling at Violet’s begging him to read the letter, he cast his eye over it, and said it was all true, and there was worse, too, if Lady Elizabeth did but know it; but what this was he would not tell her. He made no objection to her sending the letter, saying he supposed it must be done, since she was asked; but it was all her doing, and Lady Elizabeth might have gone to some one else; and inconsistently ended with, ‘After all, what’s the use of making such an uproar about it? Such things have happened twenty times before, and will again.’

‘Not with my poor Emma, I hope. Imagine her with such a man as that!’

‘Well! there are plenty of such couples. I wonder what would become of the world if wives were not better than their husbands.’

Every rational person at Gothlands thought this letter conclusive; Emma herself was shaken; but a walk in the shrubbery with Mark settled it in her mind that his newly-formed wishes of amendment had then been weak--he had not then seen her, he had not learnt so much as at present. He had not been able to confess these deeds, because others, who had now spoken, were concerned in them; but now it was a relief to be able to tell all to his Emma! The end of it was, that Emma herself was almost ready to press forward the marriage, so as to give him the means of clearing himself from the debts, which, as he insinuated, were the true cause of Colonel Martindale’s accusations. He forgave him, however, though if all was known of his dealings with Arthur Martindale--! And then there was a long confidential talk with Theresa Marstone, after which she told Lady Elizabeth that, though Mr. Gardner spared Emma’s feelings with regard to her friend, there could be no doubt that Colonel Martindale had done much to lead him astray.

At last, as a dutiful concession, Emma resolved on a compromise, and put him on his probation for a year. This was particularly inconvenient to him, but he was very resigned and humble; ‘perhaps he had hoped more from her affection, but he knew it was his penalty, and must submit. If there was but some religious house to which he could retire for the intermediate space; for he dreaded the effect of being sent back to the world.’

Theresa was wrought upon to counsel haste; but Emma had principle at the bottom of her effervescence of folly, and was too right-minded, as well as too timid, to act in direct opposition to her mother, however she might be led to talk. Therefore they parted, with many tears on Emma’s part, and tender words and promises on Mark’s. Lady Elizabeth had little hope that he would not keep them; but she took advantage of the reprieve to conduct Emma to make visits amongst her relations--sober people, among whom sense was more likely to flourish, and among whom Mr. Gardner could never dare to show himself.

He went, as he told Emma, to seek for some continental convent, where perhaps he might be received as a boarder, and glean hints for the Priory. Ordinary minds believed that his creditors being suspicious of the delay of his marriage with the heiress, had contributed to this resolution.

He spent a few days in London on his way, came to call on Colonel Martindale, and was much with him, as Violet afterwards found, though she did not know of it at the time.

She perceived the renewal of his influence in a project of which Arthur began to talk, of leaving the army and establishing himself at Boulogne. Though by rigid economy and self-denial she had continued to make the original sum apportioned to her cover all household expenses, and his promotion had brought an increase of income, Arthur declared that, with such a family, his means were inadequate to the requirements of his profession, and that unless his father could assist them further, they must reside abroad. Lord Martindale treated the threat with great displeasure, and to Violet it was like annihilation. When thankful for Mark Gardner’s absence, she was to be made to pursue him, probably in order that he might continue to prey on Arthur in secret, and then, at the year’s end, bring them as witnesses that he had abstained from open transgression; she was to see her husband become the idling Englishman abroad, in the society most likely to be his ruin; to have her children exposed to the disadvantages of a foreign education--what more was wanting to her distress? She ventured to expostulate on their account; but Arthur laughed, and told her they would learn French for nothing; and when she spoke of the evils of bringing up a boy in France, it was with the look which pained her so acutely, that she was answered, ‘No fear but that he will be looked after: he is of consequence in the family.’

Never had the future looked so desolate; but sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. She had the root of peace and strength, and had long been trained in patient trust and endurance. To pray, to strive, to dwell on words of comfort, to bear in mind the blessings of the cross, to turn resolutely from gloomy contemplations, and to receive thankfully each present solace,--these were the tasks she set herself, and they bore the fruit of consolation and hidden support. Her boy’s affection and goodness, the beauty and high health of her little girls, and the kindlier moments when Arthur’s better nature shone out, were balm and refreshment, because she accepted them as gifts from the Fatherly Hand that laid the trial upon her.

Her submissive distress so far worked on Arthur, that she heard no more of the Boulogne scheme for the present, and she drove it out of her mind, grateful for his silence, whether it was only from consideration for her, or whether he had really relinquished the design, now that Mr. Gardner was no longer near to maintain his ascendancy.

