CHAPTER 1

Produced by Sandra Laythorpe

HEARTSEASE,

or BROTHER’S WIFE

By Charlotte M. Yonge

PART I

And Maidens call them Love in Idleness.

--Midsummer Night’s Dream

CHAPTER 1

There are none of England’s daughters that bear a prouder presence.

*****

And a kingly blood sends glances up, her princely eye to trouble,

And the shadow of a monarch’s crown is softened in her hair.

--ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

The sun shone slanting over a spacious park, the undulating ground here

turning a broad lawn towards the beams that silvered every blade of

grass; there, curving away in banks of velvet green; shadowed by the

trees; gnarled old thorns in the holiday suit whence they take their

name, giant’s nosegays of horse-chestnuts, mighty elms and stalwart

oaks, singly or in groups, the aristocracy of the place; while in the

background rose wooded coverts, where every tint of early green blended

in rich masses of varied foliage.

An avenue, nearly half a mile in length, consisted of a quadruple range

of splendid lime trees of uniform growth, the side arcades vaulted over

by the meeting branches, and the central road, where the same lights and

shadows were again and again repeated, conducting the eye in diminishing

perspective to a mansion on a broad base of stone steps. Herds of

cattle, horses, and deer, gave animation to the scene, and near

the avenue were a party of village children running about gathering

cowslips, or seated on the grass, devouring substantial plum buns.

Under a lordly elm sat a maiden of about nineteen years; at her feet

a Skye terrier, like a walking door-mat, with a fierce and droll

countenance, and by her side a girl and boy, the one sickly and poorly

clad, the other with bright inquiring eyes, striving to compensate for

the want of other faculties. She was teaching them to form that delight

of childhood, a cowslip ball, the other children supplying her with

handfuls of the gold-coated flowers, and returning a pull of the

forelock or a bobbed curtsey to her smiling thanks.

Her dress was of a plain brown-holland looking material, the bonnet she

had thrown off was of the coarsest straw, but her whole air declared

her the daughter of that lordly house; and had gold and rubies been laid

before her instead of cowslips with fairy favours, they would well have

become her princely port, long neck, and stately head, crowned with a

braid of her profuse black hair. That regal look was more remarkable in

her than beauty; her brow was too high, her features not quite regular,

her complexion of gypsy darkness, but with a glow of eyes very large,

black, and deeply set, naturally grave in expression, but just now

beaming and dancing in accordance with the encouraging smiles on her

fresh, healthy, red lips, as her hands, very soft and delicate, though

of large and strong make, completed the ball, threw it in the little

boy’s face, and laughed to see his ecstasy over the delicious prize;

teaching him to play with it, tossing it backwards and forwards, shaking

him into animation, and ever and anon chasing her little dog to extract

it from between his teeth.

Suddenly she became aware of the presence of a spectator, and instantly

assuming her bonnet, and drawing up her tall figure, she exclaimed, in a

tone of welcome:

‘Oh, Mr. Wingfield, you are come to see our cowslip feast.’

‘There seems to be great enjoyment,’ replied the young curate, looking,

however, somewhat pre-occupied.

‘Look at Charlie Layton,’ said she, pointing to the dumb boy. ‘That ball

is perfect felicity, he had rather not play with it, the delight is mere

possession.’ She was turning to the boy again, when Mr. Wingfield said,

not without hesitation--‘You have not heard when to expect your party

from Madeira?’

‘You know we cannot hear again. They were to sail by the next packet,

and it is uncertain how soon they may arrive.’

‘And--and--your brother Arthur. Do you know when he comes home?’

‘He promised to come this spring, but I fancy Captain Fitzhugh has

inveigled him somewhere to fish. He never writes, so he may come any

day. But what--is anything the matter?’

‘I have a letter here that--which--in Lord Martindale’s absence, I

thought it might be better--you might prefer my coming direct to you. I

cannot but think you should be aware’--stammered Mr. Wingfield.

‘Well,’--she said, haughtily.

‘Here is a letter from my cousin, who has a curacy in the Lake country.

Your brother is at Wrangerton, the next town.’

‘Arthur is well?’ cried she, starting.

‘Yes, yes, you need not be alarmed, but I am afraid there is some

entanglement. There are some Miss Mosses--’

‘Oh, it is that kind of thing!’ said she, in an altered tone, her cheeks

glowing; ‘it is very silly of him to get himself talked about; but of

course it is all nothing.’

‘I wish I could think so,’ said Mr. Wingfield; ‘but, indeed, Miss

Martindale,’ for she was returning to the children, ‘I am afraid it is a

serious matter. The father is a designing person.’

‘Arthur will not be taken in,’ was her first calm answer; but perceiving

the curate unconvinced, though unwilling to contradict, she added, ‘But

what is the story?’

Mr. Wingfield produced the letter and read; ‘Fanshawe, the curate of

Wrangerton, has just been with me, telling me his rector is in much

difficulty and perplexity about a son of your parishioner, Lord

Martindale. He came to Wrangerton with another guardsman for the sake

of the fishing, and has been drawn into an engagement with one of the

daughters of old Moss, who manages the St. Erme property. I know nothing

against the young ladies, indeed Fanshawe speaks highly of them; but the

father is a disreputable sort of attorney, who has taken advantage of

Lord St. Erme’s absence and neglect to make a prey of the estate. The

marriage is to take place immediately, and poor Mr. Jones is in much

distress at the dread of being asked to perform the ceremony, without

the consent of the young man’s family.’

‘He cannot do it,’ exclaimed the young lady; ‘you had better write and

tell him so.’

‘I am afraid,’ said Mr. Wingfield, diffidently, ‘I am afraid he has no

power to refuse.’

‘Not in such a case as this? It is his duty to put a stop to it.’

‘All that is in his power he will do, no doubt, by reasoning and

remonstrance; but you must remember that your brother is of age, and if

the young lady’s parents consent, Mr. Jones has no choice.’

‘I could not have believed it! However, it will not come to that: it is

only the old rector’s fancy. To make everything secure I will write to

my brother, and we shall soon see him here.’

‘There is still an hour before post-time,’ said Mr. Wingfield; ‘shall I

send the children home?’

‘No, poor little things, let them finish their game. Thank you for

coming to me. My aunt will, I hope, hear nothing of it. Good evening.’

Calling an elder girl, she gave some directions; and Mr. Wingfield

watched her walking down the avenue with a light-footed but decided and

characteristic tread, expressing in every step, ‘Where I am going, there

I will go, and nothing shall stop me.’

‘Nonsense!’ she said to herself; ‘Arthur cannot be so lost to the sense

of everything becoming. Such pain cannot be in store for me! Anything

else I could bear; but this must not, cannot, shall not be. Arthur is

all I have; I cannot spare him; and to see him shipwrecked on a low-bred

designing creature would be too much misery. Impossible--so clear-headed

as he is, so fastidious about women! And yet this letter spoke

decidedly. People talk of love! and Arthur is so easy, he would let

himself be drawn on rather than make a disturbance. He might be ensnared

with his eyes open, because he disliked the trouble of breaking loose,

and so would not think of the consequence. Nothing could save him

so well as some one going to him. He can read a letter or not as he

chooses. Oh, if papa were at home--oh, if Mr. Wingfield were but Percy

Fotheringham--he who fears no man, and can manage any one! Oh! if I

could go myself; he heeds me when he heeds no one else. Shall I go? Why

not? It would save him; it would be the only effectual way. Let me see.

I would take Simmonds and Pauline. But then I must explain to my

aunt. Stuff! there are real interests at stake! Suppose this is

exaggeration--why, then, I should be ridiculous, and Arthur would never

forget it. Besides, I believe I cannot get there in one day--certainly

not return the same. I must give way to conventionalities, and be a

helpless young lady.’

She reached the house, and quickly dashed off her letter:--

‘My Dear Arthur,--I hope and trust this letter may be quite uncalled

for, though I feel it my duty to write it. I used to have some influence

with you, and I should think that anything that reminded you of home

would make you pause.

‘Report has of course outrun the truth. It is impossible you should be

on the brink of marriage without letting us know--as much so, I should

trust, as your seriously contemplating an engagement with one beneath

your notice. I dare say you find it very pleasant to amuse yourself; but

consider, before you allow yourself to form an attachment--I will not

say before becoming a victim to sordid speculation. You know what poor

John has gone through, though there was no inferiority there. Think what

you would have to bear for the sake, perhaps, of a pretty face, but of a

person incapable of being a companion or comfort, and whom you would be

ashamed to see beside your own family. Or, supposing your own affections

untouched, what right have you to trifle with the feelings of a poor

girl, and raise expectations you cannot and ought not to fulfil? You are

too kind, when once you reflect, to inflict such pain, you, who cannot

help being loved. Come away while it is time; come home, and have the

merit of self-sacrifice. If your fancy is smitten, it will recover

in its proper sphere. If it costs you pain, you know to whom you have

always hitherto turned in your vexations. Dear Arthur, do not ruin

yourself; only come back to me. Write at once; I cannot bear the

suspense.

‘Your most affectionate sister,

‘THEODORA A. MARTINDALE.’

She made two copies of this letter; one she directed to ‘The Hon. Arthur

Martindale, Grenadier Guards, Winchester;’ the other, ‘Post-Office,

Wrangerton.’ In rather more than a week she was answered:--

‘My Dear Theodora,--You judged rightly that I am no man to trifle, or to

raise expectations which I did not mean to fulfil. My wife and I are at

Matlock for a few days before joining at Winchester.

‘Your affectionate brother,

‘ARTHUR N. MARTINDALE,’

CHAPTER 2

She’s less of a bride than a bairn,

She’s ta’en like a colt from the heather,

With sense and discretion to learn.

A chiel maun be patient and steady

That yokes with a mate in her teens.

Woo’d and Married and A’

JOANNA BAILLIE

A gentleman stood waiting at the door of a house not far from the

Winchester barracks.

‘Is my brother at home, James?’ as the servant gave a start of surprise

and recognition.

‘No, sir; he is not in the house, but Mrs.--; will you walk in? I hope I

see you better, sir.’

‘Much better, thank you. Did you say Mrs. Martindale was at home?’

‘Yes, sir; Mr. Arthur will soon be here. Won’t you walk in?’

‘Is she in the drawing-room?’

‘No, I do not think so, sir. She went up-stairs when she came in.’

‘Very well. I’ll send up my card,’ said he, entering, and the man as he

took it, said, with emphasis, and a pleading look, ‘She is a very nice

young lady, sir,’ then opened a room door.

He suddenly announced, ‘Mr. Martindale,’ and that gentleman unexpectedly

found himself in the presence of a young girl, who rose in such

confusion that he could not look at her as he shook her by the hand,

saying, ‘Is Arthur near home?’

‘Yes--no--yes; at least, he’ll come soon,’ was the reply, as if she

hardly knew what her words were.

‘Were you going out?’ he asked, seeing a bonnet on the sofa.

‘No, thank you,--at least I mean, I’m just come in. He went to speak to

some one, and I came to finish my letter. He’ll soon come,’ said she,

with the rapid ill-assured manner of a school-girl receiving her mamma’s

visitors.

‘Don’t let me interrupt you,’ said he, taking up a book.

‘O no, no, thank you,’ cried she, in a tremor lest she should have been

uncivil. ‘I didn’t mean--I’ve plenty of time. ‘Tis only to my home, and

they have had one by the early post.’

He smiled, saying, ‘You are a good correspondent.’

‘Oh! I must write. Annette and I were never apart before.’

‘Your sister?’

‘Yes, only a year older. We always did everything together.’

He ventured to look up, and saw a bright dew on a soft, shady pair of

dark eyes, a sweet quivering smile on a very pretty mouth, and a glow

of pure bright deep pink on a most delicately fair skin, contrasted with

braids of dark brown hair. She was rather above the ordinary height,

slender, and graceful, and the childish beauty of the form or face and

features surprised him; but to his mind the chief grace was the shy,

sweet tenderness, happy and bright, but tremulous with the recent pain

of the parting from home. With a kindly impulse, he said, ‘You must tell

me your name, Arthur has not mentioned it.’

‘Violet;’ and as he did not appear at once to catch its unusual sound,

she repeated, ‘Violet Helen; we most of us have strange names.’

‘Violet Helen,’ he repeated, with an intonation as if struck, not

unpleasingly, by the second name. ‘Well, that is the case in our family.

My sister has an uncommon name.’

‘Theodora,’ said Violet, pausing, as if too timid to inquire further.

‘Have you only this one sister?’ he said.

‘Six, and one brother,’ said she, in a tone of exulting fondness. A

short silence, and then the joyful exclamation, ‘There he is!’ and she

sprang to the door, leaving it open, as her fresh young voice announced,

full of gratulation, ‘Here’s your brother.’

‘Guileless and unconscious of evil, poor child!’ thought the brother;

‘but I wonder how Arthur likes the news.’

Arthur entered, a fine-looking young man, of three-and-twenty,

dark, bright complexioned, tall, and robust. He showed not the least

consciousness of having offended, and his bride smiled freely as if at

rest from all embarrassment now that she had her protector.

‘Well, John,’ was his greeting, warmly spoken. ‘You here? You look

better. How is the cough?’

‘Better, thank you.’

‘I see I need not introduce you,’ said Arthur, laying his hand on the

arm of his blushing Violet, who shrank up to him as he gave a short

laugh. ‘Have you been here long?’

‘Only about five minutes.’

‘And you are come to stay?’

‘Thank you, if you can take me in for a day or two.’

‘That we can. There is a tolerable spare room, and James will find a

place for Brown. I am glad to see you looking so much better. Have you

got rid of the pain in your side?’

‘Entirely, thank you, for the last few weeks.’

‘How is my mother?’

‘Very well. She enjoyed the voyage extremely.’

‘She won’t concoct another Tour?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said John, gravely.

‘There has SHE,’ indicating his wife, ‘been thinking it her duty to read

the old Italian one, which I never opened in my life. I declare it would

take a dictionary to understand a page. She is scared at the variety of

tongues, and feels as if she was in Babel.’

John was thinking that if he did not know this rattling talk to be a

form of embarrassment, he should take it for effrontery.

‘Shall I go and see about the room?’ half-whispered Violet.

‘Yes, do;’ and he opened the door for her, exclaiming, almost before she

was fairly gone, ‘There! you want no more explanation.’

She is very lovely!’ said John, in a tone full of cordial admiration.

‘Isn’t she?’ continued Arthur, triumphantly. ‘Such an out-of-the-way

style;--the dark eyes and hair, with that exquisite complexion, ivory

fairness,--the form of her face the perfect oval!--what you so seldom

see--and her figure, just the right height, tall and taper! I don’t

believe she could be awkward if she was to try. She’ll beat every

creature hollow, especially in a few years’ time when she’s a little

more formed.’

‘She is very young?’

‘Sixteen on our wedding-day. That’s the beauty of it. If she had been a

day older it would have been a different thing. Not that they could have

spoilt her,--she is a thoroughbred by nature, and no mistake.’

‘How did your acquaintance begin?’

‘This way,’ said Arthur, leaning back, and twirling a chair on one

of its legs for a pivot. ‘Fitzhugh would have me come down for a

fortnight’s fishing to Wrangerton. There’s but one inn there fit to put

a dog to sleep in, and when we got there we found the house turned out

of window for a ball, all the partitions down on the first floor, and

we driven into holes to be regaled with distant fiddle-squeak. So

Fitzhugh’s Irish blood was up for a dance, and I thought I might as well

give in to it, for the floor shook so that there was no taking a cigar

in peace. So you see the stars ordained it, and it is of no use making

a row about one’s destiny,’ concluded Arthur, in a sleepy voice, ceasing

to spin the chair.

‘That was your first introduction?’

‘Ay. After that, one was meeting the Mosses for ever; indeed, we had to

call on the old fellow to get leave for fishing in that water of Lord

St. Erme’s. He has a very pretty sort of little place out of the town

close to the park, and--and somehow the weather was too bright for any

sport, and the stream led by their garden.’

‘I perceive,’ said John.

‘Well, I saw I was in for it, and had nothing for it but to go through

with it. Anything for a quiet life.’

‘A new mode of securing it,’ said John, indignant at his nonchalance.

‘There you don’t display your wonted sagacity,’ returned Arthur coolly.

‘You little know what I have gone through on your account. If you had

been sound-winded, you would have saved me no end of persecution.’

‘You have not avoided speculation as it is,’ John could not help saying.

‘I beg to observe that you are mistaken. Old Moss is as cunning a fox

as ever lived; but I saw his game, and without my own good-will he might

have whistled for me. I saw what he was up to, and let him know it, but

as I was always determined that when I married it should be to please

myself, not my aunt, I let things take their course and saved the row at

home.’

‘I am sure she knew nothing of this.’

‘She? Bless you, poor child. She is as innocent as a lamb, and only

thinks me all the heroes in the world.’

‘She did not know my father was ignorant of it?’

‘Not she. She does not know it to this day.’ John sat thinking; Arthur

twirled the chair, then said, ‘That is the fact. I suppose my aunt had a

nice story for you.’

‘It agreed in the main with yours.’

‘I was unlucky,’ said Arthur, ‘I meant to have brought her home before

my aunt and Theodora had any news of it. I could have got round them

that way, but somehow Theodora got scent of it, and wrote me a furious

letter, full of denunciation--two of them--they hunted me everywhere, so

I saw it was no use going there.’

‘She is much hurt at your letter. I can see that she is, though she

tries to hide her feelings. She was looking quite pale when we came

home, and I can hardly bear to see the struggle to look composed when

you are mentioned.’

This evidently produced some compunction, but Arthur tried to get rid

of it. ‘I am sure there was nothing to take to heart in it--was there,

John?’

‘I don’t know. She had burnt it without letting any one see it; and it

was only through my aunt that we learnt that she had received it.’

‘Well! her temper is up, and I am sorry for it,’ said Arthur. ‘I forget

what I said. I dare say it was no more than she deserved. I got one

of these remonstrances of hers at Wrangerton, on the day before, and

another followed me a couple of days after to Matlock, so I could not

have that going on for ever, and wrote off to put a stop to it. But what

does his lordship say?’

‘Do you wish him to forgive or not?’ said his brother, nearly out of

patience.

‘Of course--I knew he would, he can’t leave us with nothing to live on.

There’s nothing to be done but to go through the forms, and I am quite

ready. Come, what’s the use of looking intensely disgusted? Now you have

seen her, you don’t expect me to profess that I am very sorry, and “will

never do so no more.”’

‘I say nothing against her, but the way of doing it.’

‘So much trouble saved. Besides, I tell you I am ready to make whatever

apology my father likes for a preliminary.’

His brother looked vexed, and dropped the conversation, waiting to see

more of the bride before he should form an opinion.

It was seeing rather than hearing, for she was in much awe of him,

blushed more than she spoke, and seemed taken up by the fear of doing

something inappropriate, constantly turning wistful inquiring looks

towards her husband, to seek encouragement or direction, but it was a

becoming confusion, and by no means lessened the favourable impression.

‘The next morning Arthur was engaged, and left her to be the guide to

the cathedral, whereat she looked shy and frightened, but Mr. Martindale

set himself to re-assure her, and the polished gentleness of his manner

soon succeeded.

They stood on the hill, overlooking the town and the vale of Itchen,

winding away till lost between the green downs that arose behind their

crested neighbour, St. Catherine’s Hill, and in the valley beneath

reposed the gray cathedral’s lengthened nave and square tower, its

lesser likeness, St. Cross, and the pinnacles of the College tower.

‘A very pretty view,’ said Mr. Martindale.

‘The old buildings are very fine, but it is not like our own hills.’

‘No, it is hard on Hampshire downs to compare them to Cumberland

mountains.’

‘But it is so sunny and beautiful,’ said the bright young bride. ‘See

the sunshine on the green meadows, and the haymaking. Oh! I shall always

love it.’ John heard a great deal of happiness in those words. ‘I never

saw a cathedral before,’ she added.

‘Have you been over this one?’

‘Yes, but it will be such a treat to go again. One can’t take a quarter

of it in at once.’

‘No, it takes half a lifetime to learn a cathedral properly.’

‘It is a wonderful thing,’ she said, with the same serious face; then,

changing her tone to one of eagerness, ‘I want to find Bishop Fox’s

tomb, for he was a north-country bishop.’

John smiled. ‘You are perfect in the cathedral history.’

‘I bought a little book about it.’

Her knowledge was, he found, in a girlish state of keen interest, and

not deficient, but what pleased him best was that, as they entered and

stood at the west door, looking down the whole magnificent length of

nave, choir, and chapel, the embowed roof high above, sustained on

massive pillars, she uttered a low murmur of ‘beautiful!’ and there was

a heart-felt expression of awe and reverence on her face, a look as of

rapt thought, chased away in a moment by his eye, and giving place to

quiet pensiveness. After the service they went over the building; but

though eager for information, the gravity did not leave her, nor did she

speak at once when they emerged into the Close.

‘It is very impressive,’ said John.

‘I suppose you have seen a great many cathedrals?’

‘Yes, many foreign ones, and a few English.’

‘I wonder whether seeing many makes one feel the same as seeing one.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I do not think I could ever care for another like this one.’

‘As your first?’

‘Yes; it has made me understand better what books say about churches,

and their being like--’

‘Like?’

She changed her sentence. ‘It makes one think, and want to be good.’

‘It is what all truly beautiful things should do’ said John.

‘Oh! I am glad you say so,’ exclaimed Violet. ‘It is like what Annette

and I have wondered about--I mean why fine statues or pictures, or

anything of that kind, should make one feel half sad and half thoughtful

when one looks at them long.’

‘Perhaps because it is a straining after the only true beauty.’

‘I must tell Annette that. It was she that said it was so,’ said Violet;

‘and we wondered Greek statues gave one that feeling, but I see it must

be the reason.’

‘What statues have you seen?’

‘Those at Wrangerton House. Lord St. Erme is always sending cases

home, and it is such a festival day to go up and see them unpacked, and

Caroline and Annette go and take drawings, and I like to wander about

the rooms, and look at everything,’ said Violet, growing talkative on

the theme of home. ‘There is one picture I like above all, but that is a

sacred subject, so no wonder it should have that feeling in it.’

‘What is it?’

‘It is a Madonna,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘A stiff old-fashioned

one, in beautiful, bright, clear colouring. The Child is reaching out to

embrace a little cross, and his Mother holds him towards it with such a

sad but such a holy face, as if she foreboded all, and was ready to bear

it.’

‘Ah! that Ghirlandajo?’

‘That is the name!’ cried Violet, enchanted. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘I saw Lord St. Erme buy it.’

‘Do you know Lord St. Erme?’ said Violet, rather awe-struck.

‘I used to meet him in Italy.’

‘We wish so much that he would come home. We do so want to see a poet.’

John smiled. ‘Is he never at home?’

‘O, no, he has never been at Wrangerton since his father died, twelve

years ago. He does not like the place, so he only comes to London when

he is in England, and papa goes up to meet him on business, but he is

too poetical to attend to it.’

‘I should guess that.’

