But there was one fairy who was offended because she was not invited
to the Christening.--MOTHER BUNCH
Theodora had spent the winter in trying not to think of her brother.
She read, she tried experiments, she taught at the school, she
instructed the dumb boy, talked to the curate, and took her share of
such county gaieties as were not beneath the house of Martindale; but
at every tranquil moment came the thought, ‘What are Arthur and his wife
doing!’
There were rumours of the general admiration of Mrs. Martindale, whence
she deduced vanity and extravagance; but she heard nothing more till
Jane Gardner, a correspondent, who persevered in spite of scanty and
infrequent answers, mentioned her call on poor Mrs. Martindale, who,
she said, looked sadly altered, unwell, and out of spirits. Georgina
had tried to persuade her to come out, but without success; she ought to
have some one with her, for she seemed to be a good deal alone, and no
doubt it was trying; but, of course, she would soon have her mother with
her.
He leaves her alone--he finds home dull! Poor Arthur! A moment of
triumph was followed by another of compunction, since this was not a
doll that he was neglecting, but a living creature, who could feel pain.
But the anticipation of meeting Mrs. Moss, after all those vows against
her, and the idea of seeing his house filled with vulgar relations,
hardened Theodora against the wife, who had thus gained her point.
Thus came the morning, when her father interrupted breakfast with an
exclamation of dismay, and John’s tidings were communicated.
I wish I had been kind to her! shot across Theodora’s mind with acute
pain, and the image of Arthur in grief swallowed up everything else. ‘I
will go with you, papa--you will go at once!’
‘Poor young thing!’ said Lord Martindale; ‘she was as pretty a creature
as I ever beheld, and I do believe, as good. Poor Arthur, I am glad he
has John with him.’
Lady Martindale wondered how John came there,--and remarks ensued on
his imprudence in risking a spring in England. To Theodora this seemed
indifference to Arthur’s distress, and she impatiently urged her father
to take her to him at once.
He would not have delayed had Arthur been alone; but since John was
there, he thought their sudden arrival might be more encumbering than
consoling, and decided to wait for a further account, and finish affairs
that he could not easily leave.
Theodora believed no one but herself could comfort Arthur, and was
exceedingly vexed. She chafed against her father for attending to his
business--against her mother for thinking of John; and was in charity
with no one except Miss Piper, who came out of Mrs. Nesbit’s room red
with swallowing down tears, and with the under lady’s-maid, who could
not help begging to hear if Mrs. Martindale was so ill, for Miss
Standaloft said, ‘My lady had been so nervous and hysterical in her own
room, that she had been forced to give her camphor and sal volatile.’
Never had Theodora been more surprised than to hear this of the mother
whom she only knew as calm, majestic, and impassible. With a sudden
impulse, she hastened to her room. She was with Mrs. Nesbit, and
Theodora following, found her reading aloud, without a trace of emotion.
No doubt it was a figment of Miss Standaloft, and there was a sidelong
glance of satisfaction in her aunt’s eyes, which made Theodora so
indignant, that she was obliged to retreat without a word.
Her own regret and compassion for so young a creature thus cut off
were warm and keen, especially when the next post brought a new and
delightful hope, the infant, of whose life John had yesterday despaired,
was said to be improving. Arthur’s child! Here was a possession for
Theodora, an object for the affections so long yearning for something
to love. She would bring it home, watch over it, educate it, be all the
world to Arthur, doubly so for his son’s sake. She dreamt of putting his
child into his arms, and bidding him live for it, and awoke clasping the
pillow!
What were her feelings when she heard Violet was out of danger? For
humanity’s sake and for Arthur’s, she rejoiced; but it was the downfall
of a noble edifice. ‘How that silly young mother would spoil the poor
child!’
‘My brothers’ had always been mentioned in Theodora’s prayer, from
infancy. It was the plural number, but the strength and fervency of
petition were reserved for one; and with him she now joined the name
of his child. But how pray for the son without the mother? It was
positively a struggle; for Theodora had a horror of mockery and
formality; but the duty was too clear, the evil which made it
distasteful, too evident, not to be battled with; she remembered that
she ought to pray for all mankind, even those who had injured her, and,
on these terms, she added her brother’s wife. It was not much from her
heart; a small beginning, but still it was a beginning, that might be
blessed in time.