The summer was dreary at Brogden, as well as in Cadogan-place. Theodora soon was able to call herself well, and to resume her usual avocations, but she had not the same sense of energy and strength of body, and her days were combats with inertness and fatigue. She did not slacken her exertions, but they had no zest, and she suffered for them. Moreover, she was uneasy about Arthur and his wife; and to partake her father’s confidence was to share his many anxieties, and to be perplexed by his cares as well as her own. With her mother there were other difficulties. Lady Martindale had been kept so far apart from her daughter, that now it seemed as if they could not amalgamate, and when Theodora no longer was ill, the old habit of reserve returned. Assiduously did Theodora wait on her, read to her, and go out with her in the carriage; but still without becoming familiar, or being able to cheer her spirits. In truth, after having been for years an obedient attendant on her aunt, Lady Martindale felt the blank of the want of occupation, and thus the sense of her loss was ever renewed. Science, literature, and accomplishments had been her pursuits, chiefly because her aunt led her to them, and they had been gradually dropped with Mrs. Nesbit’s interest in them. In themselves they had no charm for her, and she turned from them now as painfully recalling what she had lost. Dispirited, and without employment, the natural consequence was that her health suffered, and she became a prey to the varied torments of neuralgia, while Theodora proved herself a better nurse than could have been expected for an illness in which she only half believed.

Many hopes were fixed on John’s return; but this was deferred,--he was in the midst of church building, and establishing schemes to which absence would be fatal, and he could only promise to come home next year, when things should be put in train. To his sister he wrote a letter so full of warm affectionate gratitude for her exertions in his behalf, that she was positively soothed and refreshed, and reckoned the more on beginning with him the fraternal union so long delayed, but to which she looked as the solace of her future life.

As to Percival Fotheringham, there was no further explanation of his marriage. John wrote to Violet that he had not heard from him for many months, for it was difficult to keep up a correspondence between Barbuda and the continental towns whither he was journeying. His last letter had spoken of a tour in Italy in contemplation, and that in which he had communicated Lady Fotheringham’s death, mentioned some of her last cares being for Jane and Georgina, and how she had tried to leave some provision which might rescue the former from the necessity of following her sister into the undesirable society she found abroad. This only served to confirm Theodora’s conjecture.

From other sources no intelligence was gained. London was empty, and Violet saw no one likely to know anything of his movements; and when she heard that Mark Gardner had been in town, and eagerly inquired whether he had been asked, she found that Arthur had forgotten the whole matter. Lady Elizabeth finished the letter, rejoicing in his departure, by saying--‘He confirms what I told you of the marriage of his cousin and Mr. Fotheringham, and calls it a lucky thing for her. I had no opportunity of hearing the particulars.’ And, finally, Mrs. Bryanstone had heard of Miss Gardner’s marriage with one of the Fotheringhams of Worthbourne, and only wanted Mrs. Martindale to strengthen her in the belief that it was the dear, eccentric Crusader.

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Chapter 7

‘Mid sombre shades of evening dim Upon the rock so lone, so drear, Scorning weak frame and sinking limb, My heart grows bright and bold of cheer; Out of the depths of stormy night My hope looks up with cloudless eyes, And to the one true deathless light, Its joyful pinions swiftly rise: Thanks to the seraph shape that beamed Benign upon my darkened breast, So for her service worthy deemed, My grateful heart abounds in rest.

--FOUQUE’S Minstrel Love

‘Wrangerton, August 20th.

‘You must not be frightened, dearest Violet--Albert is safe; thanks to that most noble-hearted, admirable Lord St. Erme, and above all, thanks to Him who directed this dreadful stroke away from us. I hope you will receive this before you see the newspaper. Mamma has gone up with them, to help them to break it to poor Lady Lucy. May she be supported!

‘The history, as far as I can toll you, is this:--The men at the collieries have been as troublesome and insubordinate as ever, seeming to think opposition to Lord St. Erme an assertion of their rights as free-born Englishmen; and at last, finding it impossible to do anything with them as long as they did not depend immediately upon himself, he took the pits into his own hands when Mr. Shoreham went away, a fortnight ago. It seems that Mr. Shoreham, knowing that he was going, had let everything fall into a most neglected state, and the overlookers brought reports to Albert that there were hardly any safety-lamps used in the great pit, and that the galleries were so insufficiently supported that there was great danger in continuing to work there. However, the reports were contradictory, and after trying in vain to settle what was to be done, Lord St. Erme rode this morning to the collieries, to make a personal inspection, and insist on the men using the Davy-lamp. After trying to dissuade him, Albert proposed to go down with him; but he would not consent--he only smiled, and said there was no need for it. It did not strike Albert till afterwards that he was conscious of the risk, and would not allow another to share it! He was waiting for him, not far from the shaft, when the earth seemed to give way under his feet; there was a thundering sound, a great cry, and he fell. When he recovered his footing, the mouth of the shaft was gone, the scaffolding prostrate, the people around in horror and consternation. The pit had fallen in, and there were at least twenty men there, besides Lord St. Erme. Oh! how you will share that shuddering thankfulness and sorrow, that we felt, when Albert galloped up to the door and threw himself into the arm-chair, so unnerved by the shock that he could not at first speak. Happily his wife was here, so she heard all at once. He is gone with mamma and papa to tell the poor sister. Alas! though we think most of her, there are many other sufferers.