‘I have done wrong, said Violet, checking herself; ‘I should not have

said that. Mamma told us that we ought never to chatter about his

concerns. Will you, please, not remember that I said it?’

As far as the outer world is concerned, I certainly will not,’ said John

kindly. ‘You cannot too early learn discretion. So that picture is at

Wrangerton?’

‘I am so glad you liked it.’

‘I liked it well enough to wish for a few spare hundreds, but it seems

to have afforded no more pleasure to him than it has given to me. I am

glad it is gone where there is some one who can appreciate it.’

‘Oh, said Violet,’ Matilda knows all about the best pictures. We don’t

appreciate, you know, we only like.’

‘And your chief liking is for that one?’

‘It is more than liking,’ said Violet; ‘I could call it loving. It is

almost the same to me as Helvellyn. Annette and I went to the house for

one look more my last evening at home. I must tell her that you have

seen it!’ and the springing steps grew so rapid, that her companion had

to say, ‘Don’t let me detain you, I am obliged to go gently up-hill.’

She checked her steps, abashed, and presently, with a shy but very

pretty action, held out her arm, saying timidly, ‘Would it help you to

lean on me? I ought not to have brought you this steep way. Matilda says

I skurry like a school-girl.’

He saw it would console her to let her think herself of service and

accepted of the slender prop for the few steps that remained. He

then went up-stairs to write letters, but finding no ink, came to the

drawing-room to ask her for some. She had only her own inkstand, which

was supplying her letter to Annette, and he sat down at the opposite

side of the table to share it. Her pen went much faster than his.

‘Clifton Terrace, Winchester,’ and ‘My dear father--I came here

yesterday, and was most agreeably surprised,’ was all that he had

indited, when he paused to weigh what was his real view of the merits of

the case, and ponder whether his present feeling was sober judgment, or

the novelty of the bewitching prettiness of this innocent and gracious

creature. There he rested, musing, while from her pen flowed a

description of her walk and of Mr. Martindale’s brother. ‘If they are

all like him, I shall be perfectly happy,’ she wrote. ‘I never saw

any one so kind and considerate, and so gentle; only now and then he

frightens me, with his politeness, or perhaps polish is the right word,

it makes me feel myself rude and uncourteous and awkward. You said

nothing gave you so much the notion of high-breeding as Mr. Martindale’s

ease, especially when he pretended to be rough and talk slang, it was

like playing at it. Now, his brother has the same, without the funny

roughness, but the greatest gentleness, and a good deal of quiet

sadness. I suppose it is from his health, though he is much better now:

he still coughs, and he moves slowly and leans languidly, as if he was

not strong. He is not so tall as his brother, and much slighter in make,

and fairer complexioned, with gray eyes and brown hair, and he looks

sallow and worn and thin, with such white long hands.’

Here raising her eyes to verify her description, she encountered those

of its subject, evidently taking a survey of her for the same purpose.

He smiled, and she was thereby encouraged to break into a laugh, so

girlish and light-hearted, so unconscious how much depended on his

report, that he could not but feel compassionate.

Alarmed at the graver look, she crimsoned, exclaiming, ‘O! I beg your

pardon! It was very rude.’

‘No, no,’ said John; it was absurd!’ and vexed at having checked her

gladsomeness, he added, ‘It is I rather who should ask your pardon, for

looks that will not make a cheerful figure in your description.’

‘Oh, no,’ cried Violet; ‘mamma told me never to say anything against any

of Mr. Martindale’s relations. What have I said?’--as he could not help

laughing--‘Something I could not have meant.’

‘Don’t distress yourself, pray,’ said John, not at all in a bantering

tone. ‘I know what you meant; and it was very wise advice, such as you

will be very glad to have followed.’

With a renewed blush, an ingenuous look, and a hesitating effort, she

said, ‘INDEED, I have been telling them how very kind you are. Mamma

will be so pleased to hear it.’

‘She must have been very sorry to part with you,’ said he, looking at

the fair girl sent so early into the world.

‘Oh, yes!’ and the tears started to the black eyelashes, though a

smile came at the same time; ‘she said I should be such a giddy young

housekeeper, and she would have liked a little more notice.’

‘It was not very long?’ said John, anxious to lead her to give him

information; and she was too young and happy not to be confidential,

though she looked down and glowed as she answered, ‘Six weeks.’

‘And you met at the ball!’

‘Yes, it was very curious;’ and with deepening blushes she went on, the

smile of happiness on her lips, and her eyes cast down. ‘Annette was to

go for the first time, and she would not go without me. Mamma did not

like it, for I was not sixteen then; but Uncle Christopher came, and

said I should, because I was his pet. But I can never think it was such

a short time; it seems a whole age ago.’

‘It must,’ said John, with a look of interest that made her continue.

‘It was very odd how it all happened. Annette and I had no one to dance

with, and were wondering who those two gentlemen were. Captain Fitzhugh

was dancing with Miss Evelyn, and he--Mr. Martindale--was leaning

against the wall, looking on.’

‘I know exactly--with his arms crossed so--’

‘Yes, just so,’ said Violet, smiling; ‘and presently Grace Bennet came

and told Matilda who they were; and while I was listening, oh, I was so

surprised, for there was Albert, my brother, making me look round. Mr.

Martindale had asked to be introduced to us, and he asked me to dance.

I don’t believe I answered right, for I thought he meant Matilda. ‘But,’

said she, breaking off, ‘how I am chattering and hindering you!’ and she

coloured and looked down.

‘Not at all,’ said John; ‘there is nothing I wish more to hear, or that

concerns me more nearly. Anything you like to tell.’

‘I am afraid it is silly,’ half-whispered Violet to herself; but the

recollection was too pleasant not to be easily drawn out; and at her age

the transition is short from shyness to confidence.

‘Not at all silly,’ said John. ‘You know I must wish to hear how I

gained a sister.’

Then, as the strangeness of imagining that this grave, high-bred, more

than thirty-years-old gentleman, could possibly call her by such a

name, set her smiling and blushing in confusion, he wiled on her

communications by saying, ‘Well, that evening you danced with Arthur.’

‘Three times. It was a wonderful evening. Annette and I said, when we

went to bed, we had seen enough to think of for weeks. We did not know

how much more was going to happen.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘I thought much of it when he bowed to me. I little fancied--but there

was another odd coincidence--wasn’t it? In general I never go into the

drawing-room to company, because there are three older; but the day they

came to speak to papa about the fishing, mamma and all the elder ones

were out of the way, except Matilda. I was doing my Roman history

with her, when papa came in and said, we must both come into the

drawing-room.’

‘You saw more of him from that time?’

‘O yes; he dined with us. It was the first time I ever dined with a

party, and he talked so much to me, that Albert began to laugh at me;

but Albert always laughs. I did not care till--till--that day when he

walked with us in the park, coming home from fishing.’

Her voice died away, and her face burnt as she looked down; but a few

words of interest led her on.

‘When I told mamma, she said most likely he thought me a little girl who

didn’t signify; but I did not think he could, for I am the tallest of

them all, and every one says I look as if I was seventeen, at least. And

then she told me grand gentlemen and officers didn’t care what nonsense

they talked. You know she didn’t know him so well then,’ said Violet,

looking up pleadingly.

‘She was very prudent.’

‘She could not know he did not deserve it,’ said the young bride, ready

to resent it for her husband, since his brother did not, then again

excusing her mother. ‘It was all her care for me, dear mamma! She told

me not to think about it; but I could not help it! Indeed I could not!’

‘No, indeed,’ and painful recollections of his own pressed on him, but

he could not help being glad this tender young heart was not left to

pine under disappointment. ‘How long ago was this?’

‘That was six weeks ago--a month before our wedding-day,’ said she,

blushingly. ‘I did wish it could have been longer. I wanted to learn,

how to keep house, and I never could, for he was always coming to take

me to walk in the park. And it all happened so fast, I had no time to

understand it, nor to talk to mamma and Matilda. And then mamma cried so

much! I don’t feel to understand it now, but soon perhaps I shall have

more quiet time. I should like to have waited till Lord Martindale came

home, but they said that could not be, because his leave of absence

would be over. I did wish very much though that Miss Martindale could

have left her aunt to come to our wedding.’

John found reply so difficult, that he was glad to be interrupted by

Arthur’s return. He soon after set out to call upon Captain Fitzhugh,

who had been at Wrangerton with Arthur.

From him more of the circumstances were gathered. Mr. Moss was the

person universally given up to reprobation. ‘A thorough schemer,’ said

the Irish captain. As to the Miss Mosses, they were lady-like girls,

most of them pretty, and everywhere well spoken of. In fact, John

suspected he had had a little flirtation on his own account with some of

them, though he took credit to himself for having warned his friend to

be careful. He ended with a warm-hearted speech, by no means displeasing

to John, hoping he would make the best of it with Lord Martindale, for

after all, she was as pretty a creature as could be seen, one that any

man might be proud of for a daughter-in-law; and to his mind it was

better than leaving the poor girl to break her heart after him when it

had gone so far.

Arthur himself was in a more rational mood that evening. He had at first

tried to hide his embarrassment by bravado; but he now changed his

tone, and as soon as Violet had left the dining-room, began by an abrupt

inquiry, ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Why don’t you write to my father!’

Arthur writhed. ‘I suppose it must come to that,’ he said; ‘but tell me

first the state of things.’

‘You could not expect that there would not be a good deal of

indignation.’

‘Ay, ay! How did you get the news? Did Theodora tell you?’

‘No; there was a letter from Colonel Harrington; and at home they knew

the circumstances pretty correctly through a cousin of Wingfield’s, who

has a curacy in that neighbourhood.’

‘Oh! that was the way Theodora came by the news. I wish he had let alone

telling her,--I could have managed her alone;--but there! it was not in

human nature not to tell such a story, and it did not much matter how it

was done. Well, and my aunt is furious, I suppose, but I’ll take care of

her and of my lady. I only want to know how my father takes it.’

‘He cannot endure the notion of a family feud; but the first step must

come from you.’

‘Very well:--and so you came to set it going. It is very good-natured of

you, John. I depended on you or Theodora for helping me through, but I

did not think you would have come in this way. I am glad you have, for

now you have seen her you can’t say a word against it.’

‘Against her, certainly not. I have made acquaintance with her this

morning, and--and there is everything to interest one in her:’ and then,

as Arthur looked delighted, and was ready to break into a rhapsody--‘Her

simplicity especially. When you write you had better mention her entire

ignorance of the want of sanction. I cannot think how she was kept in

such unconsciousness.’

‘She knows nothing of people’s ways,’ said Arthur. ‘She knew you were

all abroad, and her own family told her it was all right. Her father is

a bit of a tyrant, and stopped the mother’s mouth, I fancy, if she had

any doubts. As to herself, it was much too pretty to see her so happy,

to let her set up her little scruples. She did just as she was told,

like a good child.’

‘O Arthur! you have undertaken a great responsibility!’ exclaimed John.

But Arthur, without seeming to heed, continued, ‘So you see she is quite

clear; but I’ll write, and you shall see if it is not enough to satisfy

my father, before he sets us going respectably.’

‘I can’t answer for anything of that sort.’

‘Something he must do,’ said Arthur, ‘for my allowance is not enough

to keep a cat; and as to the ninth part of old Moss’s pickings and

stealings, if I meant to dirty my fingers with it, it won’t be to be

come by till he is disposed of, and that won’t be these thirty years.’

‘Then, he let you marry without settling anything on her!’

‘He was glad to have her off his hands on any terms. Besides, to tell

you the truth, John, I am convinced he had no notion you would ever come

home again. He knew I saw his game, and dreaded I should be off; so he

and I were both of one mind, to have it over as soon as possible.’

‘I only hope you will make her happy!’ said John, earnestly.

‘Happy!’ exclaimed Arthur, surprised, ‘small doubt of that! What should

prevent me?’

‘I think you will find you must make some sacrifices.’

‘It all depends on my father,’ said Arthur, a little crossly, and taking

his writing-case from another table.

He was so well pleased with his performance that, as soon as he was

alone with Violet, he began, ‘There, I’ve done it! John said it could

not be better, and after the impression you have made, no fear but he

will pacify the great folks.’

She was perplexed. ‘Who?’ said she; ‘not Lord and Lady Martindale? Oh!

surely I have not done anything to displease them.’

‘You must have been ingenious if you had.’

‘Pray, do tell me! Why are they to be pacified? What is the matter? Do

they think they shan’t like me? Ought I to do anything?’

‘My little bird, don’t twitter so fast. You have asked a dozen questions

in a breath.’

‘I wish you would tell me what it means,’ said Violet, imploringly.

‘Well, I suppose you must know sooner or later. It only means that they

are taken by surprise.’

Violet gazed at him in perplexity, then, with a dawning perception, ‘Oh!

surely you don’t mean they did not approve of it.’

‘Nobody asked them,’ said Arthur, carelessly, then as she turned away,

covering her face with her hands, ‘But it is nothing to take to heart

in that way. I am my own master, you know, you silly child, and you had

plenty of consent, and all that sort of thing, to satisfy you, so you

are quite out of the scrape.’

She scarcely seemed to hear.

‘Come, come, Violet, this won’t do,’ he continued, putting his arm round

her, and turning her towards him, while he pulled down her hands. ‘This

is pretty usage. You can’t help it now if you would.’

‘Oh! Mr. Martindale!’

‘Ah! you don’t know what I have saved you. I was not going to see all

that pink paint worn off those cheeks, nor your life and my own wasted

in waiting for them to bring their minds to it. I have seen enough of

that. Poor John there--’

‘How?--what?’ said Violet, with alarmed curiosity.

‘She died,’ said Arthur.

‘How long ago? What was her name?’

‘Helen Fotheringham. She was our old parson’s daughter. They waited

eight years, and she died last summer. I see he wears his mourning

still.’

Violet looked aghast, and spoke low. ‘How very sad! Helen! That was

the reason he looked up when he heard it was my name. Poor Mr. John

Martindale! I saw the crape on his hat. Was that what made him so ill?’

‘It nearly killed him last year, but he never had lungs good for

anything. First, my aunt set my father against it, and when he gave in,

she had a crabbed decrepit old grandfather, and between them they were

the death of her, and almost of him. I never thought he would rally

again.’

‘Only last year?’ exclaimed Violet. ‘O dear! and there have I been

telling him all about--about this spring. I would not have done it, if

I had known. I thought he looked melancholy sometimes. Oh! I wish I had

not.’

‘You did, did you?’ said Arthur, much amused. ‘You chatterbox.’

‘Oh! I am so sorry. I wish--’

‘No, no, he only liked you the better for it. I assure you, Violet,

he almost said so. Then that was what made him lay such stress on your

being an innocent little victim.’

‘Would you be so kind as to explain it to me?’ said Violet, in such

serious distress that he answered with less trifling than usual, ‘There

is nothing to tell. I knew how it would be if I asked leave, so I took

it. That’s all.’

‘And--and surely they didn’t know this at home?’

‘The less said about that the better, Violet,’ said Arthur. ‘You are all

right, you know, and in great favour with John. He can do anything with

my father, and I have written. We shall be at home before the end

of another month, and set going with a decent income in London. A

house--where shall it be? Let me see, he can’t give me less than £1000 a

year, perhaps £1600. I vow I don’t see why it should not be £2000. John

wants no more than he has got, and will never marry now, and there is

only Theodora. I was always my aunt’s favourite, and if you mind what

you are about we shall have our share of the old sugar-planter’s hoards,

better than the Barbuda property--all niggers and losses. I wash my

hands of it, though by rights it should come to the second son.’

Neither understanding nor heeding all this, Violet interrupted by

gasping out, ‘Oh! I am so grieved.’

‘Grieved!--say that again. Grieved to be Mrs. Arthur Martindale?’

‘O no, no; but--’

‘Grieved to have found such a fool as to risk everything, and run

counter to all his friends for the sake of that silly little ungrateful

face?’

She was coaxed out of vexation for the present; but she awoke the next

morning with a feeling of culpability and dread of all the Martindale

family.

John could not understand her altered manner and the timid bashfulness,

greater than even at their first meeting. In fact, the history of his

grief inspired her with a sort of reverential compassion for him,

and the perception of the terms on which she stood, made her laugh

of yesterday seem to her such unbecoming levity, that upon it she

concentrated all her vague feelings of contrition.

When he came as before, to borrow some ink, as she gave it to him her

hand shook, and her colour rose. After standing musing a little while,

she said, mournfully, ‘I am very sorry!’

‘What is the matter?’ said he, kindly.

‘I am so vexed at what I did yesterday!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘For laughing,’ said she, in a tone of distress. ‘Indeed, indeed, I did

not know,’ and though she averted her face, he saw that the crimson

had spread to her neck. He did not at once reply, and she went on

incoherently. ‘I did not know--I could not guess. Of course--I wondered

at it all. I knew I was not fit--but they never told me--O, I am so much

grieved.’

Most soothingly did John say, coming towards her, ‘No, no, you need not

distress yourself. No one can blame you.’

‘But Lord Martindale’--she murmured.

‘He will look on you like a daughter. I know I may promise you that.

Yes, indeed, I have no doubt of it, my dear little sister,’ he repeated,

as she looked earnestly at him. ‘I have told him how entirely you

deserve his kindness and affection, and Arthur has written, such a

letter as will be sure to bring his forgiveness.’

‘Ah!’ said Violet, ‘it is all for my sake. No wonder they should be

angry.’

‘Don’t fancy that any one is angry with you. We all know that you were

ignorant how matters stood.’

‘But I should have done the same if I had known. I could not have helped

it,’ said Violet.

‘I know,’ said John, ‘no one could expect it of you. Arthur told me at

once that you were free from any shadow of blame, and no one thinks of

imputing any.’

‘But are they very much displeased?’ said poor Violet.

‘Of course,’ said John, after a little consideration, ‘it was a shock

to hear of such an important step being taken without my father’s

knowledge; but he is very anxious there should be no estrangement, and I

am sure he will behave as if things had gone on in the usual course. You

may have great confidence in his kindness, Violet.’

She was somewhat reassured, and presently went on--‘I don’t wonder they

are vexed. I know how much beneath him I am, but I could not help that.

Oh! I wish Matilda was here to tell me how to behave, that every one may

not be ashamed of me and angry with him.’

‘Don’t be frightened’ said John, ‘you have pleased two of the family

already; you know, and depend upon it, you will make them all like you

in time as much as I do.’

‘If YOU can overlook that laugh!’ said Violet.

‘I could say I liked you the better for it,’ said John, pleasantly;

‘only I don’t know whether it would be a safe precedent. It has made

us feel well acquainted, I hope. Don’t make a stranger of me,’ he

continued, ‘don’t forget that we are brother and sister.

‘I’m sure,’--and she broke off, unable to express herself; then added,

‘Lady Martindale! I was frightened before at the thought of her, but it

is much worse now.’

‘You must not frighten yourself. You will find out how kind she is

when you come to know her, and soon get over your first strangeness and

shyness.’

‘And there is your sister,’ said Violet; ‘Theodora--I do long to see

her. Is she most like you or your brother?’

‘Remarkably like him. She always makes children very fond of her,’ he

added, pausing to find something safe and yet encouraging; ‘but I

don’t know half as much of her as Arthur does. We have not been as much

together as I could wish.’

‘I see now why she never wrote,’ said Violet, with some shame, and yet

glad to have it accounted for. ‘But she will be sure to help me, and

tell me how to behave. She will want them to be able to bear me for his

sake.’

Without much reply, he applied himself to his letter, feeling that he

could hardly give an impartial judgment. It had been a great effort to

come to visit the bridal pair, but he found himself rewarded in a way he

had not expected by the new pleasure given him by her engaging ways, her

freshness and artlessness rousing him from long-continued depression of

spirits.

After some pondering, she suddenly looked up, and exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll

try!’

‘Try what, Violet!’

‘I’ll try to do my very best!’ said she, cheerfully, though the tears

still were in her eyes. ‘I know I shall make mistakes, and I can never

be like a great lady; but I’ll do the best I can, if they will only bear

with me, and not be angry with him.’

‘I am sure you will do well, with such resolutions.’

‘One thing I am glad of,’ added she, ‘that we came here just now. That

old cathedral! I did not think much before--it was all strange and new,

and I was too happy. But I shall never be so thoughtless now--or if I

am! O, I know,’ she exclaimed, with renewed energy, ‘I’ll buy one of

those pretty white cups with views of the cathedral on them. Did you not

see them in the shop-window? That will put me in mind if I am going to

be careless of all my resolutions.’

‘Resolutions so made are likely to be kept,’ said John, and she

presently left the room, recollecting that her store of biscuits needed

replenishing before luncheon. She was putting on her bonnet to go to

order them, when a doubt seized her whether she was transgressing

the dignities of the Honourable Mrs. Martindale. Matilda had lectured

against vulgarity when Arthur had warned her against ultra-gentility,

and she wavered, till finding there was no one to send, her good sense

settled the question. She walked along, feeling the cares and troubles

of life arising on her, and thinking she should never again be gay and

thoughtless, when she suddenly heard her husband’s voice--‘Ha! whither

away so fast!’ and he and Captain Fitzhugh overtook her.

‘I was going into the town on an errand.’

‘Just the moment I wanted you. There’s a cricket match in the College

Meads. Come along.’

And with her arm in his, Violet’s clouds vanished, and she had no

recollection of anxieties or vexations. The summer sky was overhead, the

river shone blue and bright, the meadows smiled in verdure, the whole

scene was full of animation, and the game, of which she knew nothing,

was made charming by Arthur’s explanations. Nearly an hour had passed

before she bethought herself of suggesting it was almost time to go

home.

‘Presently,’ said Arthur, ‘let us see this fellow out.’

Another ten minutes. ‘Would you look at your watch please? There’s your

brother waiting for his luncheon.’

‘O, ay, ‘tis nearly time,’ and he was again absorbed. She thought he

would not be pleased if she went home alone, nor was she sure of the

way; so she waited in much annoyance, till at length he said, ‘Now,

Violet,’ and they walked briskly home, all that she had endured passing

entirely out of her mind.

She rejoiced to find Mr. Martindale unconscious that it was not far from

two o’clock. He said he had been glad of time to finish his letters,

and Arthur, as his eye fell on one of them, asked, ‘What is Percy doing

now?’

‘He has been in Anatolia, going over some of the places we saw together.

He has made some discoveries about the Crusades, and is thinking of

publishing some of his theories.’

‘Did I not hear of his writing something before this?’

‘Yes; he sent some curious histories of the eastern Jews to some

magazine. They are to be published separately, as they have been

very successful; but I am glad this book is to be what he calls

“self-contained.” He is too good to be wasted upon periodicals.’

Violet, curious to know who was this literary correspondent, glanced

at the letter, and read the address, to ‘Antony Percival Fotheringham,

Esquire, British Embassy, Constantinople.’ She started to find it

was the surname of that lost betrothed of whom she thought with an

undefinable reverent pity.