Lord Martindale wished the family to have gone to London immediately,
but Mrs. Nesbit set herself against any alteration in their plans being
made for the sake of Arthur’s wife. They were to have gone only in time
for the first drawing-room, and she treated as a personal injury the
proposal to leave her sooner than had been originally intended; making
her niece so unhappy that Lord Martindale had to yield. John’s stay in
London was a subject of much anxiety; and while Mrs. Nesbit treated it
as an absurd trifling with his own health, and his father reproached
himself for being obliged to leave Arthur to him, Theodora suffered from
complicated jealousy. Arthur seemed to want John more than her, John
risked himself in London, in order to be with Arthur and his wife.
She was very eager for his coming; and when she expected the return of
the carriage which was sent to meet him at the Whitford station, she
betook herself to the lodge, intending him to pick her up there, that
she might skim the cream of his information.
The carriage appeared, but it seemed empty. That dignified, gentlemanly
personage, Mr. Brown, alighted from the box, and advanced with
affability, replying to her astonished query, ‘Mr. Martindale desired me
to say he should be at home by dinner-time, ma’am. He left the train
at the Enderby station, and is gone round by Rickworth Priory, with a
message from Mrs. Martindale to Lady Elizabeth Brandon.’
Theodora stood transfixed; and Brown, a confidential and cultivated
person, thought she waited for more information.
‘Mr. Martindale has not much cough, ma’am, and I hope coming out of
London will remove it entirely. I think it was chiefly excitement and
anxiety that brought on a recurrence of it, for his health is decidedly
improved. He desired me to mention that Mrs. Martindale is much better.
She is on the sofa to-day for the first time; and he saw her before
leaving.’
‘Do you know how the little boy is?’ Theodora could not help asking.
‘He is a little stronger, thank you, ma’am,’ said Brown, with much
interest; ‘he has cried less these last few days. He is said to be
extremely like Mrs. Martindale.’
Brown remounted to his place, the carriage drove on, and Theodora
impetuously walked along the avenue.
‘That man is insufferable! Extremely like Mrs. Martindale! Servants’
gossip! How could I go and ask him? John has perfectly spoilt a good
servant in him! But John spoils everybody. The notion of that girl
sending him on her messages! John, who is treated like something sacred
by my father and mother themselves! Those damp Rickworth meadows! How
could Arthur allow it? It would serve him right if he was to marry Emma
Brandon after all!’
She would not go near her mother, lest she should give her aunt the
pleasure of hearing where he was gone; but as she was coming down,
dressed for dinner, she met her father in the hall, uneasily asking a
servant whether Mr. Martindale was come.
‘Arthur’s wife has sent him with a message to Rickworth,’ she said.
‘John? You don’t mean it. You have not seen him?’
‘No; he went round that way, and sent Brown home. He said he should be
here by dinner-time, but it is very late. Is it not a strange proceeding
of hers, to be sending him about the country!’
‘I don’t understand it. Where’s Brown?’
‘Here’s a fly coming up the avenue. He is come at last.’
Lord Martindale hastened down the steps; Theodora came no further than
the door, in so irritated a state that she did not like John’s cheerful
alacrity of step and greeting. ‘She is up to-day, she is getting
better,’ were the first words she heard. ‘Well, Theodora, how are you?’
and he kissed her with more warmth than she returned.
‘Did I hear you had been to Rickworth?’ said his father.
‘Yes; I sent word by Brown. Poor Violet is still so weak that she cannot
write, and the Brandons have been anxious about her; so she asked me to
let them know how she was, if I had the opportunity, and I came round
that way. I wanted to know when they go to London; for though Arthur is
as attentive as possible, I don’t think Violet is in a condition to be
left entirely to him. When do you go?’
‘Not till the end of May--just before the drawing-room,’ said Lord
Martindale.
‘I go back when they can take the boy to church. Is my mother in the
drawing-room? I’ll just speak to her, and dress--it is late I see.’
‘How well he seems,’ said Lord Martindale, as John walked quickly on
before.
‘There was a cough,’ said Theodora.
‘Yes; but so cheerful. I have not seen him so animated for years. He
must be better!’
His mother was full of delight. ‘My dear John, you look so much better!