‘Three, o’clock.--Albert is come back. He says Lady Lucy met them in the hall, pale and trembling, as if she had already worked herself into an agony of fright. She begged them to tell her at once, and stood quite still, only now and then moaning to herself, “Oh, St. Erme! St. Erme!” Mamma took her by the hand, and tried to speak soothingly; but she did not seem to attend, and presently looked up, flushed and quivering, though she had been so still before, and declared that the whole might not have fallen; she had heard of people being dug out alive; they must begin at once, and she would go to the spot. There is no hope, Albert says; even if not crushed, they must have perished from the foul air, but the poor girl has caught fast hold of the idea, and insists on going to Coalworth at once to urge it on. They cannot prevent her, and mamma cannot bear that she should be alone, and means to go with her. The carriage was ordered when Albert came here! Poor thing, there was never fonder love between a brother and sister; she hardly had a thought that did not centre in him. It breaks my heart to think how often we have seen them walking arm-in-arm together, and said they might be taken for a pair of lovers.

‘Five o’clock.--Annette begs me to conclude her letter. My father has returned home, and fetched her to Coalworth, to be with my mother, and the poor young lady (already, I fear, Countess of St. Erme), who, he tells us, continues buoyed up by the delusion that her brother may yet be found alive, and is calling on all around to use the utmost exertions for his recovery. I regret that I cannot go in Annette’s stead; but I cannot leave home in mamma’s absence, as poor Louisa is much affected by Albert’s peril, and in so nervous a state that she will not hear of my quitting her for a moment. We have indeed received a lesson, that no rank, however exalted, can protect from the strokes of Providence, or the uncertainties of human life. But the postman calls. Adieu.

‘Your affectionate sister,

‘Matilda Moss.’

(The last moral sentiment, be it observed, readied Miss Martindale, rendered illegible by scrawls of ink from Violet’s hand.)

‘Coalworth, August 21st.

‘Dearest Violet,--Matilda told you how I was sent for to come here. They are working on,--relays relieving each other day and night; but no one but poor Lady Lucy thinks there is any hope. Mr. Alder, the engineer, says Lord St. Erme must have been in the farthest gallery, and they cannot reach it in less than a week, so that if the other perils should be escaped, there would be starvation. The real number lost is fourteen, besides Lord St. Erme. It was a strange scene when I arrived at about seven o’clock yesterday evening. The moor looking so quiet, and like itself, with the heath and furze glowing in the setting sun, as if they had no sympathy for us, till, when we came near the black heaps of coal, we saw the crowd standing round,--then getting into the midst, there was the great broken down piece of blackened soil and the black strong-armed men working away with that life-and-death earnestness. By the ruins of a shed that had been thrown down, there was a little group, Lady Lucy, looking so fair and delicate, so unlike everything around, standing by an old woman in a red cloak, whom she had placed in the chair that had been brought for herself, the mother of one of the other sufferers. Mamma and papa were with her; but nothing seems to comfort her so much as going from one to the other of the women and children in the same trouble with herself. She talks to them, and tries to get them to be hopeful, and nurses the babies, and especially makes much of the old woman. The younger ones look cheered when she tells them that history which she dwells on so much, and seem as if they must believe her, but the poor old dame has no hope, and tells her so. “‘Tis the will of God, my lady, don’t ye take on so now. It will be all one when we come to heaven, though I would have liked to have seen Willy again; but ‘tis the cross the Lord sends, so don’t ye take on,” and then Lady Lucy sits down on the ground, and looks up in her face, as if her plain words did her more good than anything we can say, or even the clergyman, who is constantly going from one to the other. Whenever the men come to work, or go away, tired out, Lady Lucy thanks them from the bottom of her heart; and a look at her serves to inspirit and force them on to wonderful exertions. But alas! what it must end in! We are at the house that was Mr. Shoreham’s, the nearest to the spot. It was hard work to get poor Lady Lucy to come in last night. She stood there till long after dark, when the stars were all out, and mamma could only get her away by telling her, that her brother would be vexed, and that, if she made herself ill, she would not be able to nurse him. She did not sleep all night, and this morning she was out again with daylight, and we were obliged to bring her out some breakfast, which she shared with the fellow-sufferers round her, and would have taken nothing herself if the old dame had not coaxed her, and petted her, calling her “My pretty lady,” and going back to her lecture on its being a sin to fret at His will. Mamma and I take turns to be with her. When I came in, she was sitting by the old woman, reading to her the Psalms, and the good old creature saying at the end of each, “Yes, yes, He knows what is good for them. Glory be to Him.”