All speculations were put to flight, however, by the entrance of the

luncheon tray, containing nothing but slices of cold mutton and bread

and butter. With a grievous look of dismay, and lamentable exclamation,

she began to pour out explanations and apologies, but the gentlemen

seemed too intent on conversing about Mr. Fotheringham either to hear

her or to perceive anything amiss.

She remembered black looks and sharp words at home; and feeling

dreadfully guilty at having failed immediately after her resolutions,

she retreated to her room, and there Arthur found her in positive

distress.

‘Oh, I am so much concerned! It was so wrong to forget those biscuits.

Your brother ate nothing else yesterday at luncheon!’

‘Is that all?’ said Arthur, laughing; ‘I thought something had happened

to you. Come, on with your bonnet. Fancy! John will actually walk with

us to St. Cross!’

‘Let me first tell you how it happened. There are a couple of ducks--’

‘Let them be. No housekeeping affairs for me. Whatever happens, keep

your own counsel. If they serve you up a barbecued puppy dog, keep a

cool countenance, and help the company round. No woman good for anything

mentions her bill of fare in civilized society. Mind that.’

Violet was left imagining her apologies a breach of good manners. What

must Mr. Martindale think of her? Silly, childish, indiscreet, giggling,

neglectful, underbred! How he must regret his brother’s having such a

wife!

Yet his pleasant voice, and her husband’s drawing her arm into his,

instantly dispelled all fear and regret, and her walk was delightful.

She was enchanted with St. Cross, delighted with the quadrangle of gray

buildings covered with creepers, the smooth turf and gay flowers;

in raptures at the black jacks, dole of bread and beer, and at the

silver-crossed brethren, and eager to extract all Mr. Martindale’s

information on the architecture and history of the place, lingering over

it as long as her husband’s patience would endure, and hardly able to

tear herself from the quiet glassy stream and green meadows.

‘If Caroline were only here to sketch it!’ she cried, ‘there would be

nothing wanting but that that hill should be Helvellyn.’

‘You should see the mountain convents in Albania,’ said John; and she

was soon charmed with his account of his adventures there with Mr.

Fotheringham. She was beginning to look on him as a perfect mine of

information--one who had seen the whole world, and read everything.

All that was wanting, she said, was Matilda properly to enter into his

conversation.

Another day brought letters, inviting Arthur to bring home his bride for

a fortnight’s visit, as soon as he could obtain leave of absence.

CHAPTER 3

Who is the bride? A simple village maid,

Beauty and truth, a violet in the shade.

She takes their forced welcome and their wiles

For her own truth, and lifts her head and smiles.

They shall not change that truth by any art,

Oh! may her love change them before they part.

She turns away, her eyes are dim with tears,

Her mother’s blessing lingers in her ears,

‘Bless thee, my child,’ the music is unheard,

Her heart grows strong on that remembered word.

FREDERICK TENNYSON

‘Here we are!’ said Arthur Martindale. ‘Here’s the lodge.’ Then looking

in his wife’s face, ‘Why! you are as white as a sheet. Come! don’t be a

silly child. They won’t bite.’

‘I am glad I have seen Mr. John Martindale,’ sighed she.

‘Don’t call him so here. Ah! I meant to tell you you must not “Mr.

Martindale” me here. John is Mr. Martindale.’

‘And what am I to call you?’

‘By my name, of course.’

‘Arthur! Oh! I don’t know how.’

‘You will soon. And if you can help shrinking when my aunt kisses you,

it will be better for us. Ha! there is Theodora.’

‘O, where?’

‘Gone! Fled in by the lower door. I wish I could have caught her.’

Violet held her breath. The grand parterre, laid out in regularly-shaped

borders, each containing a mass of one kind of flower, flaming

elscholchias, dazzling verbenas, azure nemophilas, or sober heliotrope,

the broad walks, the great pile of building, the innumerable windows,

the long ascent of stone steps, their balustrade guarded by sculptured

sphinxes, the lofty entrance, and the tall powdered footmen, gave her

the sense of entering a palace. She trembled, and clung to Arthur’s arm

as they came into a great hall, where a vista of marble pillars, orange

trees, and statues, opened before her; but comfort came in the cordial

brotherly greeting with which John here met them.

‘She is frightened out of her senses,’ said Arthur.

John’s reply was an encouraging squeeze of the hand, which he retained,

leading her, still leaning on her husband’s arm, into a room, where an

elderly gentleman was advancing; both her hands were placed within his

by her supporters on either side, and he kissed her, gravely saying,

‘Welcome, my dear.’ He then presented her to a formal embrace from a

tall lady; and Arthur saying, ‘Well, Theodora! here, Violet,’ again took

her hand, and put it into another, whose soft clasp was not ready, nor

was the kiss hearty.

Presently Violet, a little reassured by Lord Martindale’s gentle tones,

ventured on a survey. She was on the same sofa with Lady Martindale; but

infinitely remote she felt from that form like an eastern queen,

richly dressed, and with dark majestic beauty, whose dignity was rather

increased than impaired by her fifty years. She spoke softly to the shy

stranger, but with a condescending tone, that marked the width of the

gulf, and Violet’s eyes, in the timid hope of sympathy, turned towards

the sister.

But, though the figure was younger, and the dress plainer, something

seemed to make her still more unapproachable. There was less beauty,

less gentleness, and the expression of her countenance had something

fixed and stern. Now and then there was a sort of agitation of the

muscles of the face, and her eyes were riveted on Arthur, excepting that

if he looked towards her, she instantly looked out of the window. She

neither spoke nor moved: Violet thought that she had not given her a

single glance, but she was mistaken, Theodora was observing, and forming

a judgment.

This wife, for whose sake Arthur had perilled so much, and inflicted

such acute pain on her, what were her merits? A complexion of lilies

and roses, a head like a steel engraving in an annual, a face expressing

nothing but childish bashfulness, a manner ladylike but constrained, and

a dress of studied simplicity worse than finery.

Lady Martindale spoke of dressing, and conducted her meek shy visitor

up a grand staircase, along a broad gallery, into a large bed-room, into

which the western sun beamed with a dazzling flood of light.

The first use Violet made of her solitude was to look round in amaze at

the size and luxury of her room, wondering if she should ever feel at

home where looking-glasses haunted her with her own insignificance. She

fled from them, to try to cool her cheeks at the open window, and gaze

at the pleasure-ground, which reminded her of prints of Versailles,

by the sparkling fountain rising high in fantastic jets from its stone

basin, in the midst of an expanse of level turf, bordered by terraces

and stone steps, adorned with tall vases of flowers. On the balustrade

stood a peacock, bending his blue neck, and drooping his gorgeous train,

as if he was ‘monarch of all he surveyed.’

Poor Violet felt as if no one but peacocks had a right here; and when

she remembered that less than twelve weeks ago the summit of her wishes

had been to go to the Wrangerton ball, it seemed to be a dream, and she

shut her eyes, almost expecting to open them on Annette’s face, and the

little attic at home. But then, some one else must have been the fabric

of a vision! She made haste to unclose them, and her heart bounded at

thinking that he was born to all this! She started with joy as his step

approached, and he entered the room.

‘Let us look at you,’ he said. ‘Have you your colour? Ay, plenty of it.

Are you getting tamer, you startled thing?’

‘I hope I have not been doing wrong. Lady Martindale asked me to have

some tea. I never heard of such a thing before dinner, but I thought

afterwards it might have been wrong to refuse. Was it!’

He laughed. ‘Theodora despises nothing so much as women who drink tea in

the middle of the day.’

‘I am so afraid of doing what is unladylike. Your mother offered me

a maid, but I only thought of not giving trouble, and she seemed so

shocked at my undoing my own trunk.’

‘No, no,’ said he, much diverted; ‘she never thinks people can help

themselves. She was brought up to be worshipped. Those are her West

Indian ways. But don’t you get gentility notions; Theodora will never

stand them, and will respect you for being independent. However, don’t

make too little of yourself, or be shy of making the lady’s maids wait

on you. There are enough of them--my mother has two, and Theodora a

French one to her own share.

‘I should not like any one to do my hair, if that is not wrong.’

‘None of them all have the knack with it you have, and it is lucky, for

they cost as much as a hunter.’

‘Indeed, I will try to be no expense.’

‘I say, what do you wear this evening?’

‘Would my white muslin be fit?’

‘Ay, and the pink ribbons in your hair, mind. You will not see my aunt

till after dinner, when I shall not be there; but you must do the best

you can, for much depends on it. My aunt brought my mother up, and

is complete master here. I can’t think how my father’--and he went on

talking to himself, as he retreated into his dressing-room, so that all

Violet heard was, ‘wife’s relations,’ and ‘take warning.’

He came back to inspect her toilette and suggest adornments, till,

finding he was overdoing them, he let her follow her own taste, and was

so satisfied with the result, that he led her before the glass, saying,

‘There. Mrs. Martindale, that’s what I call well got up. Don’t you?’

‘I don’t mind seeing myself when I have you to look at.’

‘You think we make a handsome couple? Well, I am glad you are tall--not

much shorter than Theodora, after all.’

‘But, oh! how shall I behave properly all dinner-time? Do make a sign if

I am doing anything wrong.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘I know I shall make mistakes. Matilda says I shall. I had a letter from

her this morning to warn me against “solecisms in etiquette,” and to

tell me to buy the number of the “Family Friend” about dinner-parties,

but I had not time, and I am sure I shall do wrong.’

‘You would be much more likely, if you had Matilda and her prig of a

book,’ said Arthur, between anger and diversion. ‘Tell her to mind her

own business--she is not your mistress now, and she shall not teach you

affectation. Why, you silly child, should I have had you if you had not

been “proper behaved”? You have nothing to do but to remember you are my

wife, and as good as any of them, besides being twenty times prettier.

Now, are you ready?’

‘Yes, quite; but how shall I find my way here again?’

‘See, it is the third door from the stairs. The rest on this side are

spare rooms, except where you see those two green baize doors at the

ends. They lead to passages, the wings on the garden side. In this one

my aunt’s rooms are, and Miss Piper, her white nigger, and the other is

Theodora’s.’

‘And all these opposite doors?’

‘Those four belong to my father and mother; these two are John’s. His

sitting-room is the best in the house. The place is altogether too big

for comfort. Our little parlour at Winchester was twice as snug as that

overgrown drawing-room down-stairs.’

‘Dear little room! I hope we may go back to it. But what a view from

this end window! That avenue is the most beautiful thing I have seen

yet. It looks much older than the house.’

‘It is. My father built the house, but we were an old county family long

before. The old Admiral, the first lord, had the peerage settled on my

father, who was his nephew and head of the family, and he and my Aunt

Nesbit having been old friends in the West Indies, met at Bath, and

cooked up the match. He wanted a fortune for his nephew, and she wanted

a coronet for her niece! I can’t think how she came to be satisfied with

a trumpery Irish one. You stare, Violet; but that is my aunt’s notion

of managing, and the way she meant to deal with all of us. She has

monstrous hoards of her own, which she thinks give her a right to rule.

She has always given out that she meant the chief of them for me, and

treated me accordingly, but I am afraid she has got into a desperately

bad temper now, and we must get her out of it as best we can.’

This not very encouraging speech was made as they stood looking from the

gallery window. Some one came near, and Violet started. It was a

very fashionably-dressed personage, who, making a sort of patronizing

sweeping bend, said, ‘I was just about to send a person to assist Mrs.

Martindale. I hope you will ring whenever you require anything. The

under lady’s maid will be most happy to attend you.’

‘There,’ said Arthur, as the lady passed on, ‘that is the greatest

person in the house, hardly excepting my aunt. That is Miss Altisidora

Standaloft, her ladyship’s own maid.’

Violet’s feelings might somewhat resemble those of the Emperor Julian

when he sent for a barber, and there came a count of the empire.

‘She must have wanted to look at you,’ proceeded Arthur, ‘or she would

never have treated us with such affability. But come along, here is

Theodora’s room.’

It was a cheerful apartment, hung with prints, with somewhat of a

school-room aspect, and in much disorder. Books and music lay confused

with blue and lilac cottons, patterns, scissors, and papers covered

with mysterious dots; there were odd-looking glass bottles on the

mantel-shelf with odder looking things in them, and saucers holding what

Violet, at home, would have called messes; the straw-bonnet lay on the

floor, and beside it the Scotch terrier, who curled up his lips, showed

his white teeth, and greeted the invaders with a growl, which became

a bark as Arthur snapped his fingers at him. ‘Ha! Skylark, that is bad

manners. Where’s your mistress? Theodora!’

At the call, the door of the inner room opened, but only a little dark

damsel appeared, saying, in a French accent, that Miss Martindale was

gone to Miss Gardner’s room.

‘Is Miss Gardner here?’ exclaimed Arthur.

‘She is arrived about half an hour ago,’ was the reply. Arthur uttered

an impatient interjection, and Violet begged to know who Miss Gardner

was.

‘A great friend of Theodora’s. I wish she would have kept further off

just now, not that she is not a good-natured agreeable person enough,

but I hate having strangers here. There will be no good to be got out

of Theodora now! There are two sisters always going about staying at

places, the only girls Theodora ever cared for; and just now, Georgina,

the youngest, who used to be a wild fly-away girl, just such as Theodora

herself, has gone and married one Finch, a miserly old rogue, that

scraped up a huge fortune in South America, and is come home old enough

for her grandfather. What should possess Theodora to bring Jane here

now? I thought she would never have forgiven them. But we may as well

come down. Here’s the staircase for use and comfort.’

‘And here is the hall! Oh!’ cried Violet, springing towards it, ‘this

really is the Dying Gladiator. Just like the one at Wrangerton!’

‘What else should he be like!’ said Arthur, laughing. ‘Every one who

keeps a preserve of statues has the same.’

She would have liked to linger, recognizing her old friends, and

studying this museum of wonders, inlaid marble tables, cases of stuffed

humming birds, and stands of hot-house plants, but Arthur hurried her

on, saying it was very ill-contrived, a draught straight through it, so

that nothing warmed it. He opened doors, giving her a moment’s glimpse

of yellow satin, gilding and pictures, in the saloon, which was next

to the drawing-room where she had been received, and beyond it the

dining-room. Opposite, were the billiard-room, a library, and Lord

Martindale’s study; and ‘Here,’ said he, ‘is where Theodora and I keep

our goods. Ha!’ as he entered, ‘you here, Theodora! Hallo! what’s this?

A lot of wooden benches with their heels in the air. How is this? Have

you been setting up a charity school in my room?’

‘I found the children by the wood were too far from school, so I have

been teaching them here. I came to see about taking the benches out of

your way. I did not expect you here.’

‘I was showing her our haunts. See, Violet, here’s my double barrel, and

here are the bows. I forget if you can shoot.’

‘Matilda and Caroline do.’

‘You shall learn. We will have the targets out. Where’s the light bow

you used to shoot with, Theodora?’

‘It is somewhere,’ said Theodora, without alacrity; ‘no, I remember, I

gave it to Mr. Wingfield’s little nephew.’

‘Unlucky! Yours will never do for those little fingers.’ Theodora

abruptly turned to Violet, and said,’ She must be tired of standing

there.’ Violet smiled with pleasure at being addressed, thanked, and

disclaimed fatigue.

‘She is of your sort, and does not know how to be tired,’ said Arthur.

‘I wondered to hear your bosom friend was here. What brings her about

now?’

‘If you call her my bosom friend, you answer the question,’ was the

proud reply, and it provoked him to carry on the teasing process.

‘I thought she was not THE friend,’ he continued; ‘I ought to have

congratulated you on THE friend’s capture. A goldfinch of the South

American breed is a rare bird.’

Theodora drew up her head, and impetuously heaped some school-books

together. ‘Have you seen the pretty caged bird?’

‘Never.’

In a soft tone, contrasting with the manner of his last sayings, Arthur

invited his wife to come out on the lawn, and walked away with her.

She was surprised and uneasy at what had taken place, but could not

understand it, and only perceived he would prefer her not seeming to

notice it.

It was all the strange influence of temper. In truth, Theodora’s whole

heart was yearning to the brother, whom she loved beyond all others;

while on the other hand his home attachments centred on her, and he had

come to seek her with the fixed purpose of gaining her good-will and

protection for his young bride. But temper stepped between. Whether it

began from Theodora’s jealousy of the stranger, or from his annoyance

at her cold haughty manner to his wife, he was vexed, and retaliated by

teasing; she answered coldly, in proud suffering at being taunted on a

subject which gave her much pain, and then was keenly hurt at his tone

and way of leaving her, though in fact she was driving him away. She

stood leaning against a pillar in the hall, looking after him with eyes

brimming with tears; but on hearing a step approach, she subdued all

signs of emotion, and composedly met the eye of her eldest brother. She

could not brook that any one should see her grief, and she was in no

mood for his first sentences: ‘What are you looking at?’ and seeing the

pair standing by the fountain, ‘Well, you don’t think I said too much in

her favour?’

‘She is very pretty,’ said Theodora, as if making an admission.

‘It is a very sweet expression. Even as a stranger, it would be

impossible not to be interested in her, if only for the sake of her

simplicity.’

Theodora glanced at Violet’s dress, and at the attitude in which she was

looking up, as Arthur gathered some roses from a vase; then turned her

eyes on John’s thoughtful and melancholy countenance, and thought within

herself, that every man, however wise, can be taken in by a fair face,

and by airs and graces.

‘Poor thing,’ continued John, ‘it must be very trying; you don’t see

her to advantage, under constraint, but a few kind words will set her at

ease.’

He paused for an answer, but not obtaining one, said, ‘I did not know

you expected Miss Gardner to-day.’

She surprised him, by answering with asperity, prompted by a second

attack on this subject, ‘I can’t help it. I could not put her off,--what

objection can there be?’

‘Nothing, nothing,--I meant nothing personal. It was only that I would

have avoided having spectators of a family meeting like this. I am

afraid of first impressions.’

‘My impressions are nothing at all.’

‘Well, I hope you will make friends--I am sure she will repay your

kindness.’

‘Do you know that you are standing in a tremendous draught?’ interrupted

Theodora.

‘And there’s my mother on the stairs. I shall go and call them in; come

with me, Theodora.’

But she had turned back and joined her mother.

He found Violet all smiles and wonder: but she relapsed into constraint

and alarm as soon as she entered the drawing-room. Miss Gardner

presently came down,--a lady about five or six and twenty, not handsome,

but very well dressed, and with an air of ease and good society, as if

sure of her welcome. As Violet listened to her lively conversation with

Lord Martindale, she thought how impossible it was that she should ever

be equally at home there.

The grandeur of the dining-room was another shock, and the varieties of

courses revived her remorse for the cold mutton. She sat between Lord

Martindale and John, who talked to her as soon as he thought she

could bear the sound of her own voice, and, with Arthur opposite, her

situation was delightful compared to the moment when, without either

of her protectors, she must go with the imperial Lady Martindale to

encounter the dreaded aunt.

When the time came, Arthur held open the door, and she looked up in

his face so piteously, that he smiled, and whispered ‘You goose,’ words

which encouraged her more than their tenor would seem to warrant.

Warm as it was, the windows were shut, and a shawl was round Mrs.

Nesbit’s tall, bending, infirm figure. Violet dared not look up at her,

and thought, with mysterious awe, of the caution not to shrink if she

were kissed, but it was not needed, Lady Martindale only said, ‘My aunt,

Mrs. Arthur Martindale,’ and Mrs. Nesbit, half rising, just took her

hand into her long skinny fingers, which felt cold, damp, and uncertain,

like the touch of a lizard.

Violet was conscious of being scanned from head to foot--nay, looked

through and through by black eyes that seemed to pierce like a dart from

beneath their shaggy brows, and discover all her ignorance, folly, and

unfitness for her position. Colouring and trembling, she was relieved

that there was another guest to call off Mrs. Nesbit’s attention, and

watched the readiness and deference with which Miss Gardner replied to

compliments on her sister’s marriage; and yet they were not comfortable

congratulations, thought Violet; at least they made her cheeks burn, and

Theodora stood by looking severe and melancholy; but Miss Gardner seemed

quite to enter into the sarcastic tone, and almost to echo it, as if to

humour the old lady.

‘Your sister acted very sensibly,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, with emphasis.

‘Very good management; though Theodora was somewhat taken by surprise.’

‘Yes, I know we used her very ill,’ said Miss Gardner; ‘but people have

unaccountable fancies about publishing those matters. Mr. Finch was

in haste, and we all felt that it was best to have it over, so it was

talked of a very short time previously.’

‘Speed is the best policy, as we all know,’ said Mrs. Nesbit; and Violet

felt as if there was a flash of those eyes upon her, and was vexed with

herself for blushing. She thought Miss Gardner’s answer good-naturedly

unconscious:

‘Oh, people always shake together best afterwards. There is not the

least use in a prolonged courtship acquaintance. It is only a field for

lovers’ quarrels, and pastime for the spectators.’

‘By the bye,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, ‘what is become of your cousin, Mrs.

George Gardner’s son?’

‘Mark! Oh, he is abroad. Poor fellow, I wish we could find something for

him to do. Lady Fotheringham asked her nephew, Percival, if he could not

put him in the way of getting some appointment.’

‘Failed, of course,’ said Mrs. Nesbit.

‘Yes; I never expected much. Those diplomats are apt to be afraid

of having their heels trodden upon; but it is a great pity. He is so

clever, and speaks so many languages. We hope now that Mr. Finch may

suggest some employment in America.’

‘Highly advisable.’

‘I assure you poor Mark would be glad of anything. He is entirely

steadied now; but there are so few openings for men of his age.’

An interruption here occurring, Miss Gardner drew off to the window.

Theodora sat still, until her friend said, ‘How lovely it is! Do you

ever take a turn on the terrace after dinner?’

Theodora could not refuse. Violet wished they had asked her to join

them; but they went out alone, and for some moments both were silent.

Miss Gardner first spoke, remarking, ‘A beautiful complexion.’

There was a cold, absent assent; and she presently tried again, ‘Quite

a lady,’ but with the same brief reply. Presently, however, Theodora

exclaimed, ‘Jane, you want me to talk to you; I cannot, unless you unsay

that about Percy Fotheringham. He is not to be accused of baseness.’

‘I beg your pardon, Theodora, dear; I have no doubt his motives were

quite conscientious, but naturally, you know, one takes one’s own

cousin’s part, and it was disappointing that he would not help to give

poor Mark another chance.’

‘That is no reason he should be accused of petty jealousies.’

‘Come, you must not be so very severe and dignified. Make some allowance

for poor things who don’t know how to answer Mrs. Nesbit, and say what

first occurs. Indeed, I did not know you were so much interested in

him.’

‘I am interested in justice to the innocent.’

‘There! don’t annihilate me. I know he is a very superior person, the

pride of Lady Fotheringham’s heart. Of course he would have recommended

Mark if he had thought it right; I only hope he will find that he was

mistaken.’

‘If he was, he will be the first to own it.’

‘Then I am forgiven, am I? And I may ask after you after this long

solitary winter. We thought a great deal of you.’

‘I needed no pity, thank you. I was well off with my chemistry and the

parish matters. I liked the quiet time.’

‘I know you do not care for society.’