Where have you been?’
‘At Rickworth. I went to give Lady Elizabeth an account of Violet. She
is much better.’
‘And you have been after sunset in that river fog! My dear John!’
‘There was no fog; and it was a most pleasant drive. I had no idea
Rickworth was so pretty. Violet desired me to thank you for your kind
messages. You should see her to-day, mother; she would be quite a study
for you; she looks so pretty on her pillows, poor thing! and Arthur is
come out quite a new character--as an excellent nurse.’
‘Poor thing! I am glad she is recovering,’ said Lady Martindale. ‘It
was very kind in you to stay with Arthur. I only hope you have not been
hurting yourself.’
‘No, thank you; I came away in time, I believe: but I should have been
glad to have stayed on, unless I made room for some one of more use to
Violet.’
‘I wish you had come home sooner. We have had such a pleasant
dinner-party. You would have liked to meet the professor.’
It was not the first time John had been sensible that that drawing-room
was no place for sympathy; and he felt it the more now, because he had
been living in such entire participation of his brother’s hopes and
fears, that he could hardly suppose any one could be less interested in
the mother and child in Cadogan-place. He came home, wishing Theodora
would go and relieve Arthur of some of the care Violet needed in
her convalescence; and he was much disappointed by her apparent
indifference--in reality, a severe fit of perverse jealousy.
All dinner-time she endured a conversation on the subjects for which she
least cared; nay, she talked ardently about the past dinner-party, for
the very purpose of preventing John from suspecting that her anxiety had
prevented her from enjoying it. And when she left the dining-room,
she felt furious at knowing that now her father would have all the
particulars to himself, so that none would transpire to her.
She longed so much to hear of Arthur and his child, that when John came
into the drawing-room she could have asked! But he went to greet his
aunt, who received him thus:
‘Well, I am glad to see you at last. You ought to have good reasons for
coming to England for the May east winds, and then exposing yourself to
them in London!’
‘I hope I did not expose myself: I only went out three or four times.’
‘I know you are always rejoiced to be as little at home as possible.’
‘I could not be spared sooner, ma’am.’
‘Spared? I think you have come out in a new capacity.’
John never went up his aunt without expecting to undergo a penance.
‘I was sorry no one else could be with Arthur, but being there, I could
not leave him.’
‘And your mother tells me you are going back again.’
‘Yes, to stand godfather.’
‘To the son and heir, as they called him in the paper. I gave
Arthur credit for better taste; I suppose it was done by some of her
connections?’
‘I was that connection,’ said John.
‘Oh! I suppose you know what expectations you will raise?’
John making no answer, she grew more angry. ‘This one, at least, is
never likely to be heir, from what I hear; it is only surprising that it
is still alive.’
How Theodora hung upon the answer, her very throat aching with anxiety,
but hardening her face because John looked towards her.
‘We were very much afraid for him at first,’ he said, ‘but they now
think there is no reason he should not do well. He began to improve from
the time she could attend to him.’
A deep sigh from his mother startled John, and recalled the grief of his
childhood--the loss of two young sisters who had died during her absence
on the continent. He crossed over and stood near her, between her and
his aunt, who, in agitated haste to change the conversation, called out
to ask her about some club-book. For once she did not attend; and while
Theodora came forward and answered Mrs. Nesbit, she tremulously asked
John if he had seen the child.
‘Only once, before he was an hour old. He was asleep when I came away;
and, as Arthur says, it is a serious thing to disturb him, he cries so
much.’
‘A little low melancholy wailing,’ she said, with a half sob. But Mrs.
Nesbit would not leave her at peace any longer, and her voice came
beyond the screen of John’s figure:--
‘Lady Martindale, my dear, have you done with those books! They ought to
be returned.’
‘Which, dear aunt?’ And Lady Martindale started up as if she had been
caught off duty, and, with a manifest effort, brought her wandering
thoughts back again, to say which were read and which were unread.
John did not venture to revert to a subject that affected his mother
so strongly; but he made another attempt upon his sister, when he could
speak to her apart. ‘Arthur has been wondering not to hear from you.’
‘Every one has been writing,’ she answered, coldly.
‘He wants some relief from his constant attendance,’ continued John;
‘I was afraid at first it would be too much for him, sitting up three
nights consecutively, and even now he has not at all recovered his
looks.’