‘Aug. 22nd.--As before. They have tried if they can open a way from the old shaft, but cannot do it with safety. Lady Lucy still the same, but paler and more worn, I think, less hopeful; I hope, more resigned.

‘Aug. 23rd.--Poor Lucy was really tired out, and slept for two whole hours in the heat of the noon, sitting on the ground by old Betty, fairly overpowered. It was a touching sight; the old woman watching her so sedulously, and all the rough people keeping such strict silence, and driving off all that could disturb her. The pitmen look at her with such compassionate reverence! The look and word she gives them are ten thousand times more to them, I am sure, than the high pay they get for every hour they work! Next Wednesday is the first day they can hope to come to anything. This waiting is dreadful. Would that I could call it suspense!

‘Aug. 24th, Sunday.--She has been to church this morning. I did not think she could, but at the sound of the bell, she looked up, and the old woman too, they seemed to understand each other without a word, and went together. The service was almost more than one could bear, but she was composed, except at the references in the sermon to our state of intense anxiety, and the need of submission. At the special mention in the Litany of those in danger, I heard from beneath her hands clasped over her face, that low moan of “O, brother, brother!” Still I think when the worst comes, she will bear it better and be supported.

‘Five o’clock.--THESE IS HOPE!--O Violet! We went to church again this afternoon. The way leads past the old shaft. As we came by it in returning, Lady Lucy stood still, and said she heard a sound. We could hear nothing, but one of the wives said, “Yes, some one was working, and calling down there.” I flew to the main shaft, and called Mr. Alder. He was incredulous, but Lady Lucy insisted. A man went down, and the sound was certain. No words can be made out. They are working to meet them. Lucy burst into tears, and threw her arms round my neck as soon as she heard this man’s report; but oh! thankful as we are, it is more cruel than ever not to know who is saved, and this letter must go to-night without waiting for more.

‘25th.--He is alive, they say, but whether he can rally is most uncertain. All night they worked on, not till six o’clock this morning was any possibility of communication opened. Then questions were asked, “How many were there?” “Fifteen, all living, but one much crushed.” Oh! the suspense, the heart-beating as those answers were sent up from the depths of the tomb--a living tomb indeed; and how Lady Lucy pressed the women’s hard hands, and shed her tears of joy with them. But there was a damp to her gladness. Next message was that Lord St. Erme bad fainted--they could not tell whether he lived--he could not hold out any longer! Then it was that she gave way, and indeed it was too agonizing, but the old woman seemed better able to calm her than we could. Terrible moments indeed! and in the midst there was sent up a folded paper that had been handed out at the small aperture on the point of a tool, when the poor things had first been able to see the lights of their rescuers. It was to Lady Lucy; her brother had written it on the leaf of a pocket-book, before their single lamp went out, and had given it in charge to one of the men when he found his strength failing. She was too dizzy and trembling to make out the pencil, and gave it to me to read to her. I hope I am not doing wrong, for I must tell you how beautiful and resigned a farewell it was. He said, in case this note ever came to her, she must not grieve at the manner of his death--it was a comfort to him to be taken, while trying to repair the negligence of earlier years; they were a brave determined set of men who were with him, and she must provide for their widows and children. There was much fond thought for her, and things to console her, and one sentence you must have--“If ever you meet with the “hoch-beseeltes Madchen”, let her know that her knight thanks and blesses her in his last hour for having roused him and sent him forth to the battlefield. I would rather be here now than what I was when she awoke me. Perhaps she will now be a friend and comforter to you.”