‘My aunt is a very amusing companion. Her clear, shrewd observation is

like a book of French memoirs.’

‘And you are one of the few not afraid of her.’

‘No. We understand each other, and it is better for all parties that she

should know I am not to be interfered with. Positively I think she has

been fonder of me since we measured our strength.’

‘There is a mutual attachment in determined spirits,’ said Miss Gardner.

‘I think there must be. I fancy it is resolution that enables me to go

further with her than any one else can without offending her.’

‘She is so proud of you.’

‘What is strange is, that she is prouder of me than of mamma, who is so

much handsomer and more accomplished,--more tractable, too, and making a

figure and sensation that I never shall.’

‘Mrs. Nesbit knows better,’ said Miss Gardner, laughing.

‘Don’t say so. If John’s illness had not prevented my coming out last

year, I might have gone into the world like other girls. Now I see the

worth of a young lady’s triumph--the disgusting speculation! I detest

it.’

‘Ah! you have not pardoned poor Georgina.’

‘Do you wish for my real opinion?’

‘Pray let me hear it.’

‘Georgina had a grand course open to her, and she has shrunk from it.’

‘A grand course!’ repeated Jane, bewildered.

‘Yes, honest poverty, and independence. I looked to her to show the

true meaning of that word. I call it dependence to be so unable to

exist without this world’s trash as to live in bondage for its sake.

Independence is trusting for maintenance to our own head and hands.’

‘So you really would have had us--do what? Teach music?--make lace?’

‘If I had been lucky enough to have such a fate, I would have been a

village school-mistress.’

‘Not even a governess?’

‘I should like the village children better; but, seriously, I would

gladly get my own bread, and I did believe Georgina meant to wait to be

of age and do the same.’

‘But, Theodora, seriously! The loss of position.’

‘I would ennoble the office.’

‘With that head that looks as if it was born in the purple, you would

ennoble anything, dear Theodora; but for ordinary--’

‘All that is done in earnest towards Heaven and man ennobles and is

ennobled.’

‘True; but it needs a great soul and much indifference to creature

comforts. Now, think of us, at our age, our relations’ welcome worn

out--’

‘I thought you were desired to make Worthbourne your home.’

‘Yes, there was no want of kindness there; but, my dear, if you could

only imagine the dulness. It was as if the whole place had been potted

and preserved in Sir Roger de Coverley’s time. No neighbours, no

club-books, no anything! One managed to vegetate through the morning by

the help of being deputy to good Lady Bountiful; but oh! the evenings!

Sir Antony always asleep after tea, and no one allowed to speak, lest

he should be awakened, and the poor, imbecile son bringing out the

draught-board, and playing with us all in turn. Fancy that, by way

of enlivenment to poor Georgina after her nervous fever! I was quite

alarmed about her,--her spirits seemed depressed for ever into apathy!’

‘I should think them in more danger now.’

‘Oh! her Finch is a manageable bird. Her life is in her own power, and

she will have plenty of all that makes it agreeable. It is winning a

home instead of working for it; that is the common sense view--’

‘Winning it by the vow to love, honour, and obey, when she knows she

cannot?’

‘Oh, she may in the end. He is tame, and kind, and very much obliged. My

dear Theodora, I could feel with you once; but one learns to see things

in a different light as one lives on. After all, I have not done the

thing.’

‘If you did not promote it, you justify it.’

‘May I not justify my sister to her friend?’

‘I do no such thing. I do not justify Arthur. I own that he has acted

wrongly; but--No, I cannot compare the two cases. His was silly and bad

enough, but it was a marriage, not a bargain.’

‘Well, perhaps one may turn out as well as the other.’

‘I am afraid so,’ sighed Theodora.

‘It has been a sad grief to you, so fond of your brother as you were.’

‘Not that I see much harm in the girl,’ continued Theodora; ‘but--’

‘But it is the loss of your brother! Do you know, I think it likely he

may not be as much lost to you as if he had chosen a superior person.

When the first fancy is over, such a young unformed thing as this cannot

have by any means the influence that must belong to you. You will find

him recurring to you as before.’

Meanwhile, Violet sat formal and forlorn in the drawing-room, and Lady

Martindale tried to make conversation. Did she play, or draw? Matilda

played, Caroline drew, she had been learning; and in horror of a request

for music, she turned her eyes from the grand piano. Was she fond of

flowers? O, yes! Of botany? Caroline was. A beautifully illustrated

magazine of horticulture was laid before her, and somewhat relieved her,

whilst the elder ladies talked about their fernery, in scientific terms,

that sounded like an unknown tongue.

Perceiving that a book was wanted, she sprang up, begging to be told

where to find it; but the answer made her fear she had been officious.

‘No, my dear, thank you, do not trouble yourself.’

The bell was rung, and a message sent to ask Miss Piper for the book. A

small, pale, meek lady glided in, found the place, and departed; while

Violet felt more discomposed than ever, under the sense of being a

conceited little upstart, sitting among the grand ladies, while such a

person was ordered about.

Ease seemed to come back with the gentlemen. Lord Martindale took her

into the great drawing-room, to show her Arthur’s portrait, and the

show of the house--Lady Martindale’s likeness, in the character of Lalla

Rookh--and John began to turn over prints for her, while Arthur devoted

himself to his aunt, talking in the way that, in his schoolboy days,

would have beguiled from her sovereigns and bank-notes. However, his

civilities were less amiably received, and he met with nothing but hits

in return. He hoped that her winter had not been dull.

Not with a person of so much resource as his sister. Solitude with her

was a pleasure--it showed the value of a cultivated mind.

‘She never used to be famous for that sort of thing,’ said Arthur.

‘Not as a child, but the best years for study come later. Education is

scarcely begun at seventeen.’

‘Young ladies would not thank you for that maxim.’

‘Experience confirms me in it. A woman is nothing without a few years

of grown-up girlhood before her marriage; and, what is more, no one can

judge of her when she is fresh from the school-room. Raw material!’

Arthur laughed uneasily.

‘There is Mrs. Hitchcock--you know her?’

‘What, the lady that goes out with the hounds, and rides steeple-chases?

I saw her ride through Whitford to-day, and she stared so hard into the

carriage, that poor Violet pulled down her veil till we were out of the

town.’

‘Well, she was married out of a boarding-school, came here the meekest,

shyest, little shrinking creature, always keeping her eyelids cast down,

and colouring at a word.’

Arthur thought there was a vicious look at his bride’s bending head, but

he endured by the help of twisting the tassel of the sofa cushion, and

with another laugh observed, ‘that all the lady’s shyness had been used

up before he knew her.’

‘Then there was Lord George Wilmot, who ran away with a farmer’s

daughter. She made quite a sensation; she was quite presentable, and

very pretty and well-mannered--but such a temper! They used to be called

George and the Dragon. Poor man! he had the most subdued air--’

‘There was a son of his in the Light Dragoons--’ began Arthur, hoping to

lead away the conversation, ‘a great heavy fellow.’

‘Exactly so; it was the case with all of them. The Yorkshire farmer

showed in all their ways, and poor Lord George was so ashamed of it,

that it was positively painful to see him in company with his daughters.

And yet the mother was thought ladylike.’

Arthur made a sudden observation on John’s improved looks.

‘Yes. Now that unhappy affair is over, we shall see him begin life

afresh, and form new attachments. It is peculiarly important that he

should be well married. Indeed, we see every reason to hope that--’ And

she looked significant and triumphant.

‘Much obliged!’ thought Arthur. ‘Well! there’s no use in letting oneself

be a target for her, while she is in this temper. I’ll go and see what I

can make of her ladyship. What new scheme have they for John? Rickworth,

eh?’

He was soon at his mother’s side, congratulating her on John’s recovery,

and her looks were of real satisfaction. ‘I am glad you think him

better! He is much stronger, and we hope this may be the period when

there is a change of constitution, and that we may yet see him a healthy

man.’

‘Has he been going out, or seeing more people of late?’

‘No--still keeping in his rooms all the morning. He did drive one day to

Rickworth with your father, otherwise he has been nowhere, only taking

his solitary ride.’

‘I never was more surprised than to see him at Winchester!’

‘It was entirely his own proposal. You could not be more surprised than

we were; but it has been of much benefit to him by giving his thoughts a

new channel.’

‘He likes her, too,’ said Arthur.

‘I assure you he speaks most favourably of her.’

‘What did he say?’ cried Arthur, eagerly.

‘He said she was a lady in mind and manners, and of excellent

principles, but he declared he would not tell us all he thought of her,

lest we should be disappointed.’

‘Are you?’ said Arthur, with a bright, confident smile.

‘By no means. He had not prepared me for so much beauty, and such

peculiarly graceful movements. My drawing days are nearly past, or I

should be making a study of her.’

‘That’s right, mother!’ cried Arthur. ‘What a picture she would make.

Look at her now! The worst of it is, she has so many pretty ways, one

does not know which to catch her in!’

Perhaps Lady Martindale caught her aunt’s eye, for she began to qualify

her praise. ‘But, Arthur, excuse me, if I tell you all. There is nothing

amiss in her manners, but they are quite unformed, and I should dread

any contact with her family.’

‘I never mean her to come near them,’ said Arthur. ‘Though, after all,

they are better than you suppose. She has nothing to unlearn, and will

pick up tone and ease fast enough.’

‘And for education? Is she cultivated, accomplished?’

‘Every man to his taste. You never could get learning to stick on me,

and I did not look for it. She knows what other folks do, and likes

nothing better than a book. She is good enough for me; and you must take

to her, mother, even if she is not quite up to your mark in the ologies.

Won’t you? Indeed, she is a good little Violet!’

Arthur had never spoken so warmly to his mother, and the calm, inanimate

dignity of her face relaxed into a kind response, something was faltered

of ‘every wish to show kindness;’ and he had risen to lead his wife to

her side, when he perceived his aunt’s bead-like eyes fixed on them,

and she called out to ask Lady Martindale if Lady Elizabeth Brandon had

returned.

The young ladies came in late; and Arthur in vain tried to win a look

from his sister, who kept eyes and tongue solely for Miss Gardner’s

service.

At night, as, after a conversation with his brother, he was crossing the

gallery to his own room, he met her.

‘Teaching my wife to gossip?’ said he, well pleased.

‘No, I have been with Jane.’

‘The eternal friendship!’ exclaimed he, in a changed tone.

‘Good night!’ and she passed on.

He stood still, then stepping after her, overtook her.

‘Theodora!’ he said, almost pleadingly.

‘Well!’

He paused, tried to laugh, and at last said, rather awkwardly, ‘I want

to know what you think of her?’

‘I see she is very pretty.’

‘Good night!’ and his receding footsteps echoed mortification.

Theodora looked after him. ‘Jane is right,’ she said to herself, ‘he

cares most for me. Poor Arthur! I must stand alone, ready to support him

when his toy fails him.’

CHAPTER 4

They read botanic treatises

And works of gardeners through there,

And methods of transplanting trees

To look as if they grew there.

--A. TENNYSON

Theodora awoke to sensations of acute grief. Her nature had an almost

tropical fervour of disposition; and her education having given her few

to love, her ardent affections had fastened upon Arthur with a vehemence

that would have made the loss of the first place in his love painful,

even had his wife been a person she respected and esteemed, but when she

saw him, as she thought, deluded and thrown away on this mere beauty,

the suffering was intense.

The hope Jane Gardner had given her, of his return to her, when he

should have discovered his error, was her first approach to comfort, and

seemed to invigorate her to undergo the many vexations of the day, in

the sense of neglect, and the sight of his devotion to his bride.

She found that, much as she had dreaded it, she had by no means realized

the discomposure she secretly endured when they met at breakfast, and

he, remembering her repulse, was cold--she was colder; and Violet, who,

in the morning freshness, was growing less timid, shrank back into awe

of her formal civility.

In past days it had been a complaint that Arthur left her no time to

herself. Now she saw the slight girlish figure clinging to his arm as

they crossed the lawn, and she knew they were about to make the tour of

their favourite haunts, she could hardly keep from scolding Skylark back

when even he deserted her to run after them; and only by a very strong

effort could she prevent her mind from pursuing their steps, while

she was inflicting a course of Liebig on Miss Gardner, at the especial

instance of that lady, who, whatever hobby her friends were riding,

always mounted behind.

Luncheon was half over, when the young pair came in, flushed with

exercise and animation; Arthur talking fast about the covers and the

game, and Violet in such high spirits, that she volunteered a history of

their trouble with Skylark, and ‘some dear little partridges that could

not get out of a cart rut.’

In the afternoon Miss Gardner, ‘always so interested in schools and

village children,’ begged to be shown ‘Theodora’s little scholars,’ and

walked with her to Brogden, the village nearly a mile off. They set off

just as the old pony was coming to the door for Violet to have a riding

lesson; and on their return, at the end of two hours, found Arthur still

leading, letting go, running by the side, laughing and encouraging.

‘Fools’ paradise!’ thought Theodora, as she silently mounted the steps.

‘That is a remarkably pretty little hat,’ said Miss Gardner. Theodora

made a blunt affirmative sound.

‘No doubt she is highly pleased to sport it. The first time of wearing

anything so becoming must be charming at her age. I could envy her.’

‘Poor old pony!’ was all Theodora chose to answer.

‘There, they are leaving off,’ as Arthur led away the pony, and Violet

began to ascend the steps, turning her head to look after him.

Miss Gardner came to meet her, asking how she liked riding.

‘Oh, so much, thank you.’

‘You are a good scholar?’

‘I hope I shall be. He wants me to ride well. He is going to take me

into the woods to-morrow.’

‘We have been admiring your hat,’ said Miss Gardner. ‘It is exactly what

my sister would like. Have you any objection to tell where you bought

it?’

‘I’ll ask him: he gave it to me.’

‘Dressing his new doll,’ thought Theodora; but as Violet had not been

personally guilty of the extravagance, she thought amends due to her for

the injustice, and asked her to come into the gardens.

‘Thank you, I should like it; but will he, will Mr.--will Arthur know

what has become of me?’

‘He saw you join us,’ said Theodora, thinking he ought to be relieved to

have her taken off his hands for a little while.

‘Have you seen the gardens?’ asked Jane.

‘Are not these the gardens?’ said Violet, surprised, as they walked on

through the pleasure-ground, and passed a screen of trees, and a walk

trellised over with roses.

There spread out before her a sweep of shaven turf, adorned with

sparkling jets d’eau of fantastic forms, gorgeous masses of American

plants, the flaming or the snowy azalea, and the noble rhododendron, in

every shade of purple cluster among its evergreen leaves; beds of rare

lilies, purely white or brilliant with colour; roses in their perfection

of bloom; flowers of forms she had never figured to herself, shaded by

wondrous trees, the exquisite weeping deodara, the delicate mimosa,

the scaly Himalaya pines, the feathery gigantic ferns of the southern

hemisphere.

Violet stood gazing in a silent trance till Arthur’s step approached,

when she bounded back to him, and clinging to his arm exclaimed, so

that he alone could hear, ‘Oh, I am glad you are come! It was too like

enchanted ground!’

‘So you like it,’ said Arthur, smiling.

‘I did not know there could be anything so beautiful! I thought the

pleasure-ground finer than anything--so much grander than Lord St.

Erme’s; but this! Did you keep it to the last to surprise me!’

‘I forgot it,’ said Arthur, laughing to see her look shocked. ‘It is not

in my line. The natives never have any sport out of a show-place.’

‘It is simply a bore,’ said Theodora, ‘a self-sacrifice to parade.’

‘To the good of visitors,’ replied Miss Gardner, smiling, to Violet,

who, fearing her own admiration was foolish, was grateful to hear her

say, ‘And in that capacity you will allow Mrs. Martindale and me to

enjoy.’

‘Did not I bring you to make the grand tour!’ said Theodora. ‘Come,

prepare to be stifled. Here are all the zones up to the equator,’ and

she led the way into the conservatory.

Arthur’s protection and his satisfaction in Violet’s pleasure set her at

ease to enter into all the wonders and beauties; but he did not know one

plant from another, and referred all her inquiries to his sister, who

answered them in a cold matter-of-fact way that discouraged her from

continuing them, and reduced her to listening to the explanations

elicited by Jane Gardner, until a new-comer met them, thus greeted

by Arthur--‘Ah! here is the authority! Good morning, Harrison. Mrs.

Martindale wants to know the name of this queer striped thing.’

He bowed politely, and Violet, as she bent and smiled, supposed they

were too familiar for the hand-shake, while he went on to name the

plant and exhibit its peculiarities. Her questions and remarks seemed

to please him greatly, and while he replied graciously with much curious

information, he cut spray after spray of the choicest flowers and

bestowed them upon her, so that when the tour was completed, and

he quitted them, she said, with smiling gratitude, ‘It is the most

exquisite bouquet I ever saw.’

‘A poor thing, ‘was the proud humility answer, ‘but honoured by such

hands!’

‘Well done, Harrison!’ ejaculated Arthur, as soon as he was out of

ear-shot.

‘Who is he?’ asked Violet, still blushing; then, as the truth dawned on

her, ‘can he be the gardener? I thought him some great botanist allowed

to study here.’

‘Pray tell Miss Piper, Theodora,’ said Arthur. ‘If it goes round to him,

Violet will never want for flowers.’

‘It is so exactly what he considers himself,’ said Jane.

‘Except his being allowed,’ said Arthur. ‘’Tis we that are there on

sufferance.’

Miss Piper was seen advancing on the same walk, and Violet was

uncomfortable, dreading to see her treated as an inferior; but to her

great satisfaction, Arthur addressed the little lady in his cordial

manner, and Theodora congratulated her on being out of doors on this

fine evening.

‘Mrs. Nesbit wished me to ask Mr. Harrison for a frond of the new

Trichomanes,’ said Miss Piper.

‘You will find him somewhere near the forcing-house,’ said Theodora;

‘but pray don’t hurry in. I am going to my aunt’s room, and you should

go and look at the Japan lilies, they are fine enough to make even me

admire them.’ Then running after her to enforce her words, ‘mind you

stay out--be quite at rest till dinner-time--I have scarcely been with

my aunt to-day. I am sure a walk will do you good.’

The kind solicitude went deep into the affections of the lonely little

woman. Violet longed for anything like such notice; then, in a state

between wonder, delight, and disappointment, went to her room to attempt

a description of the fairy land which she had been visiting, and to

enjoy the splendours by thinking how much it would gratify her mother

and sisters to hear of her sharing them.

Mrs. Nesbit greeted Theodora with exclamations on Miss Piper’s

tardiness, and she explained in the authoritative way which she alone

ventured to use towards her aunt; then, in a tone of conciliation, spoke

of the garden and the beauty of the Japan lilies.

‘Harrison grows too many; they are losing their rarity, and look like a

weed.’

‘They are hardy, are they not?’ said Theodora, maliciously. ‘I shall get

some for my school garden.’

‘That is your way of making everything common, and depreciating all that

is choice.’

‘No,’ said Theodora, ‘I would have beauty as widely enjoyed and as

highly appreciated as possible.’

‘And pray, if all privileges are extended to the lower classes, what is

left to the higher orders?’

‘Themselves,’ said Theodora, proudly. ‘No, aunt, we only lower ourselves

by exclusiveness. It is degrading to ourselves and our tastes to make

them badges of vanity. Let them be freely partaken, we shall be first

still. The masses cannot mount higher without raising us.’

‘A levelling theory,’ said Mrs. Nesbit.

‘No, exalting. Has Latin and Greek made Harrison a gentleman? Can even

dress in better taste make Pauline look as much a lady as Miss Piper?’

‘There is a good deal in that,’ said Mrs. Nesbit. ‘Even Lady Elizabeth

Brandon cannot hide her good blood, though she does her best to do so.’

‘And so does Emma,’ said Theodora.

‘Foolish girl,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, ‘I would have given anything to see

her attractive.’

‘Too late now!’ said Theodora, with a look of repressed scorn and

triumph.

‘Too late for ARTHUR,’ replied Mrs. Nesbit, with emphasis. ‘And you’ll

never, never succeed in the other quarter!’

‘Young people always have those fancies. I know what you would say, but

John is not so young now. It is just the time of life when men take a

turn. Depend upon it, now he has had his boy’s romance, he is not going

to play the disconsolate lover for the rest of his life. No! that girl

shall never be Lady Martindale.’

‘Well, I shan’t dispute’ said Theodora; ‘but--’

‘Believe when you see, said Mrs. Nesbit.

‘And so you mean it to be Emma Brandon,’ said Theodora, with the same

sarcastic incredulity.

‘Let me tell you there are things more unlikely. John thinks much of

Lady Elizabeth, and is just one of the men to marry a plain quiet girl,

fancying she would be the more domestic; and for yourself, you would

find Emma very accommodating--never in your way.’

‘No indeed,’ said Theodora.

‘Nothing could give your mother more pleasure. It is more than ever

important now. What have you seen of Arthur’s piece of wax? He seems to

have been playing with her all day long.’

‘Yes, poor fellow,’ said Theodora, sighing. ‘However, it might have been

worse. I believe she is an innocent child, and very ladylike.’

‘There is an instance of the effect of your dissemination notions! This

would never have happened if every country attorney did not bring up his

daughters to pass for ladies!’

‘I am glad she is nothing outwardly to be ashamed of.’

‘I had rather that she was than for her to have the opportunity of

worming herself into favour! Those modest airs and her way of peeping up

under her eyelashes seem to make a great impression,’ said Mrs. Nesbit,

with a sneer.

‘Really, I think she is simple and shy.’

Mrs. Nesbit laughed. ‘You, too! What has she to do with shyness? She has

had her lesson; but you are like the rest! Your mamma actually proposing

to take her likeness, but I told her it was not to be thought of. There

will be plenty to fill her with presumption.’

‘And papa--what does he think?’ said Theodora, who was wont to obtain

the family politics from her aunt.

‘Oh! men are sure to be caught by a pretty face, and they cannot make

enough of her. I thought your father had more sense, but since John has

had his ear, everything has been past my management. I cannot bear to

see Arthur’s cool way--but no wonder. There will be no end to their

expectations, treated as they are.’

‘Then papa means to do something for them?’

‘I cannot tell. He may do as he pleases. It is no affair of mine. They

cannot touch my property. Your father may try how he likes supporting

them.’

‘He will then?’

‘He cannot help it, after having invited them here.’

Theodora could no longer bear to hear Arthur thus spoken of, and began

to read aloud, relieved in some degree by finding Arthur was not to

suffer poverty. If he had been persecuted, she must have taken his part;

now she could choose her own line. However, the world must not suppose

that she disapproved of his wife, and she was grateful to the unmeaning

words amiable and ladylike, especially when she had to speak to Mr.

Wingfield. He observed on the lady’s beauty, and hoped that the affair

was as little unsatisfactory as possible under the circumstances, to

which she fully agreed. They proceeded to parish matters, on which they

had so much to say to each other, that Violet thus reflected--‘Ah! it is

just as Mr. Martindale used to sit with me in the window at home! She is

going to give up all her grandeur for the sake of this good clergyman!

How good she is! If she could only like me one little bit.’