‘Is he looking ill?’ said Theodora.
‘He has gone through a great deal, and when she tries to make him go
out, he only goes down to smoke. You would do a great deal of good if
you were there.’
Theodora would not reply. For Arthur to ask her to come and be godmother
was the very thing she wished; but she would not offer at John’s
bidding, especially when Arthur was more than ever devoted to his wife;
so she made no sign; and John repented of having said so much, thinking
that, in such a humour, the farther she was from them the better.
Yet what he had said might have worked, had not a history of the
circumstances of Violet’s illness come round to her by way of Mrs.
Nesbit. John had told his father; Lord Martindale told his wife; Lady
Martindale told her aunt, under whose colouring the story reached
Theodora, that Arthur’s wife had been helpless and inefficient, had done
nothing but cry over her household affairs, could not bear to be left
alone, and that the child’s premature birth had been occasioned by a
fit of hysterics because Arthur had gone out fishing. No wonder Theodora
pitied the one brother, and thought the other infatuated. To write
to Arthur was out of the question; and she could only look forward to
consoling him when the time for London should come. Nor was she much
inclined to compassionate John, when, as he said, the east wind--as
his aunt said, the London fog--as she thought, the Rickworth
meadows--brought on such an accession of cough that he was obliged to
confine himself to his two rooms, where he felt unusually solitary.
She went in one day to carry him the newspaper. ‘I am writing to
Arthur,’ he said, ‘to tell him that I shall not be able to be in London
next Sunday; do you like to put in a note?’
‘No, I thank you.’
‘You have no message?’
‘None.’
He paused and looked at her. ‘I wish you would write,’ he said. ‘Arthur
has been watching eagerly for your congratulation.’
‘He does not give much encouragement,’ said Theodora, moving to the
door.
‘I wish he was a letter writer! After being so long with them, I don’t
like hearing nothing more; but his time has been so much engrossed that
he could hardly have written at first. I believe the first letter he
looked for was from you.’
‘I don’t know what to say. Other people have said all the commonplace
things.’
‘You would not speak in that manner--you who used to be so fond of
Arthur--if you by any means realized what he has gone through.’
Theodora was touched, but would not show it. ‘He does not want me now,’
she said, and was gone, and then her lips relaxed, and she breathed a
heavy sigh.
John sighed too. He could not understand her, and was sensible that
his own isolation was as a consequence of having lived absorbed in
his affection and his grief, without having sought the intimacy of his
sister. His brother’s family cares had, for the first time, led him to
throw himself into the interests of those around him, and thus aroused
from the contemplation of his loss, he began to look with regret on
opportunities neglected and influence wasted. The stillness of his own
room did not as formerly suffice to him; the fears and hopes he had
lately been sharing rose more vividly before him, and he watched eagerly
for the reply to his letter.
It came, not from Arthur, but in the pointed style of Violet’s hardest
steel pen, when Matilda’s instructions were most full in her mind;
stiff, cramped, and formal, as if it had been a great effort to write
it, and John was grieved to find that she was still in no state for
exertion. She had scarcely been down-stairs, and neither she nor the
baby were as yet likely to be soon able to leave the house, in spite
of all the kind care of Lady Elizabeth and Miss Brandon. Violet made
numerous apologies for the message, which she had little thought would
cause Mr. Martindale to alter his route.
In fact, those kind friends had been so much affected by John’s account
of Violet’s weak state, under no better nursing than Arthur’s, that,
as he had hoped, they had hastened their visit to London, and were now
settled as near to her as possible, spending nearly the whole of their
time with her. Emma almost idolized the baby, and was delighted at
Arthur’s grateful request that she would be its sponsor, and Violet was
as happy in their company as the restlessness of a mind which had not
yet recovered its tone, would allow her to be.
In another fortnight John wrote to say that he found he had come home
too early, and must go to the Isle of Wight till the weather was warmer.
In passing through London, he would come to Cadogan-place, and it was
decided that he should arrive in time to go with the baby to church on
the Tuesday, and proceed the next morning.