‘I think those were the words. I could not help writing them. Poor Lucy cried over the note, and we lowered down baskets of nourishment to be handed in, but we heard only of Lord St. Erme’s continued swoon, and it was a weary while before the opening could be widened enough to help the sufferers out. They were exhausted, and could work no more on their side. But for him, it seems they would have done nothing; he was the only one who kept his presence of mind when the crash came. One lamp was not extinguished, and he made them at once consider, while the light lasted, whether they could help themselves. One of the hewers knew that they were not far from this old shaft, and happily Lord St. Erme had a little compass hung to his watch, which he used to carry in his wanderings abroad; this decided the direction, and he set them to work, and encouraged them to persevere most manfully. He did not work himself--indeed, the close air oppressed him much more than it did the pitmen, and he had little hope for his own life, however it might end, but he sat the whole time, supporting the head of the man who was hurt, and keeping up the resolution of the others, putting them in mind of the only hope in their dire distress, and guiding them to prayer and repentance, such as might fit them for life or death. “He was more than ten preachers, and did more good than forty discourses,” said one man. But he had much less bodily strength than they, though more energy and fortitude, and he was scarcely sensible when the first hope of rescue came. It seemed as if he had just kept up to sustain them till then, and when they no longer depended on him for encouragement, he sank. The moment came at last. He was drawn up perfectly insensible, together with a great brawny-armed hewer, a vehement Chartist, and hitherto his great enemy, but who now held him in his arms like a baby, so tenderly and anxiously. As soon as he saw Lady Lucy, he called out, “Here he is, Miss, I hope ye’ll be able to bring him to. If all lords were like he now!” and then his wife had hold of him, quite beside herself with joy; but he shook her off with a sort of kind rudeness, and, exhausted as he was, would not hear of being helped to his home, till he had heard the doctors (who were all in waiting) say that Lord St. Erme was alive. Lady Lucy was hanging over him in a sort of agony of ecstasy, and yet of grief; but still she looked up, and put her little white hand into the collier’s big black one, and said, “Thank you,” and then he fairly burst out crying, and so his wife led him away. I saw Lord St. Erme for one moment, and never was anything more death-like, such ghastly white, except where grimed with coal-dust. They are in his room now, trying to restore animation. He has shown some degree of consciousness, and pressed his sister’s hand, but all power of swallowing seems to be gone, and the doctors are in great alarm. The others are doing well--the people come in swarms to the door to ask for him.

‘26th.--Comfort at last. He has been getting better all night, and this morning the doctors say all danger is over. Mamma says she can hardly keep from tears as she watches the happy placid looks of the brother and sister, as he lies there so pale and shadowy, and she hangs over him, as if she could never gaze at him enough. Several of the men, who were with him, came to inquire for him early this morning; none of them suffered half so much as he did. I went down to speak to them, and I am glad I did; it is beautiful to see how he has won all their hearts, and to hear their appreciation of his conduct. They say he tended the man who was hurt as if he had been his mother, and never uttered one word of complaint. “He told us,” said one man, “God could hear us out of the depth, as well as when we said our prayers in church; and whenever our hearts were failing us, there was his voice speaking somewhat good to cheer us up, or help us to mind that there was One who knew where we were, and would have a care for us and our wives and children.” “Bless him,” said another, “he has been the saving of our lives;” “Bless him;” and they touched their hats and said Amen. I wish his sister could have seen them!

‘Five o’clock.--Mrs. Delaval is come, and there is no room nor need for us, so we are going home. It is best, for mamma was nursing him all night, and is tired out. He has improved much in the course of the day, and they hope that he may soon be moved home. The pitmen want to carry him back on his mattress on their shoulders. He has made himself king of their hearts! He has been able to inquire after them, and Lady Lucy, who forgets no one, has been down-stairs to see the old Betty. “Ah! my pretty lady,” she said, “you are not sorry now that you tried to take the Lord’s Cross patiently, and now, you see, your sorrow is turned into joy.” And then Lady Lucy would not have it called patience, and said she had had no submission in her, and Betty answered her, “Ah! well, you are young yet, and He fits the burden to the shoulder.” How an adventure like this brings out the truth of every character, as one never would have known it otherwise. Who would have dreamt of that pattern of saintly resignation in the Coalworth heath, or that Lady Lucy Delaval would have found a poor old woman her truest and best comforter? and this without the least forwardness on the old woman’s part.

‘Just going! Lady Lucy so warm-hearted and grateful--and Lord St. Erme himself wished mamma good-bye in such a kind cordial manner, thanking her for all she had done for his sister. I am sorry to go, so as not to be in the way of seeing anything more of them, but it is time, for mamma is quite overcome. So I must close up this last letter from Coalworth, a far happier one than I thought to end with.

‘Your most affectionate,

A. M.

‘P. S.--Is he not a hero, equal to his “hoch-beseeltes Madchen”? I am ashamed of having written to you what was never meant for other eyes, but it will be safe with you. If you had seen how he used to waylay us, and ask for our tidings from you after the fire, you would see I cannot doubt who the “madchen” is. Is there no hope for him? The other affair was so long ago, and who could help longing to have such minstrel-love rewarded?’

That postscript did not go on to Brogden, though Annette’s betrayal of confidence had been suffered to meet the eye of the high-souled maiden.

The accounts of Lord St. Erme continued to improve, though his recovery was but slow. To talk the adventure over was a never-failing interest to Lady Martindale, who, though Theodora suppressed Annette’s quotation, was much of the opinion expressed in the postscript, and made some quiet lamentations that Theodora had rejected him.

‘No, we were not fit for each other,’ she answered.

‘You would not say so now,’ said Lady Martindale. ‘He has done things as great as yourself, my dear.’

‘I am fit for no one now,’ said Theodora, bluntly.

‘Ah, my dear!--But I don’t know why I should wish you to marry; I could never do without you.’