For the present this mattered the less to Violet, as she was

extremely happy out of doors with her husband, who took up her time so

exclusively, that she scarcely saw the rest, except at meals and in the

evening. Then, though less afraid of ‘solecisms in etiquette,’ she made

no progress in familiarity, but each day revealed more plainly how much

too lowly and ignorant she was to be ever one of the family.

Mrs. Nesbit was always formidable and sarcastic, alarming her the more

because she could not understand her irony, though conscious it was

levelled against her; Lady Martindale always chilling in condescending

courtesy, and daily displaying more of the acquirements that frightened

Violet by their number and extent; Theodora always gravely and coldly

polite and indifferent. Miss Gardner was her great resource. Her

pleasant manners and ready conversation were universally liked, and more

than once she dexterously helped Violet out of a state of embarrassment,

and made a connecting link, through which she ventured to talk to the

other ladies.

With the gentlemen she was happier. Lord Martindale was kind in manner,

and she improved in the power of speaking to him, while John was, as she

knew, her best friend; but she saw very little of him, he lived apart

from the family, often not meeting them till dinner-time, and she began

to understand Arthur’s surprise at his doings at Winchester, when

she found that his usual habits were so solitary that his father was

gratified if he joined him in a ride, and his mother esteemed it a

favour if he took a turn in the garden with her.

The parish church was so distant that the carriage was always used

to convey thither the ladies, except Theodora, who ever since her

fourteenth year had made it her custom to walk early to the school, and

to remain there in the interval between the services. It was believed

that she enjoyed a wet Sunday, as an occasion for proving her

resolution, now so well established that no one thought of remonstrance,

let the weather be what it might. The first Sunday of Violet’s visit

happened to be showery, and in the afternoon, Lord Martindale had gone

to John’s room to dissuade him from going to church a second time, when,

as the door stood open, they heard Arthur’s voice in the gallery.

‘Hollo! you are not setting out in these torrents!’

‘Do let me, please!’ returned the pleading note.

‘Why, the avenue is a river, and you are not a real goose yet, you

know.’

‘We never did miss church for weather, and it is further off at

Wrangerton.’

‘Nobody is going, I tell you. It is not in common sense. You are as bad

as Theodora, I declare.’

‘I don’t mean to be wilful!’ said she, piteously; ‘I won’t go if you

tell me not, but please don’t. I have no Sunday-book, and nothing to do,

and I should feel wrong all the week.’

‘To be sure you can’t smoke a cigar,’ said Arthur, in a tone of

commiseration; ‘so wilful will to water! Now for an aquatic excursion!’

Their steps and voices receded, and the father and brother looked

amused. ‘A good honest child!’ ‘She will do something with him after

all!’ and Lord Martindale (for Arthur had made too broad an assertion

in declaring no one was going) followed them down, and showed positively

paternal solicitude that Violet should be guarded from the rain, even

sending to Pauline for a cloak of Miss Martindale’s.

It was early when they reached the village, and Lord Martindale, saying

he must speak to a workman, took them through a pretty garden to a

house, the front rooms of which were shut up; they entered by the back

door, and found themselves in a kitchen, where a couple of labouring

people were sitting, in church-going trim. While Violet shook off the

rain, and warmed herself at the fire, Lord Martindale spoke to the man;

and then opening a door, called her and Arthur to look.

There were several rooms, without trace of ever having been inhabited,

and not looking very inviting. The view of the park, which Violet would

fain have admired, was one gush of rain.

‘This might be made something of,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘It was built

at the same time as the house. There was some idea of Mrs. Nesbit’s

living here; and of late years it has been kept empty for poor John.’

He broke off. Violet wondered if it was to be her abode, and whether

those empty rooms could ever be as pleasant as the parlour at

Winchester; but no more passed, and it was time to go into church.

After this, Lord Martindale pressed to have their stay prolonged; which

Arthur could not persuade his wife to believe a great compliment to her,

though she was pleased, because he was, and because she hoped it was

a sign that she was tolerated for his sake. Personally, she could have

wished that his leave of absence might not be extended, especially when

she found that by the end of the next two months it was likely that the

regiment would be in London, so that she had seen the last of her

dear Winchester lodging; but she had so little selfishness, that she

reproached herself even for the moment’s wish, that Arthur should not

remain to be happy at his own home.

It was a great loss to her that Miss Gardner was going away, leaving

her to the unmitigated coldness and politeness of the other ladies. She

grieved the more when, on the last morning, Jane made positive advances

of friendship, and talked affectionately of meeting in London.

‘My home is with my sister, and we shall be delighted to see you. You

will be fixed there, no doubt.’

‘Thank you. I cannot tell; but I shall be so glad to see you!’

‘And I shall be delighted to introduce you to my sister. I know you will

be great friends. What a season it will be! Two such sisters as Mrs.

and Miss Martindale making their appearance together will be something

memorable.’

Violet blushed excessively, and made some inarticulate disavowals. She

felt it presumption to let her name be coupled with Miss Martindale’s,

and there was a sense of something dangerous and wrong in expecting

admiration.

Miss Gardner only smiled encouragingly at her youthfulness. ‘I will not

distress you, though I look forward to what I shall hear. I shall feel

that I have a right to be proud of you, from priority of acquaintance.’

‘You are very kind; but, please, don’t talk so. It is bad, I know, for

me.’

‘You are very right, I quite agree with you. No doubt it is the wisest

way; but so very few feel as you do. I wish more were like you, or,

indeed, like Theodora, who is positively displeased with me for speaking

of her making a sensation.’

‘Oh! of course she does not care,’ said Violet. ‘So very good as she

is.’

‘Appallingly so, some people say,’ returned Jane, with a peculiar look;

‘but, I know her well, though she was more my sister’s friend than

mine.’

‘Then you have known her a long time?’

‘All her life. We used to meet every day in London, when she and my

sister were two madcaps together, playing endless wild pranks. We used

to tell her she ruled the governesses, and no one could control her--nor

can--’

‘But she is very good,’ repeated Violet, puzzled.

‘Ah! she took a serious turn at about fourteen, and carried it out

in her own peculiar way. She has worked out a great deal for herself,

without much guidance. She has a standard of her own, and she will not

acknowledge a duty if she does not intend to practise it.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Violet. ‘I thought if one saw a duty one must

try to practise it.’

‘I wish all the world went upon your principles’ said Miss Gardner,

with a sigh. ‘I am afraid you will find many not half so consistent with

their own views as yourself, or Theodora.’

‘Oh! of course one must fail,’ said Violet. ‘One cannot do half one

means, but Theodora seems so strong and resolute.’

‘Ay, no one has been able to cope with her, not even Mrs. Nesbit; who,

as a kindred spirit, might have had a chance!’

‘Mrs. Nesbit has had a great deal to do with her education?’

‘I dare say you have found out the real head of the family. I see you

are very acute, as well as very guarded.’

‘Oh dear! I hope I have said nothing I ought not,’ cried Violet, in a

fright.

‘No, indeed, far from it. I was admiring your caution.’

Violet thought she had done wrong in betraying her dislike; she knew not

how; and trying to ascribe all to shyness, said, ‘It was so strange and

new; I have never been out till now.’

‘Yes, if you will allow me to say so, I thought you got on admirably,

considering how trying the situation was.’

‘Oh! I was very much frightened; but they are very kind--Mr. Martindale

especially.’

‘Poor Mr. Martindale! I wish he could recover his spirits. He has never

held up his head since Miss Fotheringham’s death. He is an admirable

person, but it is melancholy to see him spending his life in that lonely

manner.’

‘It is, indeed. I often wish anything would cheer him!’

‘All the family are devoted to him, if that would comfort him. It is the

only point where Lady Martindale is not led by her aunt, that she almost

worships him!’

‘I thought Mrs. Nesbit was fond of him.’

‘Did you ever hear that Percy Fotheringham once said of her, “That

woman is a good hater”? She detested the Fotheringham family, and Mr.

Martindale, for his engagement. No, he is out of her power, and she

cannot endure him; besides, he is a rival authority--his father listens

to him.’

‘I suppose Mrs. Nesbit is very clever.’

‘She has been one of the cleverest women on earth. She formed her niece,

made the match, forced her forward into the very highest society--never

were such delightful parties--the best music--every lion to be met

with--Lady Martindale herself at once a study for beauty, and a

dictionary of arts and sciences--Mrs. Nesbit so agreeable. Ah! you

cannot judge of her quite, she is passee, broken, and aged, and, poor

thing! is querulous at feeling the loss of her past powers; but there

used to be a brilliance and piquancy in her conversation that has become

something very different now.’

Violet thought it most prudent only to remark on Lady Martindale’s

varied accomplishments.

‘She has carried them on much longer than usual. People generally give

them up when they marry, but she has gone on. I am not sure whether it

was the wisest course. There is much to be said on both sides. And I

have sometimes thought Theodora might have been a little less determined

and eccentric, if she had not been left so much to governesses, and if

her affections had had more scope for development.’

Theodora came in, and Violet blushed guiltily, as if she had been

talking treason.

Miss Gardner’s object in life, for the present, might be said to be to

pick up amusement, and go about making visits; the grander the people

the better, adapting herself to every one, and talking a sort of

sensible scandal, with a superior air of regret; obtaining histories at

one house to be detailed at another, and thus earning the character

of being universally intimate. The sentiments of the young bride of

Martindale had been, throughout her visit, matter of curiosity; and even

this tete-a-tete left them guess work. Theodora’s were not so difficult

of discovery; for, though Jane had never been the same favourite with

her as her more impetuous sister, she had, by her agreeable talk and

show of sympathy, broken down much of the hedge of thorns with which

Theodora guarded her feelings.

‘I have been talking to Mrs. Martindale,’ Jane began, as they went

up-stairs together. ‘She is a graceful young thing, and Georgina and I

will call on her in London. Of course they will be settled there.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Theodora. ‘A notion has been started of his leaving

the Guards, and their coming to live at the cottage at Brogden.’

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Miss Gardner.

‘It is not settled, so don’t mention it. I doubt how it would answer to

set Arthur down with nothing to do.’

‘I doubt, indeed! I have seen a good deal of families living close

together.’

‘Nothing shall make me quarrel with Arthur, or his wife. You smile,

but it needs no magnanimity to avoid disputes with anything so meek and

gentle.’

‘You can’t judge of her; a girl of sixteen in a house full of strangers!

Give her a house of her own, and she will soon learn that she is

somebody. As long as your eldest brother is unmarried, she will expect

to be looked upon as the wife of the heir. She will take offence, and

your brother will resent it.’

‘And there will be discussions about her,’ said Theodora.

‘Depend upon it, ‘tis easier to keep the peace at a distance. Fancy the

having to call for her whenever you go out to dinner. And oh! imagine

the father, mother, and half-dozen sisters that will be always staying

there.’

‘No, Arthur has not married the whole family, and never means them to

come near her.’

‘There are two words to that question,’ said Miss Gardner, smiling.

‘Quiet as she seems now, poor thing she has a character of her own, I

can see, and plenty of discernment. To be so guarded, as she is, at her

age, shows some resolution.’

‘Guarded! has she been saying anything?’

‘No, she is extremely prudent.’

‘Inferring it, then,’ exclaimed Theodora. ‘Well, her expectations must

be high, if she is not satisfied; one comfort is, the Brogden scheme is

only John’s and papa’s. My aunt can’t bear it, because it seems quite to

give up the chance of John’s marrying.’

‘Well, Georgina and I will do the best we can for her. I suppose you

wish it to be understood that you approve.’

‘Of course: you can say everything with truth that the world cares for.

She is pleasing, and amiable, and all that.’

‘She will be extremely admired.’

‘And her head so much turned as to ruin all the sense there may be in

it! I hate the thought of it, and of what is to become of Arthur when he

wakes from his trance.’

‘He will find that he has a sister,’ said Jane, who had learnt that this

was the secret of consolation; and, accordingly, a softer ‘Poor Arthur!’

followed.

‘And will you write, dear Theodora?’

‘I don’t promise. I hardly ever write letters.’

‘And you will not send your love to poor Georgina?’

‘I forgive her for having pained and disappointed me. I hope she will

be happy, but I am very much afraid she has not gone the right way to be

so.’

‘Am I to tell her so?’

‘I dare say you will, but don’t call it my message. If she makes a good

use of her means, I shall try to forget the way she obtained them.’

‘I only hope, with your notions, that you will not get into a scrape

yourself. I’m a little afraid of that curate.’

‘We both know better,’ said Theodora.

Jane departed, and Violet felt as if she had a friend and protector the

less. She was sitting forlorn in the great drawing-room, waiting for

Arthur, who was trying horses; presently Theodora came in, and with

something of compassion, said, ‘I hope you have an entertaining book

there.’

Oh yes, thank you, “La Vie de Philippe Auguste”. I like it very much; it

is as amusing as “Philip Augustus” itself.’

‘James’s novel, you mean?’

‘Have you read it?’

‘His novels are exactly alike,’ said Theodora, leaving the room, but

checked by the thought that it would be merciful to take her into her

room. ‘No, nonsense,’ said second thoughts; ‘I shall have nothing but

chatter ever after, if I establish her coming to me when Arthur is

out; and if this cottage scheme comes to pass, she will be marching up

whenever she has nothing better to do. Give an inch, and she will take

an ell.’

She was interrupted by a diffident, hesitating call, and, looking

back, as she was mounting the stairs, beheld Violet, who changed the

appellation into ‘Miss Martindale.’

‘Well!’ said she, feeling as if her citadel were in jeopardy.

‘Would you--would you be so very kind as to lend me a French

dictionary?’

‘Certainly; I’ll give you one in a moment,’ said Theodora; with so

little encouragement as would have deterred a person bent on gaining

the entree. Violet stood meekly waiting till she brought the book, and

received it with gratitude disproportionate to the favour conferred.

CHAPTER 5

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,

And I must know it, else he loves me not.

--King Henry IV

Miss Gardner’s departure threw the rest of the party more together,

and Theodora did not hold herself as much aloof as before. Indeed she

perceived that there were occasions when Arthur seemed to be returning

to his preference for her. She had more conversation, and it often fell

on subjects of which the bride had no knowledge, while the sister was

happy in resuming old habits. Sometimes Violet was entertained; but one

day when they were riding, the talk was going on eagerly on some subject

of which she knew nothing, while they rode faster than she liked, and

she fancied she was insecure in her saddle. Twice she timidly called

Arthur; but he was too much absorbed to attend to her, without a degree

of scream, which she did not feel would be justified. Each moment she

grew more alarmed and miserable, and though at last, when he perceived

that she wanted him, he was off his horse in a moment and set all to

rights, she completely forgot her distress,--the charm had been broken,

she was no longer his first thought.

The sensation of loneliness often returned during the next few weeks;

there was no real neglect, and she would not so have felt it if she had

not depended on him alone, and so long enjoyed his exclusive attention.

His fondness and petting were the same, but she perceived that he found

in his sister a companionship of which she did not feel capable. But to

Theodora herself, whenever she succeeded in engrossing Arthur, it seemed

a victory of sisterly affection and sense over beauty and frivolity.

Arthur was anxious to know the family politics, and resumed the habit of

depending on his sister for gathering intelligence from Mrs. Nesbit. On

her he bestowed his complaints that his father would not see things as

he wished, and with her talked over his projects. In truth, he could not

bear to disclose to his wife the footing on which he stood,--looking

on her as a mere child, sure to be satisfied, and not requiring to be

consulted.

Theodora gave him tidings of the proposal that he should settle in

the village, and finding him undecided, threw all her weight into the

opposite scale. She sincerely believed she was consulting his happiness

and the harmony of the family by speaking of the irksomeness of living

there with nothing to do, and by assisting him in calculating how large

an income would be necessary to enable him to keep hunters, go from

home, &c., without which he declared it would be intolerable, and

as there was little probability of his father allowing him so much,

continuing in his profession was the only alternative.

Violet saw them in frequent consultation, and once John said something

to her of his hopes of seeing her at Brogden; then, finding her in

ignorance, drew back, but not till he had said enough to make her

restless at hearing no more. She would, of course, have preferred living

in the country; but when she figured to herself Arthur always with

Theodora, and herself shut up in the little parlour she had seen in the

rain, she grew extremely disconsolate.

One morning, unable to read or sit quiet under these anticipations, she

went out to dispel them by a turn among the flowers, and a conversation

with the peacock. At the corner of the lawn, she heard Arthur’s

voice--‘Exactly so; two thousand is the very least. Ha, Violet!’ as he

and Theodora emerged from a shady alley.

‘Oh, I did not mean to interrupt you,’ said Violet, confused; ‘I only

came out for some fresh air.’

‘Unbonneted, too, do you want to get roasted brown?’ said Arthur.

‘I never am burnt,’ said Violet; ‘but I will not be in your way, I’ll

go.’

‘Nonsense,’ said he, drawing her arm into his. ‘Come in good time,’ and

he yawned, tired of the discussion. ‘Ha, Mr. Peacock, are you there?’

‘He always follows me,’ said Violet. ‘Miss Piper showed me where his

food is kept, and I can almost get him to eat out of my hand.’

Theodora walked off, thinking there was an end of her brother’s sense,

and Violet looked after her rather sadly, thinking, while exhibiting to

Arthur her friendship with the peacock, ‘he consults her, he only

plays with me. Perhaps it is all I am good for; but I wish we were at

Winchester.’

As Theodora went up-stairs, she saw her eldest brother standing at the

south window of the gallery. He called to her, saying, ‘Here’s a pretty

picture, Theodora.’

In front of the sparkling crystal arches of the fountain stood Violet,

bending forward, and holding out her hand full of grain to invite the

beautiful bird, which now advanced, now withdrew its rich blue neck,

as in condescension, then raised its crested head in sudden alarm, its

train sweeping the ground in royal splendour. Arthur, no unpicturesque

figure in his loose brown coat, stood by, leaning against the stand

of one of the vases of plants, whose rich wreaths of brightly coloured

blossoms hung down, making a setting for the group; and while Violet by

her blandishments invited the peacock to approach, he now and then, with

smiling slyness, made thrusts at it with her parasol, or excited Skylark

to approach.

‘A pretty scene, is it not?’ said John.

‘Like a Sevres china cup,’ Theodora could not help saying.

‘Fountain and peacock, and parasol for shepherd’s crook, forming a

French Arcadia,’ said John, smiling. ‘I suppose it would hardly make a

picture. It is too bright.’

Theodora only answered by a sigh, and was turning away, when John added,

‘I am glad she has him at last, I was afraid she had a long solitary

morning while you were out with him. I saw you walking up and down so

long.’

‘He was talking over his plans,’ said Theodora, with an assumption of

sullen dignity.

‘I have been wishing to speak to you about that very thing,’ said John.

‘I think you may be in danger of putting yourself between him and his

wife.’

It was a new thing to her to hear that this was a danger, but, in an

offended manner, she replied, ‘I can hardly be accused of that. He

ceases all rational talk about his most important concerns to go to

child’s play with her.’

‘But why keep her out of the rational talk?’

‘That is his concern. He knows what she is capable of, I suppose.’

‘I doubt whether he does,’ said John; ‘but I don’t want to interfere

with his behaviour, only to give you a caution. It is natural that you

should wish to have him what he was before. I knew his marriage was a

great blow to you.’

‘I knew he would marry,’ said Theodora, coldly; for she could not bear

compassion. ‘It is the common course of things.’

‘And that the wife should be first.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then would it not be better to bear that in mind, and make up your mind

to it, rather than try to absorb his confidence?’

‘He is not bound to consult no one but that child. You would not drive

him back to her if he came to you for advice.’

‘I should not pass her over; I should assume that her opinion was to be

respected.’

‘I can’t be untrue.’

‘Then try to make it valuable.’

‘He wants no help of mine to make him fond of her!’ cried Theodora.

‘Does not he dote on her, and make himself quite foolish about her

complexion and her dress!’

‘That is a different thing. She cannot be always a toy; and if you want

to do the most inestimable service to Arthur, it would be by raising

her.’

‘Trying to educate a married sister-in-law! No, thank you!’

‘I don’t see what is to become of them,’ said John, sadly. ‘He will

be always under some influence or other, and a sensible wife might do

everything for him. But she is a child; and he is not the man to form

her character. He would have spoilt her already if she did not take his

admiration, for mere affection; and just at the age when girls are most

carefully watched, she is turned out into the world without a guide! If

he ceases to be happy with her, what is before them? You think he will

fall back on you; but I tell you he will not. If you once loosen the tie

of home, and he seeks solace elsewhere, it will be in the pursuits that

have done him harm enough already.’

‘He has given up his race-horses,’ said Theodora.

The luncheon-bell interrupted them; but as they were going down, John

added, ‘I hope I have said nothing to vex you. Indeed, Theodora, I feel

much for your loss.’

‘I am not vexed,’ was her haughty reply, little guessing how, in her

pursuit of the brother who had escaped her, she was repelling and

slighting one who would gladly have turned to her for sisterly

friendship. His spirits were in that state of revival when a mutual

alliance would have greatly added to the enjoyment of both; but Theodora

had no idea of even the possibility of being on such terms. He seemed

like one of an elder generation--hardly the same relation as Arthur.

‘So, Lady Elizabeth comes,’ said Lady Martindale, as they entered the

room.

‘Is she coming to stay here!’ asked John.

‘Yes; did you not hear that we have asked her to come to us for the

Whitford ball?’

‘Oh, are we in for the Whitford ball?’ said Theodora, in a tone of

disgust that checked the delighted look on Violet’s face.

‘Yes, my dear; your papa wishes us to go.’

‘What a bore!’ exclaimed Theodora.

‘Yes,’ sighed Lady Martindale; ‘but your papa thinks it right.’

‘A necessary evil--eh, Violet?’ said Arthur.

‘I hope you don’t mind it?’ said Violet, looking anxiously at him.

‘Ah, you will enjoy it,’ said her ladyship, graciously regarding her

folly.

‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ said Violet, eagerly.

‘Have you been to many balls?’

‘Only to one;’ and she blushed deeply, and cast down her eyes.

‘And so the Brandons are coming to stay! For how long, mamma?’ proceeded

Theodora.

‘From Wednesday to Saturday,’ said Lady Martindale. ‘I have been writing

cards for a dinner-party for Wednesday; and your father says there are

some calls that must be returned; and so, my dear, will you be ready by

three?’

‘You don’t mean me, mamma?’ said Theodora, as nobody answered.

‘No; you are a resolute rebel against morning visits. You have no

engagement for this afternoon, my dear?’

Violet started, saying, ‘I beg your pardon; I did not know you meant me.

Oh, thank you! I am very much obliged.’

‘I suppose you will not go with us, Arthur?’

He looked as if he did not like it, but caught a beseeching glance from

his wife, and was beginning to consent, when Theodora exclaimed, ‘Oh,

Arthur, don’t; it will be such a famous opportunity for that ride.’

‘Very well; you know where my cards are, Violet!’

‘Yes,’ she answered, submissively, though much disappointed, and in

dread of the drive and of the strangers.