‘That’s the most sensible thing you have said yet, mamma.’

But Theodora wished herself less necessary at home, when, in a few weeks more, she had to gather that matters were going on well from the large round-hand note, with nursery spelling and folding, in which Johnnie announced that he had a little brother.

An interval of peace to Violet ensued. Arthur did not nurse her as in old times; but he was gentle and kind, and was the more with her as the cough, which had never been entirely removed, was renewed by a chill in the first cold of September. All went well till the babe was a week old, when Arthur suddenly announced his intention of asking for a fortnight’s leave, as he was obliged to go to Boulogne on business.

Here was a fresh thunderbolt. Violet guessed that Mr. Gardner was there, and was convinced that, whatever might be Arthur’s present designs, he would come back having taken a house at Boulogne. He answered her imploring look by telling her not to worry herself; he hoped to get ‘quit of the concern,’ and, at any rate, could not help going. She suggested that his cough would bear no liberties; he said, change of air would take it off, and scouted her entreaty that he would consult Mr. Harding. Another morning, a kind careless farewell, he was gone!

Poor Violet drew the coverlet over her head; her heart failed her, and she craved that her throbbing sinking weakness and feverish anxiety might bring her to her final rest. When she glanced over the future, her husband deteriorating, and his love closed up from her; her children led astray by evil influences of a foreign soil; Johnnie, perhaps, only saved by separation--Johnnie, her precious comforter; herself far from every friend, every support, without security of church ordinances--all looked so utterly wretched that, as her pulses beat, and every sensation of illness was aggravated, she almost rejoiced in the danger she felt approaching.

Nothing but her infant’s voice could have recalled her to a calmer mind, and brought back the sense that she was bound to earth by her children. She repented as of impatience and selfishness, called back her resolution, and sought for soothing. It came. She had taught herself the dominion over her mind in which she had once been so deficient. Vexing cares and restless imaginings were driven back by echoes of hymns and psalms and faithful promises, as she lay calm and resigned, in her weakness and solitude, and her babe slept tranquilly in her bosom, and Johnnie brought his books and histories of his sisters; and she could smile in thankfulness at their loveliness of to-day, only in prayer concerning herself for the morrow. She was content patiently to abide the Lord.

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Chapter 8

But one, I wis, was not at home, Another had paid his gold away, Another called him thriftless loone, And bade him sharply wend his way.

--Heir of Lynne

‘He is done for. That wife of his may feel the consequence of meddling in other folk’s concerns. Not that I care for that now, there’s metal more attractive; but she has crossed me, and shall suffer for it.’ These short sentences met the ear of a broad-shouldered man in a rough coat, as, in elbowing his way through the crowd on the quay at Boulogne, he was detained for a moment behind two persons, whose very backs had all the aspect of the dissipated Englishman abroad. Struggling past, he gained a side view of the face of the speaker. It was one which he knew; but the vindictive glare in the sarcastic eyes positively made him start, as he heard the laugh of triumph and derision, in reply to some remark from the other.

‘Ay! and got enough to get off to Paris, where the old Finch has dropped off his perch at last. That was all I wanted of him, and it was time to wring him dry and have done with him. He will go off in consumption before the year is out--’

As he spoke, the stranger turned on him an honest English face, the lips compressed into an expression of the utmost contempt, while indignation flashed in the penetrating gray eyes, that looked on him steadily. His bold defiant gaze fell, quailing and scowling, he seemed to become small, shrink away, and disappeared.

‘When scamp number two looks round for scamp number one, he is lost in the crowd,’ muttered the traveller, half smiling; then, with a deep breath, ‘The hard-hearted rascal! If one could only wring his neck! Heaven help the victim! though, no doubt, pity is wasted on him.’

He ceased his reflections, to enter the steamer just starting for Folkestone, and was soon standing on deck, keeping guard over his luggage. The sound of a frequent cough attracted his attention, and, looking round, he saw a tall figure wrapped in great-coats leaning on the leeward side of the funnel.

‘Hollo! you here, Arthur! Where have you been?’

‘What, Percy? How d’ye do?’ replied a hoarse, languid voice.

‘Is Mrs. Martindale here?’

‘No.’ He was cut short by such violent cough that he was obliged to rest his forehead on his arm; then shivering, and complaining of the cold, he said he should go below, and moved away, rejecting Percy’s offered arm with some impatience.

The weather was beautiful, and Percy stood for some time watching the receding shore, and scanning, with his wonted keen gaze, the various countenances of the passengers. He took a book from his pocket, but did not read long; he looked out on the sea, and muttered to himself, ‘What folly now? Why won’t that name let one rest? Besides, he looked desperately ill; I must go and see if they have made him comfortable in that dog-hole below.’