‘Really, I think you had better go, Arthur,’ said John, greatly

displeased at Theodora’s tone. ‘It is the sort of occasion for doing

things regularly.’

‘Indeed, I think so,’ said Lady Martindale; ‘I wish Arthur would go with

us this once. I doubt if it will be taken well if he does not.’

‘You will find no one at home. His going won’t make a bit of

difference,’ said Theodora, who now regarded keeping him as a matter of

power.

‘Surely your ride might wait,’ said her mother. ‘No, it won’t, mamma. It

is to see that old man, Mary’s father.’

‘What Mary, my dear?’

‘The scullery-maid. I want to speak to him about her confirmation; and

the only way is over Whitford Down--all manner of leaping places, so we

must go without Violet.’

Violet feared there was little hope for her, for Arthur looked much

invited by the leaping places, but John made another effort in her

favour, and a great one for him.

‘Suppose you accept of me for your escort, Theodora?’ Every one looked

astonished, Lady Martindale positively aghast.

‘Were you ever on Whitford Down, John?’ said Arthur.

‘Why, yes,--in old times; I know the place, I believe.’

‘You talk of knowing it, who never hunted!’ said Arthur. ‘No, no; you

are a great traveller, John, but you don’t know the one horse-track on

Whitford Down that does not lead into a bog--’

‘Theodora does, I dare say.’

‘Yes, I know it, but it is too far for you, John, thank you, and not at

all what would suit you. I must give it up, if Arthur prefers playing

the disconsolate part of a gentleman at a morning call.’

‘Do you really dislike going without me?’ asked Arthur, and of course

nothing was left for Violet to say but, ‘O, thank you, pray don’t stay

with me. Indeed, I had much rather you had your ride.’

‘You are sure?’

‘O yes, quite. I shall do very well’ and she smiled, and tried to make

a show of ease and confidence in his mother, by looking towards her, and

asking upon whom they were to call.

Lady Martindale mentioned several ladies who had left their cards for

Mrs. Arthur Martindale, adding that perhaps it would be better to leave

a card at Rickworth Priory.

‘Is that where Lady Elizabeth Brandon lives?’ asked Violet.

‘Yes,’ said Lady Martindale. ‘It belongs to her daughter. Lady Elizabeth

is a highly excellent person, for whom Lord Martindale has a great

regard, and Miss Brandon is one of Theodora’s oldest friends.’

‘Hum!’ said Theodora.

‘My dear, she is a very nice amiable girl--just your own age, and

admirably brought up.’

‘Granted,’ said Theodora.

‘I cannot see that Emma Brandon wants anything but style and

confidence,’ proceeded Lady Martindale, ‘and that I believe to be

entirely poor Lady Elizabeth’s fault for keeping her so much in

retirement. That German finishing governess, Miss Ohnglaube, whom we

were so sorry to lose, would have been the person to teach her a little

freedom and readiness of manner. I wish we could have kept her a little

longer.’

‘I told Lady Elizabeth about her,’ said Theodora; but Lady Martindale,

without hearing, said she must go to her aunt, and renewing injunctions

to Violet to be ready by three, left the room.

‘You did not astonish her weak mind with the ghost story?’ said Arthur.

‘With its cause.’

‘You would not have thought, Violet,’ continued Arthur, ‘that we had a

ghost in the north wing.’

‘What was it?’ said Violet. ‘You don’t mean really?’

‘Only a Turk’s-head broom, with phosphorus eyes, and a sheet round the

handle,’ said Theodora. ‘It had a grand effect when Arthur stood on

the second landing-place, and raised it above the balusters--a sort of

bodilessness rising from vacancy.’

‘Didn’t she faint?’ said Arthur.

‘No, I was afraid she would, and then it would have been all over with

us; but I dragged her safe into the school-room, and there she was so

hysterical that I nearly relented.’

‘Then was it all in play?’ said Violet.

‘In earnest,’ said Arthur. ‘It was the only way of getting quit of

mademoiselle.’

‘That lady who used to talk metaphysics and sing!’ said John. ‘I

remember the lamentations at her not choosing to remain. Why was she

victimized?’

‘There was no help for it,’ said Theodora. ‘She considered the book

of Genesis as a “sehr schone mythische Geschichte”, and called the

Patriarchs the Hebrew Avatars.’

‘Theodora! You don’t mean it!’ exclaimed John.

‘I do, but I had my revenge, for, after the Turk’s-head adventure, she

never slept without my Bible under her pillow. If by broad daylight she

would have renounced the Avatar theory, I really would have forgiven

her, for she was very good-natured, and she admired “the high Roman

fashion” so much, I was half afraid she might follow it herself if we

tormented her much more.’

‘But why keep it to yourself! I can hardly believe it possible! Why play

these tricks instead of telling all?’

‘I did tell Aunt Nesbit, but Miss Ohnglaube was always reading Jean Paul

with her and mamma; they were in raptures with her, and my aunt only

said I was too well instructed to be misled.’

‘How old were you?’

‘About fifteen.’

‘It is beyond belief. Why could you not tell my father?’ said John.

‘I hardly saw him--I never spoke to him.’

‘Was not I at home!’

‘Yes, shut up in your room. I never thought of speaking to you. All I

could do was to be as restive as possible, and when she did not care for

that, there was nothing for it but playing on her German superstition.

So Arthur told her some awful stones about whipping blacks to death, and

declared West Indian families were very apt to be haunted; but that it

was a subject never to be mentioned to mamma nor my aunt.’

‘And having paved the way, we treated her to the Turk’s-head,’ concluded

Arthur. ‘I would do it again to hear her sigh and scream, and see

Theodora acting as coolly as if she was in daily intercourse with the

defunct nigger. If mademoiselle had not been frightened out of her

senses, her self-possession would have betrayed us.’

‘I could not act fright,’ said Theodora.

‘And this was the best plan you could devise for getting rid of an

infidel governess!’ said John.

And as they dispersed, he stood looking after his sister, thinking that

there was more excuse for her inconsistencies than he had yet afforded

her, and that, in fact, she deserved credit for being what she was. His

aunt had done even more harm than the ruin of his happiness.

Theodora triumphed, and carried Arthur off, but Violet found the reality

of the expedition less formidable than the anticipation. She knew her

mother would have enjoyed seeing her well dressed, and setting forth

in that style; the drive was agreeable, and Lady Martindale kind and

gracious. Alone with her, she lost much of her dread, and felt better

acquainted; but all froze up into coldness when they came home.

The ladies at Rickworth had not been at home; and as they did not arrive

on the Wednesday till Violet had gone to dress, she had time to frighten

herself by imagining an heiress on the pattern of Lady Martindale, and

an earl’s daughter proportionably unapproachable. Her trepidation was

increased by Arthur’s not coming in, though she heard guests arriving,

and when at last he appeared, it was so late, that he desired her to go

down and say he was ‘just ready.’

It was a serious thing to encounter alone that great saloon full of

strangers, and with cheeks of the brightest carnation Violet glided in,

and after delivering her message to Lord Martindale, was glad to find

herself safely seated on an ottoman, whence she looked for the chief

guests. In the distance, beside Lady Martindale, sat a quiet elderly

lady in black; Theodora was paying a sort of scornful half-attention

to a fine showy girl, who was talking rather affectedly; and, thought

Violet, no one but an heiress could wear so many bracelets.

Her survey completed, she became conscious that a small, fair-haired,

pale girl was sitting near her, looking so piteously shy and

uncomfortable, that she felt bound to try and set her at ease, and

ventured an observation on the weather. It was responded to, and

something about the harvest followed; then, how pretty the country, and,

thereupon, Violet said it only wanted mountains to be beautiful.

‘Ah! when one has once seen a mountain one cannot forget it.’

‘Never!’ said Violet. ‘I miss Helvellyn every morning when I look out of

window.’

‘Do you know the Lake country?’ said the young lady.

‘My home--my old home--is within sight of the Westmoreland hills. Have

you been there?’

‘Mamma and I once spent a month there, and enjoyed it exceedingly.’

‘Oh! and did you go up Helvellyn!’

‘Yes, that we did, in spite of the showers; and what a view we had!’

They were surprised to find that dinner had been announced. Violet was

placed next to Mr. Martindale, and was able to ask the name of her new

acquaintance.

‘Miss Brandon, you mean.’ ‘O no, not Miss Brandon, but that light pale

girl in the lilac worked muslin, who was talking to me!’

‘I saw you talking to Miss Brandon.’

‘Could it be? She looked all astray and frightened, like me!’

‘That description answers to Emma Brandon,’ said John, smiling.

‘Who would have thought it! I should never have begun talking to her

if I had guessed who she was. I only did it because she looked so

uncomfortable. I hope it was not being forward.’

‘Not in the least. You know you are at home here,--it was a great

kindness.’

‘Do you like her?’ said Violet.

‘I believe she is a very good kind of girl, and her mother is one of our

oldest friends. They are very excellent sensible people, and do a great

deal of good in their own parish.’

‘And only think! She has been in Westmoreland! She has seen Helvellyn!’

Violet was the only person who ever spoke to John in that hearty

confidence of sympathy in rejoicing; and quite refreshed by her bright

looks, he led her into a history of an ascent of Helvellyn, which had,

until this spring, been the great event of her life.

On coming into the drawing-room, Miss Brandon shrank up to her mother’s

side. Violet wished she had a mother to protect her; and not daring

to place herself among the great ladies, stood in the group of younger

ones, with whom Theodora was keeping up a cold formal converse. Country

neighbours thought much of being asked to Martindale; but the parties

there were of the grandest and stiffest. Moreover, every one had to give

their friends a description of the bride; and the young ladies were more

inclined to study her appearance than to find conversation, regarding

her as an object of curiosity, as well as with some of their general

dread of the house of Martindale.

After an awkward ten minutes, Lady Martindale came towards her, and

said, ‘My dear, Lady Elizabeth Brandon wishes to be introduced to you.’

‘To me!’ and Violet followed her, blushed and bent, then found her hand

cordially shaken, and a most comfortable voice addressing her. Room was

made for her on the sofa, between Lady Elizabeth and her daughter, and

she was supremely happy in talking about her own dear lake country.

Arthur smiled, and looked well pleased to see her in such company; and

Mr. Martindale came and talked to Lady Elizabeth all the evening.

Violet expected Theodora to monopolize Miss Brandon the next morning,

but Theodora had reasons of her own for not breaking her habit of

spending the morning in her own occupations. She knew Lady Elizabeth to

be perfectly guiltless of manoeuvring; but from the time she had become

conscious of Mrs. Nesbit’s designs on Rickworth, first for Arthur and

now for John, it had been her decided purpose to give no colour for

throwing the heiress in their way by any friendship of hers; and as

she considered Emma one of the dullest and most silly girls of her

acquaintance, it was very pleasant to be justified in neglecting her.

The office of companionship to the younger visitor fell to Mrs.

Martindale. She showed off the peacock, and they wandered happily in

the gardens, most amiably received by Mr. Harrison, who delighted

in displaying his treasures, and almost overwhelmed Violet with his

graciousness, when she shyly asked if he could spare her a few of his

white roses for her hair.

Miss Brandon groaned and sighed about the ball, declaring it her

detestation; she should be tired to death; she hated dancing; and above

all, there was the nuisance of dressing.

‘Oh! I am sorry you don’t like it,’ said Violet, ‘but that is the way

with all sensible people.’

‘No; mamma says it is not being sensible, but because I don’t dance

well, and she wishes I did.’

‘I am glad of that. My mamma does not think it foolish.’

‘Do you like dancing, then?’

‘That I do,’ cried Violet, making a few steps; ‘I only wish I might

dance with him still!’

This was the only difference of opinion--on school-teaching

books--heroes, historical and fictitious--on the “Bridal of

Triermain”--and Wordsworth’s Waggoner, their sentiments accorded

exactly. Perhaps Emma’s mind was the more formed and cultivated, but

Violet’s was the more discerning and diffident in judgment.

Emma took the first opportunity of pouring out to her mother a perfect

rapture about Mrs. Martindale, dwelling on her right views, and all that

showed she had been well brought up.

‘She is a sweet-looking creature,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘and I do hope

she is all she seems. Lord Martindale has been telling me how entirely

the marriage was her father’s doing, and that she was perfectly ignorant

and innocent, poor thing.’

‘She looks as if she could never do anything wrong. Mamma, I hardly know

whether you would like me to make friends with her, but I could not

help it, and she said such nice things that I knew you would like her.

I never could get on with any one before, you know, but, from the moment

she came blushing in, and spoke to me in that sweet low voice, I felt as

if I most be fond of her--before I made out who she was--and even then I

could not like her less.’

‘She is so unaffected and unassuming!’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘I little

expected Arthur Martindale’s marriage to have turned out so well.’

‘I don’t wonder at his falling in love at first sight! I don’t see how

he could help it. I am sure I should!’

‘I think you have, said Lady Elizabeth, smiling.

‘Wasn’t it charming, mamma? Theodora never came near us all the

morning, and very soon got out of my way in the afternoon, so we were so

comfortable!’

‘Take care what you say about her, my dear.’

‘Oh, yes. We never spoke of her at all. I wonder what Mrs. Martindale

does here! It is a dreadful place, and they are all one more stately

than the other,’

‘Not the sons.’

‘Oh! poor Mr. Martindale is worse than stately. There’s something in

that gentle melancholy tone of his that is so different from other

people--and he looks so refined and thoughtful. He frightens me more

than any of them!’

‘I hope he is in rather better spirits. I have had a good deal of talk

with him this evening. Indeed, his father told me he had been roused by

all this affair about his brother. But, Emma, my dear, you have not

rung all this time! Here am I almost dressed. I shall have to fulfil my

threat, and leave you to come down alone.’

It had to be fulfilled. Emma left insufficient time for her maid to try

to set out her soft light scanty hair, to make her satin and gauze look

anything but limp and flabby, and to put on her jewels, in the vain hope

of their making her seem well dressed. Whatever was ordained for her to

wear, Emma always looked exactly the same. She opened her door at the

same moment as Violet advanced into the gallery, her tall taper figure

arrayed in bridal lace, not much whiter than her long neck and rounded

arms, a wreath of roses around her dark tresses, brilliant flowers

in her hand, her soft eyes bright with pleasure, and her beauteous

complexion deepened by bashfulness.

Emma could not repress her delight. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘you can’t

think how beautiful you are!’

‘Isn’t she?’ said a proud, playful voice. ‘Thank you;’ but seeing Emma

disconcerted, Arthur hastened down-stairs.

‘Oh, I didn’t know he was there!’

‘Never mind!’ said Violet, among her blushes. ‘I’m glad he was. He liked

it.’

‘I could not help it,’ said Emma. ‘You are so like a story! I can hardly

believe you are real!’

Violet felt familiar enough to prove herself substantial by a playful

pinch. ‘But look here! See what I found on my table.’

‘One of those serpent bracelets. It is very pretty!’

‘Was not it kind of Lord Martindale?’

‘You have to thank him for it! Oh! dreadful!’

‘I don’t mind speaking to him. It is so kind. “Mrs. A. Martindale, from

her affectionate father,” the direction said. Oh! it is so very,

very pleasant that he should be so kind to me. Is not it a beautiful

creature! Look at its scales and its crown, and eyes. Arthur says they

are sapphires.’

‘Yes, I never saw a prettier one.’

‘I wish Annette could see it, and all at home. Is it not like a creature

in a fairy tale?’

‘Like Zelinda’s singing serpents?’

‘Just like them. Do you know, I sometimes think I have got into a fairy

tale. Everything is so beautiful and so bewildering, and unlike what I

fancied.’

‘Because you are so like a fairy princess yourself. Are you sure you

have not a talisman ring!’

‘I think I have,’ and Violet pulled off her glove. ‘There--that

forget-me-not--the first ring I ever had. From the day he gave me that

it has all been so strange, that now and then I have been almost afraid

to awake, for fear it should not be true. But may I look at that diamond

butterfly of yours? It shines as if it would flash in the dark.’

‘Never mind mine. Stupid things that came as heir-looms, and have no

pleasure belonging to them. The only thing I do care for is this’--and

she drew out a locket from within her dress. ‘There, that is my father’s

hair, and that is my little brother’s. They both died before I can

remember; and there is dear mamma’s nice pepper-and-salt lock round

them.’

Theodora swept by in black lace, her coronal of hair wreathed with large

pearls, and her lofty air like the Tragic Muse.

‘Comparing ornaments! Worthy of such a friendship,’ thought she, as

she held back, and made them go down before her, Emma glad to hold by

Violet’s arm for protection.

Mrs. Nesbit was in the drawing-room talking to Lady Elizabeth, and with

her keen piercing eyes watching John, who was reading the newspaper by

the table. She was pleased to see him lay it aside, look up, and smile,

as the two friends entered, but she could have beaten them both, the one

for her insignificance, and the other for her radiant loveliness; and

she was still further provoked to see Miss Brandon sit down as near

her mother as possible, while Violet went up to him to show him her

bracelet. She stood by him for some little time, while he was examining

and praising it, and congratulating her on the choice bouquet that

Harrison had bestowed on her, but surprised to see her eyes cast

pensively down, and a grave look on that fair young face. He little

suspected that she was saddened by the contrast between her joys and his

sorrow and ill health, and thought it unkind to speak of her delight to

one so far removed from it.

Theodora began to indulge in a hearty grumbling.

‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, ‘you will only show yourselves there,

and go home. Miss Brandon is not more inclined to Whitford balls than

you are.’

‘No, I am rather surprised at having dragged Emma so far,’ said Lady

Elizabeth. ‘I hope they will both find it turn out better than they

expect. You must teach them,’ and she looked smilingly at Violet.

Mrs. Nesbit was extremely annoyed at the quantity of notice Violet had

lately received, and was the more resolved to put her down. ‘No one can

expect them to like country balls,’ she said. ‘One attends them as a

duty, for the sake of the neighbourhood; but as to pleasure in them,

that is only for the young ladies of the place on the look-out for the

military.’

She had fulfilled her purpose of making every one uncomfortable, except

one--namely, Violet. John looked at her, and perceived she was too

innocent and clear in conscience to understand or appropriate the taunt,

so he thought it better to leave the field open to Lady Elizabeth’s calm

reply, ‘Well, I used to enjoy country balls very much in my time.’

Arthur evaporated his indignation by shaking his foot, and murmuring,

not so low but that his sister heard it, ‘Old hag!’

Lord and Lady Martindale came in together, and Violet’s blushing

gratitude was so pretty and bright that it made Lord Martindale smile,

and silence it by a kiss, which perhaps surprised and gratified her more

than the bracelet did.

Lady Elizabeth begged to have her in her carriage; and growing intimate

in the sociable darkness, she found out that the mother was as loveable

as the daughter, and was as much at home with them as if she had known

them for years.

The evening exceeded even Violet’s anticipations, though her one former

ball had been such as could never be equalled. Lord Martindale wished

every one to know how entirely he accepted his new daughter, so he gave

his arm to her, and presented her to the principal ladies, while she

felt herself followed by her husband’s encouraging and exulting eye. It

certainly was a very different thing to go into society as Miss Violet

Moss or as Mrs. Arthur Martindale, and there was a start of fear as the

thought crossed her--was her pleasure pride and vanity?

She was chiefly sorry that she could not see Miss Brandon enjoy herself:

all that could be extracted from her by the most animated appeal was

a resigned smile, and a little quizzing of some of the sillier young

ladies. She professed, however, that she had never disliked any ball so

little, since she had the pleasure of watching Mrs. Martindale, hearing

how universally she was acknowledged to be the prettiest person present,

and telling Arthur all that was said of her.

Miss Brandon and Arthur had for some years past kept at a respectful

distance, each in dread of designs of the other; but now they were fast

resuming the childish familiarity of tone of the ancient times, when

the rough but good-natured, gentlemanlike boy had been a companion much

preferred to the determined, domineering girl. They danced a quadrille,

and talked a great deal of Violet. Emma began to think much better of

his capacity.

As to Theodora, she was talking, laughing, dancing, and appearing so

full of spirits, that Violet could not help venturing a remark, that she

surely liked it better than she expected.

‘Not at all,’ was the answer; ‘but if one is to make oneself absurd, it

is as well not to do so by halves.’

So far was she from doing so by halves, that when her mother was ready

to go home, she was engaged so many deep, that it was settled she should

be left with Arthur and Violet. She danced indefatigably till morning

shone into the room, and was handed into the carriage by a gentleman

who, it was the private opinion of her young chaperone, had, like

Arthur, fallen in love at first sight. Poor man! it was a pity he could

not know about Mr. Wingfield; or she could almost suppose that Theodora

did not care so much for Mr. Wingfield, after all.

The drive home was very amusing. Violet was so tired that it was a

trouble to speak; but she liked to hear the brother and sister discuss

the ball, and laugh over the people; and leant back in her corner so

comfortably, that she only dreaded the moment of rousing herself to walk

up-stairs.

Theodora never stopped talking all the way, sprung nimbly out of the

carriage, ran up the steps, and admired the morning sky; and Violet

believed she did not go to bed at all, for it seemed a very short time

before the distant notes of the singing class were heard; yet she looked

as fresh and blooming as ever when they met at breakfast, and did not

flag in any of her usual employments.

The other ladies were capable of nothing but loitering; and it was a day

for making great advances in intimacy. Most delightful was that first

friendship, as they wandered arm-in-arm, talked gravely or gaily, and

entered more and more into each other’s minds. Theodora held aloof,

despising their girlish caressing ways, and regarding the intimacy with

the less toleration because it was likely to serve as a pretext to Mrs.

Nesbit for promoting her views for John; and though the fewest words

possible had passed between him and Miss Brandon, she found that Mrs.

Nesbit was building hopes on the satisfaction he showed in conversing

with Lady Elizabeth. The visit ended with a warm invitation to Mr. and

Mrs. Arthur Martindale to come and stay at Rickworth before they left

the country.

CHAPTER 6

Is it that they have a fear

Of the dreary season near,

Or that other pleasures be

Sweeter even than gaiety?

--WORDSWORTH

Were they to leave the country? This was still under consideration.

The next fortnight made some difference in Theodora’s wishes respecting

Brogden Cottage. Violet becoming less timid, ventured to show that she

took interest in poor people; and Theodora was pleased by finding her

able to teach at school, and to remember the names of the children.

Especially her sweet looks and signs gained the heart of little Charley

Layton, the dumb boy at the lodge--the creature on whom Theodora

bestowed the most time and thought. And on her begging to be shown the

dumb alphabet, as the two sisters crossed fingers, they became, for one

evening, almost intimate.