Percy shook himself as if he was out of humour; and, with his hands in his pockets, and a sauntering step, entered the cabin. He found Arthur there alone, his head resting on his arms, and his frame shaken by the suppressed cough.

‘You seem to have a terrible cold. This is a bad time to be crossing. How long have you been abroad?’

‘Ten days.--How came you here?’

‘I am going to Worthbourne. How are all your folks!’

‘All well;’ and coughing again, he filled up a tumbler with spirits and water, and drank it off, while Percy exclaimed:

‘Are you running crazy, to be feeding such a cough in this way?’

‘The only thing to warm one,’ said he, shuddering from head to foot.

‘Yes, warm you properly into a nice little fever and inflammation. Why, what a hand you have! And your pulse! Here, lie down at once,’ as he formed a couch with the help of a wrapper and bag. Arthur passively accepted his care; but as the chill again crept through his veins, he stretched out his hand for the cordial.

‘I won’t have it done!’ thundered Percy. ‘I will not look on and see you killing yourself!’

‘I wish I could,’ murmured Arthur, letting his hand drop, as if unequal to contest the point.

The conviction suddenly flashed on Percy that he was the victim! ‘You have got yourself into a scrape’ he said.

‘Scrape! I tell you I am ruined! undone!’ exclaimed Arthur, rearing himself up, as he burst out into passionate imprecations on Mark Gardner, cut short by coughing.

‘You! with your wife and little children entirely depending on you! You have allowed that scoundrel, whose baseness you knew, to dupe you to your own destruction!’ said Percy, with slowness and severity.

Too ill and wretched to resent the reproach, Arthur sank his head with a heavy groan, that almost disarmed Percy; then looking up, with sparkling eyes, he exclaimed, ‘No! I did not know his baseness; I thought him a careless scape-grace, but not much worse than he has made me. I would as soon have believed myself capable of the treachery, the unfeeling revenge--’ Again he was unable to say more, and struggling for utterance, he stamped his foot against the floor, and groaned aloud with rage and pain.

Percy persuaded him to lie down again, and could not refrain from forcible expressions of indignation, as he recollected the sneering exultation of Gardner’s tone of triumph over one so open-hearted and confiding.

It was a moment when sympathy unlocked the heart, and shame was lost in the sense of injury. Nothing more was needed to call from Arthur the history of his wrongs, as well as he was able to tell it, eking out with his papers the incoherent sentences which he was unable to finish, so that Percy succeeded in collecting, from his broken narration, an idea of the state of affairs.

The horses, kept jointly at his expense and that of Gardner, had been the occasion of serious debts; and on Gardner’s leaving England, there had been a pressure on Colonel Martindale that rendered him anxious to free himself, even at the cost of his commission. Gardner, on the other hand, had, it appeared, been desirous to have him at Boulogne, perhaps, at first, merely as a means of subsistence during the year of probation, and on the failure of the first attempt at bringing him thither, had written to invite him, holding out as an inducement, that he was himself desirous of being disembarrassed, in order that Miss Brandon might find him clear of this entanglement, and representing that he had still property enough to clear off his portion of the liability.

With this view Arthur had gone out to Boulogne to meet him, but had found him dilatory in entering on business, and was drawn into taking part in the amusements of the place; living in a state of fevered excitement, which aggravated his indisposition and confused his perceptions, so that he fell more completely than ever into the power of his false friend, and was argued into relinquishing his project of selling the horses, and into taking up larger sums for keeping them on. In fact, the sensation that a severe cold was impending, and disgust at the notion of being laid up in such company rendered him doubly facile; and, in restless impatience to get away and avoid discussion, he acceded to everything, and signed whatever Gardner pleased. Not till he was on the point of embarking, after having gambled away most of his ready money, did he discover that the property of which he had heard so much was only a shadow, which had served to delude many another creditor; and that they had made themselves responsible for a monstrous amount, for which he was left alone to answer, while the first demand would be the signal for a multitude of other claims. As they parted, Gardner had finally thrown off the mask, and let him know that this was the recompense of his wife’s stories to the Brandons. She might say what she pleased now, it mattered not; Mark was on his way to the rich widow of Mr. Finch, and had wanted nothing of Arthur but to obtain the means of going to her, and to be revenged on him.

So Arthur half-expressed, and his friend understood. Save for this bodily condition, Percy could hardly have borne with him. His reckless self-indulgence and blind folly deserved to be left to reap their own fruit; yet, when he beheld their victim, miserable, prostrated by illness and despair, and cast aside with scornful cruelty, he could not, without being as cold-hearted as Gardner himself, refrain from kind words and suggestions of consolation. ‘Might not his father assist him?’