Theodora began to think of her as not only harmless, but likely to be

useful in the parish; and could afford to let Arthur have her for

a plaything, since he made herself his confidante. She withdrew her

opposition; but it was too late. Arthur had declared that he could not

live there without £2500 a year, and this his father neither could nor

would give him. The expense of building the house, and the keeping up of

such a garden and establishment, did not leave too much available of the

wealth Lady Martindale had brought, nor was the West Indian property

in a prosperous state; the demand was preposterous; and Theodora found

herself obliged to defend poor Violet, who, her aunt declared, must have

instigated it in consequence of the notice lavished upon her; while, as

Theodora averred with far more truth, ‘it was as much as the poor thing

did to know the difference between a ten-pound note and a five.’ Twelve

hundred pounds a year, and the rent of a house in London, was what

his elder brother would have married upon; and this, chiefly by John’s

influence, was fixed as the allowance, in addition to his pay; and as

his promotion was now purchased for him, he had far more than he had

any right to expect, though he did not seem to think so, and grumbled

to Theodora about the expense of the garden, as if it was consuming his

patrimony.

How the income would hold out, between his carelessness and her

inexperience, was a question over which his father sighed, and gave good

advice, which Arthur heard with the same sleepy, civil air of attention,

as had served him under the infliction many times before.

John gave only one piece of advice, namely, that he should consign a

fixed sum for household expenses into his wife’s hands; so that he might

not be subject to continued applications.

On this he acted; and subtracting to himself, wine, men, and horses, the

full amount of his bachelor income, he, for the first time, communicated

to Violet the result of the various consultations.

‘So the upshot of it all is, that we are to have a house somewhere in

Belgravia,’ he began.

‘That is near Lord Martindale’s London house, is it not?’

‘Yes; you will be in the way of all that is going on.’

‘Do we go there next month?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Oh! I am glad.’

‘Are you? I thought you liked being here.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, that I do; but it will be so pleasant to be at

home, and to have you all to myself.’

She repented the next moment, as if it had been a complaint; but he was

gratified, and called her a little monopolist.

‘Oh, I don’t mean to be troublesome to you,’ said she, earnestly; ‘I

shall have so much more to do in our own house, that I shall not miss

you so much when you are out; besides, we can have Annette to stay with

us.’

‘We’ll see about that. But look here,’ laying a paper with some figures

before her; ‘that’s all my father leaves me for you to keep house with.

I put it into your hands, and you must do the best you can with it.’

‘You don t mean to put all that into my hands!’ exclaimed Violet in

alarm. ‘What a sum!’

‘You won’t think so by the end of the year; but mind, this must do; it

will be of no use to come to me for more.’

‘Then is it little?’ asked Violet.

‘See what you think of it by and by; you won’t find it such an easy

thing to make both ends meet.’

‘I will write and ask mamma to tell me how to manage.’

‘Indeed,’ said Arthur, with sharpness such as she had never seen in him

before, ‘I beg you will not. I won’t have my affairs the town talk

of Wrangerton.’ But seeing her look frightened, and ready to cry, he

softened instantly, and said, affectionately, ‘No, no, Violet, we

must keep our concerns to ourselves. I don’t want to serve for the

entertainment of Matilda’s particular friends.’

‘Mamma wouldn’t tell--’

‘I’ll trust no house of seven women.’

‘But how am I to know how to manage?’

‘Never mind; you’ll get on. It comes as naturally to women as if it was

shooting or fishing.’

‘I wonder how I shall begin! I don’t know anything.’

‘Buy a cookery book.’

‘Aunt Moss gave me one; I didn’t mean that. But, oh, dear, there’s the

hiring of servants, and buying things!’

‘Don’t ask me: it is woman’s work, and always to be done behind the

scenes. If there’s a thing I mortally hate, it is those housekeeper

bodies who go about talking of their good cooks.’

Violet was silenced, but after much meditation she humbly begged for

answers to one or two questions. ‘Was she to pay the servants’ wages out

of this?’

‘Your maids--of course.’

‘And how many are we to have?’

‘As many as will do the work.’

‘A cook and housemaid--I wonder if that would be enough?’

‘Don’t ask me, that’s all’

‘I know you don’t like to be teased,’ she said, submissively; ‘but one

or two things I do want to know. Is James to be in the house?’

‘Why, yes; he is a handy fellow. We will have him down for Simmonds to

give him some training.’

‘Then ought we to have two maids or three?’

He held up his hands, and escaped.

That morning John, happening to come into the drawing-room, found Violet

disconsolately covering a sheet of paper with figures.

‘Abstruse calculations?’ said he.

‘Yes, very,’ said she, sighing, with the mystified face of a child

losing its way in a long sum.

He did not like to leave her in such evident difficulties, and said,

with a smile, ‘Your budget? Are you good at arithmetic?’

‘I can do the sums, if that was all, but I don’t know what to set out

from, or anything about it. Mamma said she could not think how I should

keep house.’

‘She would be the best person to give you counsel, I should think.’

‘Yes, but--’ and she looked down, struggling with tears, ‘I must not

write to ask her.’

‘How so!’

‘Arthur says the Wrangerton people would gossip, and I should not like

that,’ said she; ‘only it is very hard to make out for myself, and those

things tease Arthur.’

‘They are not much in his line,’ said John; ‘I don’t know,’ he added,

hesitating, ‘whether it would be of any use to you to talk it over with

me. There was a time when I considered the management of such an income;

and though it never came to practice, mine may be better than no notions

at all.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ said Violet, eagerly; then, pausing, she said, with a

sweet embarrassment, ‘only--you can’t like it.’

‘Thank you,’ replied he, with kind earnestness; ‘I should like to be of

use to you.’

‘It is just what I want. I am sure Arthur would like me to do it. You

see this is what he gives me, and I am to buy everything out of it.’

‘The best plan,’ said John; ‘it never answers to be always applying for

money.’

‘No,’ said Violet, thoughtfully, as she recollected certain home scenes,

and then was angry with herself for fancying Arthur could wear such

looks as those which all the house dreaded.

Meanwhile John had perceived how differently Arthur had apportioned the

income from what his own intentions had been. He had great doubts of the

possibility of her well-doing, but he kept them to himself. He advised

her to consider her items, and soon saw she was more bewildered than

helpless. He knew no more than Arthur on the knotty point of the number

of maids, but he was able to pronounce her plan sensible, and her eyes

brightened, as she spoke of a housemaid of mamma’s who wanted to better

herself, and get out of the way of the little ones, ‘who were always

racketing.’

‘And now,’ said John, ‘we passed over one important question--or is that

settled otherwise?--your own pocket-money!’

‘Oh! I have plenty. Arthur gave me fifty pounds when we went through

London, and I have twelve left.’

‘But for the future! Is it included here?’

‘I should think so. Oh!’ shocked at the sum he set down, ‘a quarter of

that would be enough for my dress.’

‘I don’t think Miss Standaloft would say so,’ said John, smiling.

‘But Arthur said we must economize, and I promised to be as little

expense as possible. Please let me write down half that.’

‘No, no,’ said John, retaining the pencil, ‘not with my consent. Leave

yourself the power of giving. Besides, this is to cover all the sundries

you cannot charge as household expenses. Now let me mark off another

hundred for casualties, and here is what you will have for the year. Now

divide.’

‘Surely, two people and three servants can’t eat all that in one week.’

‘Fires, candles,’ said John, amused, but poor Violet was quite

overpowered.

‘Oh, dear! how many things I never thought of! Mamma said I was too

young! These coals. Can you tell me anything about them?’

‘I am afraid not. You are getting beyond me. If you wanted to know the

cost of lodgings in Italy or the south of France, I could help you; but,

after all, experience is better bought than borrowed.’

‘But what shall I do? Suppose I make Arthur uncomfortable, or spend his

money as I ought not when he trusts me?’

‘Suppose you don’t,’ said John. ‘Why should you not become an excellent

housewife? Indeed, I think you will’ he proceeded, as she fixed her eyes

on him. ‘You see the principle in its right light. This very anxiety

is the best pledge. If your head was only full of the pleasure of being

mistress of a house, that would make me uneasy about you and Arthur.’

‘Oh! that would be too bad! Mamma has talked to me so much. She said I

must make it a rule never to have debts. She showed me how she pays

her bills every week, and gave me a great book like hers. I began at

Winchester.’

‘Why, Violet, instead of knowing nothing, I think you know a great

deal!’

She smiled, and said something about mamma. ‘I don’t say you will not

make mistakes,’ he continued, ‘but they will be steps to learn by. Your

allowance is not large. It seems only fair to tell you that it may not

be sufficient. So, if you find the expenses exceed the week’s portion,

don’t try to scramble on; it will only be discomfort at the time, and

will lead to worse. Go boldly to Arthur, and make him attend; it is the

only way to peace and security.’

‘I see,’ said Violet, thoughtfully. ‘Oh, I hope I shall do right. One

thing I should like. I mean, I thought one ought to set apart something

for giving away.’

‘That is one use in reserving something for yourself,’ said John, in his

kindest manner. ‘Of the rest, you are only Arthur’s steward.’

‘Yes, I hope I shall manage well.’

‘You will if you keep your present frame of mind.’

‘But I am so young and ignorant. I did not think enough about it when I

was married,’ said Violet, sorrowfully, ‘and how it seems all to come

on me. To have all his comfort and the well-being of a whole house

depending on such as I am.’

‘I can only say one thing in answer, Violet, what I know was the best

comfort to one who, without it, would have sunk under the weight of

responsibility.’ His whole countenance altered, his voice gave way, a

distressing fit of coughing came on, the colour flushed into his face,

and he pressed his hand on his chest. Violet was frightened, but it

presently ceased, and after sitting for a few moments, exhausted, with

his head resting on his hand, he took up the pencil, and wrote down--‘As

thy day, so shall thy strength be’--pushed it towards her, and slowly

left the room.

Violet shed a few tears over the paper, and was the more grieved when

she heard of his being confined to his room by pain in the side. She

told Arthur what had passed. ‘Ah! poor John,’ he said, ‘he never can

speak of Helen, and any agitation that brings on that cough knocks him

up for the rest of the day. So he has been trying to “insense” you, has

he? Very good-natured of him.’

‘I am so grieved. I was afraid it would be painful to him. But what was

the responsibility he spoke of?’

‘Looking after her grandfather, I suppose. He was imbecile all

the latter part of his life. Poor John, they were both regularly

sacrificed.’

John took the opportunity of a visit from his father that afternoon to

tell him how much good sense and right feeling Violet had shown, and

her reluctance to appropriate to herself what he had insisted on as

absolutely necessary.

‘That is only inexperience, poor girl,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘She does

not know what she will want. If it is not confidential, I should like to

know what she allows herself.’

John mentioned the sum.

‘That is mere nonsense!’ exclaimed his father. ‘It is not half as much

as Theodora has! And she living in London, and Arthur making such a

point about her dress. I thought you knew better, John!’

‘I knew it was very little, but when I considered the rest, I did not

see how she could contrive to give herself more.’

‘There must be some miscalculation,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘There is not

the least occasion for her to be straitened. You thought yourself the

allowance was ample.’

‘That it is; but you know Arthur has been used to expensive habits.’

‘More shame for him.’

‘But one can hardly expect him to reduce at once. I do think he is

sincere in his promises, but he will be careless, even in ordinary

expenditure. I don’t say this is what ought to be, but I fear it will

be. All the prudence and self-denial must be upon her side.’

‘And that from a girl of sixteen, universally admired! What a business

it is! Not that I blame her, poor thing, but I don’t see what is to

become of them.’

The conversation was not without results. Lord Martindale, some little

time after, put into Violet’s hand an envelope, telling her she must

apply the contents to her own use; and she was astounded at finding it a

cheque for £100. He was going to London, with both his sons, to choose a

house for Arthur, and to bid farewell to John, who was warned, by a few

chilly days, to depart for a winter in Madeira.

Violet was, during her husband’s absence, to be left at Rickworth;

and in the last week she had several other presents, a splendid

dressing-case from Lady Martindale, containing more implements than she

knew how to use, also the print of Lalla Rookh; and even little Miss

Piper had spent much time and trouble on a very ugly cushion. Theodora

declared her present should be useful, and gave all the household linen,

for the purpose of having it hemmed by her school-children;--and this,

though she and Miss Piper sat up for three nights till one o’clock to

hasten it, was so far from ready, that Captain and Mrs. Martindale would

have begun the world without one table-cloth, if old Aunt Moss had not

been hemming for them ever since the day of Arthur’s proposal.

Theodora was weary and impatient of the conflict of influence, and

glad to be left to her own pursuits, while she thought that, alone with

Violet, Arthur must surely be brought to a sense of his mistake.

Violet’s heart bounded at the prospect of a renewal of the happy days at

Winchester, and of a release from the restraint of Martindale, and the

disappointment of making no friends with the family,--Mr. Martindale was

the only one of them with whom she was sorry to part; and she had seen

comparatively little of him. Indeed, when the three gentlemen set out,

she thought so much of Arthur’s being away for a week, that she could

not care for John’s voyage to Madeira, and looked preoccupied when he

affectionately wished her good-bye, telling her to watch for him in the

spring,--her house would be his first stage on his return. Then, as he

saw her clinging to Arthur to the last moment, and coming down with him

to the bottom of the long steps, he thought within himself, ‘And by that

time there will be some guessing how much strength and stability there

is with all that sweetness, and she will have proved how much there is

to trust to in his fondness!’

There was not much time for bewailing the departures before Emma Brandon

came to claim her guest; and the drive was pleasant enough to make

Violet shake off her depression, and fully enjoy the arrival at

Rickworth, which now bore an aspect so much more interesting than on her

former drive.

The wooded hills in the first flush of autumn beauty sloped softly down

to the green meadows, and as the carriage crossed the solid-looking old

stone bridge, Violet exclaimed with transport, at a glimpse she caught

of a gray ruin--the old priory! She was so eager to see it that she and

Emma left the carriage at the park gate, and walked thither at once.

Little of the building remained, only a few of the cloister arches, and

the stumps of broken columns to mark the form of the chapel; but the

arch of the west window was complete, and the wreaths of ivy hid its

want of tracery, while a red Virginian creeper mantled the wall. All was

calm and still, the greensward smooth and carefully mown, not a nettle

or thistle visible, but the floriated crosses on the old stone coffin

lids showing clearly above the level turf, shaded by a few fine old

trees, while the river glided smoothly along under the broad floating

water-lily leaves, and on its other side the green lawn was repeated,

cattle quietly grazing on the rich pasture, shut in by the gently rising

woods. The declining sun cast its long shadows, and all was peace,--the

only sounds, the robin’s note and the ripple of the stream.

Violet stood with her hands resting on Emma’s arm, scarcely daring to

break the silence. ‘How lovely!’ said she, after a long interval. ‘O

Emma, how fond you must be of this place!’

‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ said Emma, but with less satisfaction than

Violet expected.

‘It is worth all the gardens at Martindale.’

‘To be sure it is,’ said Emma, indignantly.

‘It puts me in mind of St. Cross.’

‘But St. Cross is alive, not a ruin,’ said Emma, with a sigh, and she

asked many questions about it, while showing Violet the chief points of

interest, where the different buildings had been, and the tomb of

Osyth, the last prioress. Her whole manner surprised Violet, there was a

reverence as if they were actually within a church, and more melancholy

than pleasure in the possession of what, nevertheless, the young heiress

evidently loved with all her heart.

Turning away at length, they crossed the park, and passed through the

garden, which was gay with flowers, though much less magnificent than

Mr. Harrison’s. Emma said, mamma was a great gardener, and accordingly

they found her cutting off flowers past their prime. She gave Violet a

bouquet of geranium and heliotrope, and conducted her to her room with

that motherly kindness and solicitude so comfortable to a lonely guest

in a strange house.

Not that the house could long seem strange to Violet. It was an

atmosphere of ease, where she could move and speak without feeling on

her good behaviour. Everything throughout was on an unpretending scale,

full of comfort, and without display, with a regularity and punctuality

that gave a feeling of repose.

Violet was much happier than she had thought possible without Arthur,

though her pleasures were not such as to make a figure in history. There

were talks and walks, drives and visits to the school, readings and

discussions, and the being perfectly at home and caressed by mother

and daughter. Lady Elizabeth had all the qualities that are better than

intellect, and enough of that to enter into the pursuits of cleverer

people. Emma had more ability, and so much enthusiasm, that it was well

that it was chastened by her mother’s sound sense, as well as kept under

by her own timidity.

It was not till Violet was on the point of departure that she knew the

secret of Emma’s heart. The last Sunday evening before Arthur was to

fetch her away, she begged to walk once more to the Priory, and have

another look at it. ‘I think,’ said she, ‘it will stay in my mind like

Helvellyn in the distance.’

Emma smiled, and soon they stood in the mellow light of the setting sun,

beside the ruin. ‘How strange,’ said Violet, ‘to think that it is three

hundred years since Sunday came to this chapel.’

‘I wonder’ said Emma, breaking off, then beginning, ‘O Violet, it is the

wish of my heart to bring Sundays back to it.’

‘Emma! but could it be built up again?’

‘Mamma says nothing must be done till I am twenty-five--almost six years

hence. Not then, unless I am tame and sober, and have weighed it well.’

‘Restore it?--build a church?’

‘I could have a sort of alms-house, with old people and children, and we

could look after them ourselves.’

‘That would be delightful. Oh, I hope you will do it.’

‘Don’t think of it more than as a dream to myself and mamma. I could not

help saying it to you just then; but it is down too deep generally even

for mamma. It must come back somehow to God’s service. Don’t talk of it

any more, Violet, dearest, only pray that I may not be unworthy.’

Violet could hardly believe a maiden with such hopes and purposes

could be her friend, any more than Prioress Osyth herself; and when,

half-an-hour afterwards, she heard Emma talking over the parish and

Sunday-school news in an ordinary matter-of-fact way, she did not seem

like the same person.

There were many vows of correspondence, and auguries of meeting next

spring. Lady Elizabeth thought it right that her daughter should see

something of London life, and the hope of meeting Violet was the one

thing that consoled Emma, and Violet talked of the delight of making her

friend and Annette known to each other.

To this, as Lady Elizabeth observed, Arthur said not a word. She could

not help lecturing him a little on the care of his wife, and he listened

with a very good grace, much pleased at their being so fond of her.

She wished them good-bye very joyously, extremely happy at having her

husband again, and full of pleasant anticipations of her new home.

PART II

There’s pansies for you, that’s for thoughts.

--Hamlet

CHAPTER 1

How far less am I blest than they,

Daily to pine, and waste with care,

Like the poor plant, that from its stem

Divided, feels the chilling air.

--MICKLE’S Cumnor Hall

Arthur and Violet arrived at their new home in the twilight, when

the drawing-room fire burnt brightly, giving a look of comfort. The

furniture was good; and by the fire stood a delightful little low chair

with a high back, and a pretty little rosewood work-table, on which

was a coloured glass inkstand, and a table-stand of books in choice

bindings.

‘Arthur, Arthur, how charming! I am sure this is your doing.’

‘No, it is John’s; I can’t devise knick-knackeries, but he is a thorough

old bachelor, and has been doing all sorts of things to the house, which

have made it more tolerable.’

‘How very kind he is! The books--how beautiful! Just what I wanted.

That one he lent me--he talked to me of that. This Emma has--I saw your

sister reading that, and wished to see more of it. But I can’t look at

them all now; I must see Sarah, she was to bring something from home.’

A Wrangerton face had great charms, though it was starched and severe,

without one smile in answer to the joyous greeting, ‘Well, Sarah, I am

glad you could come. How are they all?’

‘Thank you, ma’am, Mr. and Mrs. Moss, and the young ladies, and Mr.

Albert, are all very well, and desires their love,’ replied a voice

solemn enough for the announcement that they were all at the point of

death. Violet’s spirits would have been damped but for the sight of the

table spread with parcels directed in dear familiar writing, and she

was pouncing on them when Sarah began her grave requests for orders, and

Violet felt her own ignorance and incapacity growing more patent every

moment as questions about arrangements beset and tormented her on every

side. At last she was left to enjoy the out-spreading of the precious

gifts, the devices characteristic of the kind hands that had prepared

them, and all her own private possessions--a welcome sight.

It was a happy evening, and the days that followed were full of pleasure

and occupation--in settling her treasures and making purchases. When she

seated herself in her own carriage, she thought now indeed it would

be delightful to show herself to her mother and sisters. She had no

relation in London but an uncle, a solicitor, fond and proud of her,

but too sensible to wish to frequent her house. He gave her a silver

tea-pot; and being asked to dinner now and then on Sunday was all the

attention he required. Her brother Albert did, indeed, sometimes come

to town on business; and Violet, after many hopes, was, one evening,

charmed at seeing him make his appearance. Arthur asked him to stay to

dinner, after which they were going to a party.

Albert, a spruce, good-looking youth, had been too grand to make friends

with so young a sister; but, now that she was a person of consequence,

his tone was different. He talked his best, and she had a perfect feast

of Wrangerton news--showed him all her presents, and enjoyed the thought

of Annette’s smile at hearing of her little Violet stepping into her

carriage for a party at a countess’s.

Arthur said London was empty, but Violet thought her visitors

innumerable, and, as the autumn advanced towards winter, had many

invitations. She enjoyed going out; her shyness had nearly worn off;

and she was everywhere received so as to make Arthur, proud and pleased.

Indeed she had doubts whether she was not growing too gay, and if it was

right to pay so much attention to her appearance. She asked Arthur, and

was laughed at for her pains.

However, Violet was not without her troubles from the first. She was

very much afraid of Sarah, and never spoke to her without shrinking back

into Miss Violet, and being conscious that it was mere presumption in

her to try to order one so much wiser than herself. The cook, a relation

of Miss Standaloft, was much more smooth and deferential, full of

resources, which seemed to come from Mrs. Martindale herself; and though

the weekly bills always exceeded her reckonings, so many things were

wanting, as Mrs. Cook observed, just getting into a house. The first

time of having any guests at dinner, Violet was in much anxiety, but

all went off to general satisfaction until the bills came in on Monday

morning. The cost was beyond her calculations, exceeded her week’s

portion, and devoured the savings of the days when they had not dined at

home. Invitations had been sent out for another party, and Violet tried

to bring it within bounds; but the cook was civilly superior--‘It was

always so in the first families, such as she was accustomed to, but if

Mrs. Martindale liked to have things in a different style--’

She knew Arthur would consent to no external change, and all she could

do was to look at the price of all she ordered, reject sundry expensive

delicacies, and trust to living on the relics of the feast for the rest

of the week; but, behold! they scarcely served for one luncheon, and on

Monday the bills had mounted up in an inexplicable manner. There were no

savings left, and she made up the deficiency from her own resources. A

third party was impending, and she strove more resolutely for frugality.

‘Well, ma’am, if you choose, it must be so; but it was not what I was

used to in the families such as I have lived in.’

But Violet was firm, whereupon the cook harassed her with contrarieties;

and late hours and London air had so far told upon her that she

could not shake off her cares cheerfully. She knew all would turn out

ill--tormented herself--brought on a headache, and looked unwell when

the evening came. The cook sent up the dinner with just enough want of

care to keep her in such continual apprehension that she could hardly

attend to the conversation.

‘You did not make such a good hand of it to-day,’ said Arthur, when the

guests were gone; ‘that soup was ditch-water, and--’

Violet was so worn out that she burst into tears. ‘Hey? What’s the

matter now? I said nothing to cry for.’

She tried to speak, but the tears would not let her.