‘He cannot if he would. Everything is entailed, and you know how my aunt served us. There is no ready money to be had, not even the five thousand pounds that is the whole dependence for the poor things at home in case of my death, which may come soon enough for aught I care. I wish it was! I wish we were all going to the bottom together, and I was to see none of their faces again. It would be better for Violet than this.’

Percy could say little; but, though blunt of speech, he was tender of heart. He did all in his power for Arthur’s comfort, and when he helped him on shore at Folkestone, recommended him to go to bed at once, and offered to fetch Mrs. Martindale.

‘She cannot come,’ sighed Arthur; ‘she has only been confined three weeks.’

More shame for you, had Percy almost said; but he no longer opposed Arthur’s homeward instinct, and, finding a train ready to start, left their luggage to its fate, and resolved not to lose sight of him till he was safely deposited at his own house. Such care was in truth needed; the journey was a dreadful one, the suffering increased every hour, and when at length, in the dusk of the evening, they arrived in Cadogan-place, he could hardly mount the stairs, even with Percy’s assistance.

It was the first time that Violet had left her chamber, and, as the drawing-room door opened, she was seen sitting, pale and delicate, in her low chair by the fire, her babe on her lap, and the other three at her feet, Johnnie presiding over his sisters, as they looked at a book of prints.

She started up in alarm as Arthur entered, leaning on Mr. Fotheringham, and at once seized by a paroxysm of severe cough. Percy tried to assume a reassuring tone. ‘Here, you see, I have brought him home with one of his bad colds. He will speak for himself presently.’

In a second she had placed the infant on the sofa, signed to Johnnie to watch him, and drawn the arm-chair to the fire. Arthur sank into it, throwing his arm round her for support, and resting his weary head against her, as if he had found his refuge. Percy relieved her from the two little girls, unclasping their frightened grasp on her dress so gently and firmly, that, stranger though he was, Anna did not cry on being taken in his arms, nor Helen resist his leading her out of the room, and desiring her to take her sister up-stairs and to call their nurse.

Returning, he found that necessity had brought strength and presence of mind to their mother. She did not even tremble, though Arthur’s only words were, ‘We are undone. If I die, forgive me.’ Indeed, she hardly took in the sense of what he said; she only caressed, and tried to relieve him, assisted by Percy, who did not leave them till he had seen Arthur safely in charge of Mr. Harding.

He then walked away to his old lodgings in Piccadilly, where he was recognized with ecstasy by the quondam ragged-school boy, and was gladly welcomed by his landlady, who could not rejoice enough at the sight of his good-humoured face.

He divided his time between friendly gossip on her family affairs as she bustled in and out, in civility to the cat, and in railing at himself for thinking twice of such a selfish, ne’er-do-well as Arthur Martindale. The image of that pale young mother and her little ones pursued him, and with it the thought of the complicated distresses awaiting her; the knowledge of the debts that would almost beggar her, coming in the midst of her husband’s dangerous illness.

Percy muttered to himself lines of ‘Who comes here--a Grenadier,’ made a face, stretched himself, and called on himself to look on reasonableness and justice. Arthur deserved no favour, because he had encumbered himself with a helpless family, and then cruelly disregarded them.

‘What does a man deserve who leaves his wife with a child of a week old, to run after a swindler in foreign parts--eh, puss?’ said he aloud, viciously tweaking the old cat’s whiskers; then, as she shook her ears and drew back, too dignified to be offended, ‘Ay, ay, while wheat and tares grow together, the innocent must suffer for the guilty. The better for both. One is refined, the other softened. I am the innocent sufferer now,’ added he; ‘condole with me, pussy! That essay would have been worth eighty pounds if it was worth a sixpence; and there’s a loss for a striving young man! I cannot go on to Worthbourne without recovering it; and who knows how Jane will interpret my delay? While I live I’ll never carry another manuscript anywhere but in my pocket, and then we should all go to the bottom together, according to poor Arthur’s friendly wish. Ha! that’s not it sticking out of my great-coat pocket? No such good luck-only those absurd papers of poor Arthur’s. I remember I loaded my coat on him when we were going to land. What a business it is! Let us overhaul them a bit.’

He became absorbed in the contemplation, only now and then giving vent to some vituperative epithet, till he suddenly dashed his hand on the table with a force that startled the cat from her doze.

‘Never mind, puss; you know of old

‘I care for nobody, and nobody cares for me.’

So now, good night, and there’s an end of the matter.’

The first thing he did, next morning, was to walk to Cadogan-place, to return the papers. He had long to wait before the door was opened; and when James at length came, it was almost crying that he said that Colonel Martindale was very ill; he had ruptured a blood-vessel that morning, and was in the most imminent danger.

Mr. Fotheringham could see no one--could not be of any service. He walked across the street, looked up at the windows, mused, then exclaimed, ‘That being the case, I had better go at once to Folkestone, and rescue my bag from the jaws of the Custom-house.’

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