‘Well, if you can’t bear to be told everything is not perfection, I

don’t know what is to be done.’ And Arthur, in displeasure, took up a

candle and walked off to smoke a cigar in his sitting-room down-stairs.

Her tears were checked by consternation, and, earnest to be forgiven,

she followed; then, as he turned impatiently, said, in a trembling

pleading voice, ‘Dear Arthur, I’ve done crying. I did not mean to be

cross.’

‘Well, that’s enough, never mind,’ said he, not unkindly, but as if in

haste to dismiss the subject, and be left to the peaceful enjoyment of

his cigar.

‘And you forgive me?’

‘Forgive? nonsense--only don’t begin crying about nothing again. There’s

nothing more intolerable than for a woman to be always crying, whenever

one speaks to her.’

‘’Twas not so much that,’ said Violet, meekly, ‘as that I was vexed

at the dinner not looking well, and it won’t, without spending such

quantities of money!’

‘Quantities--what do you call quantities?’

She named the cost of the last dinner, and he laughed at her horror;

then, when she was going to prove that it was disproportionate to their

means, he silenced her:

‘Well, well, never mind; we are not going to give any more dinners just

yet; but when we do, have done with pinching and squeezing. Why, you

don’t look fit to be seen after it.’

‘I’m only tired.’

‘Ay, with worrying. Go to bed and to sleep, and forget it all!’

She was consoled for that time; but the perplexity continued. She strove

to reduce the ordinary expenditure, but Arthur had a fashion of bringing

home a friend to dinner without notice; and she underwent indescribable

miseries, while reflecting on her one chicken, or five mutton chops; and

though something was sure to be extemporized by the cook, the result was

that these casual guests were as expensive as a banquet. She ventured

to beg Arthur to tell her when he was going to ask any one, but he was

vexed, and said he liked to bring home a man by chance; there need be

nothing out of the common way, and a dinner for two was a dinner

for three. Poor Violet thought, ‘Ah! this is not like the time at

Winchester. It is my own fault, I am not companion, enough.’

She began to grow tired of going out in the evening; late hours tried

her; she felt listless and unwell; and her finances could not support

the dress expenses, but when she tried to excuse herself, she found

Arthur determined on taking her out, though he had previously grumbled,

and declared he only went for her sake. When she looked pale and languid

he seemed annoyed, in a way that gave her the impression that he valued

nothing but her beauty. She believed he found home dull, and her not

what he expected.

The truth was, perhaps, that Violet’s spirits were naturally not strong,

and she was scarcely equal to the cares that had come on her. She missed

the companionship of the large family at home; and a slight degree of

indisposition or of anxiety was sufficient to set her tormenting herself

with every imaginable fear and grief; above all, the dread that he was

not pleased with her.

She believed herself to have strictly adhered to the rule of paying

for everything at once; but she was dismayed by a shower of bills at

Christmas, for things ordered by the cook without her knowledge, several

of which she disowned altogether; and several that her memory and ‘great

book’ both declared she had paid; though the tradesmen and the cook,

through whom the money had been sent, stoutly denied it. She was

frightened, paid the sums, and so went the last remains of Lord

Martindale’s present.

Sure that the woman was dishonest, yet not knowing how to prove it;

afraid to consult Arthur on the household concerns, that he detested;

and with a nervous dread of a disturbance, Violet made arrangements for

conveying no more payments through Mrs. Cook; and, for the rest, thought

she must go on as she could, till the time should come, when, near the

end of May, she reckoned on having her mother with her. She would repair

her mistakes, make her feel herself mistress in her own house, and help

her to all she wanted to know, without fear of Wrangerton gossip. That

hope strengthened and cheered her in all her troubles; and oh! suppose

Annette came too!

Poor Violet! the first time she referred to her mother’s coming, Arthur

looked annoyed, gave a sort of whistle, and said, as if searching for an

excuse, ‘Why, they never could spare her from Wrangerton.’

‘O, that they would,’ said Violet, eagerly; ‘or if not mamma herself, at

least, I am sure, Matilda would come to me, or Annette.’

‘Whew!’ again whistled Arthur; ‘I don’t know whether that will do.’

‘Arthur!’

‘There will be my mother close by, and Lady Elizabeth. No, no, you won’t

want to have any one up from there.’

‘May I not have my own mamma?’ pleaded poor Violet, urged into something

like pertinacity.

But Arthur cut her short; his great dislike to what he had to say making

him speak the more ungraciously: ‘I don’t want to vex you, Violet, but

once for all we must come to an understanding. You must not expect to

have your family here. They are good sort of people, and all that style

of thing,’--he faltered at her looks of imploring consternation, and

tried to work himself into anger in order to be able to finish. ‘It

is of no use looking wretched, I tell you, you must put it out of your

head. They belong to a different set altogether, and it won’t do any

way. There now, don’t go and be nervous about yourself; Theodora shall

see to you, and you’ll do very well, I have no doubt.’

With these words he hastily quitted her, that he might not witness the

distress he had occasioned, though he had not the least idea what his

refusal was to her.

The sense of her own helplessness and inexperience, and the prospect of

illness, without mother or sister, were lost in the more overpowering

sorrow at his unkindness. How could he love her if he denied her this at

such a time, and in such a manner?’ He is ashamed of my family! ashamed

of me! He is disappointed in me! I can’t make it pleasant to him at

home. I am not even good-tempered when I am not well, and I am not half

as pretty as I used to be! Oh! if he had but married me for anything

but my prettiness! But I was not worth vexing every one for! I am only a

plague and trouble! Well, I dare say I shall die, now there is no one

to take care of me, and then, perhaps, he will be sorry for me. Just at

last, I’ll tell him how I did mean to be a good wife, and tried all I

could.’

But then poor Violet fell into a maze of terror. She roused herself and

dried her tears on hearing some one approaching. It was James, bringing

in a parcel. It contained a beautiful and costly silk dress. After the

first glance she pushed it from her, and her grief burst forth again.

‘Does he think that can make up to me for my mother? How silly he must

think me! Yet he is kind and tries to please me still, though I am so

troublesome! Dear, dear Arthur!’

She took it back upon her lap, and tried to admire, but her heart failed

her; and she could not look at it till the sound of his entrance revived

her; she felt as if she had been injuring him, and recalling her smiles,

met him with what he thought delighted gratitude.

He was relieved to find the late subject blown over, and only wishing to

keep it out of her mind, he invited her to take a walk.

Violet had begun to dread his walks, for he was a loiterer, apt to go

further and stay out longer than he intended, and she could not bear

to tease him by hints of fatigue; but to-day she could not demur at

anything he asked, and she only observed that they had better not go

far, as they had an engagement for the evening.

At first the air and his attention did her good; but when she saw

Captain Fitzhugh approaching, she knew that Arthur’s arm was the only

further use she should have of him, and there would be an endless

sauntering and talk about horses or fishing, while he would all the time

fancy himself going home.

The consequence was, that she was obliged to go at once to bed on coming

in, and was declared by Arthur to have been very silly never to have

mentioned her fatigue; while Sarah, bestowing grim and sour looks upon

them both, attended on her with the most assiduous and minute care.

Arthur was greatly concerned, and very unwilling to go to the party

alone, but Violet persuaded him, and he promised to return early; then

found the evening pleasant, and never knew how time went, while she was

lying awake, imagining that something dreadful had happened to him, and

mourning over her grievances.

The effects of that over-fatigue did not pass away, and she was forced

to give up all evening engagements. He meant to be kind, but was too

ignorant and inconsiderate not to do her as much harm as good. One day

he almost overwhelmed her with attentions, the next left her to herself.

He offered to refuse all invitations for her sake, but it ended in

her spending more than half her evenings alone; and when the horse was

wanted for him in the evening, she lost her drive. Very soon she fell

out of the habit of going out, for now that she was no companion for his

long rambles, he found other ways of disposing of his afternoons; and

she was still so countrified as to dislike and dread walking alone,

even in the quiet Belgravian regions, so that she was always relieved to

decide that the gray mist was such as could do no one any good, or that

she really was not well enough for a walk.

She did not know the use of change of scene, and the bracing effect

of resolution,--she had no experience of self-management, and had

not learnt that it was a duty not to let herself pine. Though most

conscientious, she had not yet grown up to understand religion as a

present comfort. To her it was a guide and an obligation, and as such

she obeyed its dictates, to the best of her power, but only as an

obedient child, without understanding the immediate reward in this

life, namely, confidence, support, and peace. It is a feeling generally

belonging to an age beyond hers, though only to be won by faithful

discipline. She was walking in darkness, and, by and by, light might

come. But there was one omission, for which she long after grieved; and

which, though she knew it not, added to her present troubles.

All heart and hope had been taken from her since she had been forbidden

to see her mother and sister. The present was dreary, the future

nothing but gloom and apprehension, and she had little to distract her

attention. She strove hard to fulfil what she knew were duties, her

household concerns and the readings she had fixed as tasks; but these

over, she did not try to rouse her mind from her cares; nor had she

perhaps the power, for her difficulties with the cook were too much for

her, and it was very trying to spend so many hours of the dingy London

day and long evening in solitude.

Her amusing books were exhausted, and she used to lie forlorn on the

sofa, with her needlework, hearing the roar of carriage-wheels, and,

her mind roaming from the perplexities of her accounts to her sad

forebodings and her belief in Arthur’s coldness, till her heart seemed

ready to break,--and her tears gathered, first in solitary drops, then

in floods. She had no one to cheer her spirits, to share her hopes and

fears. Her plans and employments were tedious to her husband, and he

must not be troubled with them,--and so, locked up within herself, they

oppressed her with care and apprehension. In letter-writing there was

only pain; she could not bear to be supposed unwell or unhappy, and,

above all, dreaded saying what might lead to an offer from her mother

to come to her. Her letters became mere comments on home news; she wrote

less frequently, feared they would think her grown too fine to care for

them, and then wept and sobbed with home sickness. There was a little

more comfort in writing to Rickworth, for she expected the Brandons

early in May, and her only hope was in Lady Elizabeth for care and

counsel: for as to Arthur’s dependence, his mother and sister, she felt

as if the fear and restraint of their presence would be unbearable.

Her husband never guessed how she languished. In his presence she was

a different creature, forgetting her griefs in the one wish of pleasing

him. No matter what she had been undergoing in his absence, his knock

raised her spirits, in a moment life darted into her limbs and colour

into her cheeks. She had no notion of complaining. Her mother had always

been silent, though often with greater cause for remonstrance; and poor

Violet, imagining herself a burden, would not for the world have made

herself more troublesome than she could help. Her whole desire was to

win a smile, a fond word, a caress, and she sat watching as if those

were life to her; her cheeks burning with eagerness so much that Arthur

little guessed how wan they were in his absence.

The colour was heightened by warm rooms, for Arthur was of a chilly

race, and could not understand how oppressive the close atmosphere of

London was to one used to mountain breezes. He would come in shivering,

and be provoked to find her sitting by the smallest of fires; till

she learnt that their estimate of heat was so different, that the only

safety was in keeping the room like an oven. The folding doors into the

back drawing-room had a trick of opening of their own accord; and the

trouble given her by this draught-trap, as Arthur called it, can hardly

be estimated, especially one windy week in March, when he had a cold.

She had never been wont to think seriously of colds but when it came to

coughing and feverishness all night, and Arthur, with his hand on his

chest, persisted that it was all in his throat and told her to send for

a blister, she grew alarmed, but this only displeased him. He disdained

her entreaty that he would remain in bed; and said women always made a

fuss about nothing, when she timidly suggested sending for ‘some one.’

For three deplorable days he sat over the fire, with a distaste for

everything, while she did her utmost to make him comfortable, and

when she failed, thought it her own fault, reproached herself for

her inefficiency, and imagined that he was going to be as ill as his

brother, and that she should be of no use to him. How hard on him to

have such a bad wife! She could not even entertain him while he was kept

indoors--for she could not find anything to talk about, so long was it

since she had been out, or read anything amusing.

However, on the third afternoon, he brightened up, found the soup good,

talked and laughed, and declared that if to-morrow was fine, he should

be out again. And the next day she was so delighted to find his

cough was gone--more quickly than he had ever known so severe a cold

depart--that it was not till he was out of the house that she remembered

that she was condemned to solitude for many hours.

Here was quarter-day, bringing fresh confusion, in those inexplicable

household expenses, and a miserable sense of wastefulness, and

unfaithfulness to her charge. She thought of John’s advice, to make her

husband attend, if she found her means insufficient; and set herself to

draw up a statement of the case, to lay before him; but she grew more

and more puzzled; the cook’s dishonesty weighed on her, and her fears

of taking any measures increased. Her calculations always ended in

despairing tears.

She was lying on her bed, recovering from one of these almost hysterical

fits, when she was roused from a doze by a knock at her door; and

started up, trying to hide that anything had been the matter, as Sarah

came in, and said, with a tone of authority,

‘Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner, ma’am! but I will say you are not well

enough to see them.’

‘O no, Sarah, I am quite well, I was only asleep.’

‘You had better not go down,’ sternly repeated Sarah. ‘You had much

best lie down, and have your sleep out, after being kept awake till two

o’clock last night, with Captain Martindale not coming home. And you

with the pillow all awry, and that bit of a shawl over you! Lie you

down, and I’ll set it straight.’

But Violet was on her feet--the imputation on Captain Martindale had put

her on her mettle. ‘Thank you, I don’t want anything; I am going down

directly.’

Sarah shook her head, and looked significantly at the glass; and there,

indeed, Violet perceived that her eyes bore traces of recent weeping;

but, still, she would do anything rather than own her tears. ‘My head

aches a little--that makes my eyes heavy,’ said she. ‘It will do me good

to see Miss Gardner. I knew her at Martindale.’

But when Violet found herself in the presence of Miss Gardner, and of

a tall fashionable lady, she did not like the recollection that she had

been talked of as a beauty.

She was glad to meet Miss Gardner, but Mrs. Finch’s style was dashing

and almost boisterous, and her voice quick and loud, as she seized on

her hand, exclaiming, ‘I want no introduction, I have heard so much of

you! I know we shall be excellent friends. I must hear of Theodora. You

know she is the greatest ally I have on earth. When did you hear of her

last? When are they coming to town! I would not miss Theodora’s first

appearance for all the world.’

Violet felt overpowered by the torrent; but thought it was giving

no right impression of her husband to look disconsolate, and exerted

herself to be cheerful, and answer.

But they would speak of Martindale, and oblige her to expose her

ignorance. She did not know when the family were coming to town, nor had

she heard when Mr. Martindale’s return might be expected.

If Miss Gardner had been alone, she thought she might have got on

better; but the quieter elder sister hardly put in a word, so unceasing

was the talk of the younger; whose patronage became oppressive, when she

began on Mrs. Martindale herself; told her she was lazy, taking too much

care, and growing nervous: and even declared she should come some day,

take her by storm, and carry her out for a drive in the park.

Poor Violet felt as if to be shut up in the carriage with this talking

lady would kill her outright; begged she would not take the trouble;

but only met with smiles, and declarations that Theodora would scold her

well when she came.

The next afternoon Violet listened with dread to the sounds of wheels,

and was not at all inclined to blame a headache, which was sufficient

excuse for sending down thanks and refusal. On the following, she had

just made up her mind that the danger was over for that day, when her

alarm was excited by a thundering knock, and in walked her brother.

‘Well, Violet, I have caught you at home. I’m come to town about Lord

St. Erme’s business--go back by the mail train. Are you dining at home?

Can you give me a dinner?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said Violet; but fears came over her of Arthur’s not being

pleased, especially supposing he should bring back any one with him. And

therewith came dismay at finding herself giving no better welcome to her

own brother, and she eagerly asked for all at home.

‘In a high state of preservation. And how are you? You don’t look quite

the thing.’

‘Oh, yes, I am, thank you.’

‘And how is Martindale?’

‘He would not call him so to his face!’ thought the wife. ‘Oh! I wish he

would sit anywhere but in Arthur’s chair, and not fidget me with playing

with that horrid little piece of watch-chain!’ ‘He is very well, thank

you. He had a bad cold last week, but it is quite gone now. I hope he

will soon come in.’

‘I am not sorry to have found you alone. I want to hear something of

these relations of yours.’

‘Oh! I shall be sure to say something wrong!’ thought she, and as the

best thing to put forward, announced that they would soon be in London.

‘And they are not high with you? I hear fine accounts of their

grandeur,--they say the lady and her daughter are eaten up with pride,

and think no one fit to speak to.’

‘Miss Martindale has the plainest ways in the world. She will do

anything for the poor people.’

‘Ay, ay, that’s the way with fine ladies,--they like to be condescending

and affable. And so you say they receive you well? make you one of the

family--eh?’

Violet hoped it was not wrong to utter a faint ‘yes.’

‘Does Martindale’s sister write to you?’

‘No; she does not write letters much. But I told you how very kind they

are--Mr. Martindale, his brother, especially.’

‘Ay!’ said Albert, ‘he disconcerted our calculations. He seems to have

taken out a new lease.’

‘He is a great deal better.’

‘But he has no lungs left. His life can’t be worth a year’s purchase, by

what the governor heard. He would never have let Martindale have you on

such easy terms if he had not looked on you as good as her ladyship.’

Such shame and disgust came over Violet that she felt unworthy to sit

on John Martindale’s chair, and moved to the sofa, trying to change the

subject; but Albert persisted in inquiries about Mr. Martindale’s age,

health, and the likelihood of his marrying, till she could no longer be

without the perception that not only had her husband been to blame for

their marriage--her father’s part had been far worse.

Albert hoped the old lord was coming down handsomely and tried to make

her tell their income. She was glad not to know and he began calculating

it from their style of living, with such disregard to her feelings, as

made her contrast his manners with those of the true gentlemen to whom

she was now accustomed, and feel sadly that there was reason in her

husband’s wish to keep her family at a distance. There was no checking

or silencing this elder brother; she could only feel humiliated by

each proof of his vulgarity of mind, and blame herself, by turns, for

churlishness to him, and for permitting conversation Arthur would so

much dislike.

Why would not Arthur come and put a stop to it! It was not the first

time she had waited dinner for him in vain, and though she tried to make

Albert think she liked it, she knew she was a very bad dissembler.

When she at length ordered in dinner, the conversation changed to

Wrangerton doings, the Christmas gaieties, jokes about her sisters and

their imputed admirers, and a Miss Louisa Davies--a new-comer, about

whom Albert seemed to wish to be laughed at himself. But poor Violet

had no spirits even to perceive this,--she only thought of home and the

familiar scenes recalled by each name. What a gulf between her and them!

In what free, careless happiness they lived! What had her father done

in thrusting her into a position for which she was unfit,--into a family

who did not want her, and upon one to whom she was only a burthen! At

home they thought her happy and fortunate! They should never guess at

her wretchedness.

But when the time for Albert’s departure came, Violet forgot his

inconvenient questions, and would have given the world to keep him.

He was her own brother--a part of home; he loved her--she had felt

inhospitable to him, and perhaps she should never see him again.

When he recurred to her pale looks and languid manner, and expressed

concern, it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears, and

telling all her griefs; and she could not control the rapid agitated

tones that belied her repeated assurances that nothing was amiss, and

that he must not give a bad account of her and alarm her mother.

She could hardly let him go; and when he bade her goodbye, there was

a moment’s intense desire to be going with him, from this lonely room,

home to her mother and Annette, instantly followed by a horror at such a

wish having occurred, and then came the sobs and tears. She dreaded that

Arthur might be displeased at the visit; but he came home full of

good humour, and on hearing of it, only hoped she had good news from

Wrangerton, and said he was glad he had been out of the way, so that she

had been able to have her brother all to herself.

Her fears of the effect of Albert’s account of her were better founded;

for two mornings after, on coming down to breakfast, she found a letter

from her mother to exhort her to be careful, assuring her that she need

have no scruple in sending for her, and betraying so much uneasiness as

to add to all her terrors. She saw this in one glance; for she knew

that to dwell on the tender affectionate letter would bring on a fit of

weeping, and left it and the dreadful consideration of her reply till

Arthur should be gone, as he was to spend the day in fishing with a

friend in the country. He had come home late last night, and was not yet

dressed, and she waited long, gazing at the gleams of sunshine on the

square gardens, thinking how bright this second day of April must be

anywhere but here, where it was close and oppressive, and wondering

whether Helvellyn was beginning to lose his snow; then, as Helvellyn

brought the sensation that led to tears, she took the newspaper, and

had read more than she cared for before Arthur appeared, in the state of

impatience which voluntary lateness is sure to produce.

She gave him his tea as quickly as she could, but all went wrong: it

was a horrid cold day, ALL east wind--there was a cold wind coming in

somewhere.

‘The back drawing-room window! I’m sorry I did not see it was open.’

‘What makes you go to shut it?’ said he, hastily marching across the

room, and closing it and the doors. ‘I shall be gone in a moment, and

you may let in a hurricane if you like. Have you seen my cigar-case!’

‘It was on the ledge of your wardrobe.’

‘Some of your maids have been and hid it.’

‘I told Sarah never to put your things away. I think I could find it.’

‘No, don’t go, I have looked everywhere.’

As he never found things, even when before his eyes, this was not

conclusive; and she undertook the search in spite of another careless

‘No, no, don’t,’ knowing it meant the contrary.

She could not find it in his dressing-room, and he looked annoyed,

again accusing the maids. This made her feel injured, and though growing

exhausted, as well she might, as she had not even begun breakfast, she

said she would look in the sitting-room. He half remonstrated, without

looking up from the paper, but she hoped to be gladdened by thanks,

hunted in all his hiding-places in vain, and found she must give it up,

after a consultation with Sarah, who resentfully denied all knowledge of

it, and told her she looked ready to drop.

Dolefully coming into the hall, she saw Arthur’s black travelling-bag.

Was it for more than the day? The evenings were bad enough--but a

desolate night! And he had never told her!’

‘I suppose you have not found it?’

‘No; I wish I could!’

‘Never mind; it will turn up. You have tired yourself.’

‘But, Arthur, are you not coming home to-night?’

‘Didn’t I tell you? If I can’t get away by the seven o’clock train,

I thought of sleeping there. Ten o’clock, I declare! I shall miss the

train!’

She came to the head of the stairs with him, asking plaintively, ‘When

DO you come home? To-morrow, at latest?’

Perhaps it was her querulous tone, perhaps a mere boyish dislike to

being tied down, or even it might be mere hurry, that made him answer

impatiently, ‘I can’t tell--as it may happen. D’ye think I want to run

away! Only take care of yourself.’

This was in his coaxing voice; but it was not a moment when she could

bear to be turned aside, like an importunate child, and she was going to

speak; but he saw the wrong fishing-rod carried out, called hastily to

James, ran down-stairs, and was gone, without even looking back at her.

The sound of the closing door conveyed a sense of utter desolation to

her over-wrought mind--the house was a solitary prison; she sank on the

sofa, sobbing, ‘Oh, I am very, very miserable! Why did he take me from

home, if he could not love me! Oh, what will become of me? Oh, mamma!

mamma!’