He arrived as Violet came down to greet her party of sponsors. Never
had she looked prettier than when her husband led her into the room,
her taper figure so graceful in her somewhat languid movements, and her
countenance so sweetly blending the expression of child and mother. Each
white cheek was tinged with exquisite rose colour, and the dark liquid
eyes and softly smiling mouth had an affectionate pensiveness far
lovelier than her last year’s bloom, and yet there was something painful
in that beauty--it was too like the fragility of the flower fading under
one hour’s sunshine; and there was a sadness in seeing the matronly
stamp on a face so young that it should have shown only girlhood’s
freedom from care. Arthur indeed was boasting of the return of the
colour, which spread and deepened as he drew attention to it; but John
and Lady Elizabeth agreed, as they walked to church, that it was the
very token of weakness, and that with every kind intention Arthur did
not know how to take care of her--how should he?
The cheeks grew more brilliant and burning at church, for on being
carried to the font, the baby made his doleful notes heard, and when
taken from his nurse, they rose into a positive roar. Violet looked from
him to his father’s face, and there saw so much discomposure that her
wretchedness was complete, enhanced as it was by a sense of wickedness
in not being able to be happy and grateful. Just as when a few days
previously she had gone to return thanks, she had been in a nervous
state of fluttering and trembling that allowed her to dwell on nothing
but the dread of fainting away. The poor girl’s nerves had been so
completely overthrown, that even her powers of mind seemed to be
suffering, and her agitated manner quite alarmed Lady Elizabeth. She was
in good hands, however; Lady Elizabeth went home with her, kept every
one else away, and nursing her in her own kind way, brought her back to
common sense, for in the exaggeration of her weak spirits, she had been
feeling as if it was she who had been screaming through the service, and
seriously vexing Arthur.
He presently looked in himself to say the few fond merry words that were
only needed to console her, and she was then left alone to rest, not
tranquil enough for sleep, but reading hymns, and trying to draw her
thoughts up to what she thought they ought to be on the day of her
child’s baptismal vows.
It was well for her that the christening dinner (a terror to her
imagination) had been deferred till the family should be in town, and
that she had no guest but John, who was very sorry to see how weary and
exhausted she looked, as if it was a positive effort to sit at the head
of the table.
When the two brothers came up to the drawing-room, they found her on the
sofa.
‘Regularly done for!’ said Arthur, sitting down by her. ‘You ought to
have gone to bed, you perverse woman.’
‘I shall come to life after tea,’ said she, beginning to rise as signs
of its approach were heard.
‘Lie still, I say,’ returned Arthur, settling the cushion. ‘Do you think
no one can make tea but yourself! Out with the key, and lie still.’
‘I hope, Violet,’ said John, ‘you did not think the Red Republicans had
been in your drawers and boxes. I am afraid Arthur may have cast the
blame of his own doings on the absent, though I assure you I did my best
to protect them.’
‘Indeed he did you more justice,’ said Violet, ‘he told me the box was
your setting to rights, and the drawer his. It was very honest of him,
for I must say the box did you most credit.’
‘As to the drawer,’ said Arthur, ‘I wish I had put it into the fire at
once! Those accounts are a monomania! She has been worse from the day
she got hold of that book of hers again, and the absurd part of it is
that these are all bills that she pays!’
‘Oh! they are all comfortable now,’ said Violet.
‘And what did you say to Arthur’s bold stroke!’ said John.
‘Oh! I never laughed more in my life.’
‘Ah ha’’ said Arthur, ‘it was all my admirable sagacity! Why, John, the
woman was an incubus saddled upon us by Miss Standaloft, that this poor
silly child did not know how to get rid of, though she was cheating us
out of house and home. Never were such rejoicings as when she found the
Old Man of the Sea was gone!’
‘It is quite a different thing now,’ said Violet. ‘Nurse found me such
a nice niece of her own, who does not consume as much in a fortnight
as that dreadful woman did in a week. Indeed, my great book has some
satisfaction in it now.’
‘And yet he accuses it of having thrown you back.’
‘Everything does that!’ said Arthur. ‘She will extract means of tiring
herself out of anything--pretends to be well, and then is good for
nothing!’
‘Arthur! Arthur! do you know what you are doing with the tea?’ cried
Violet, starting up. He has put in six shellfuls for three people, and
a lump of sugar, and now was shutting up the unfortunate teapot
without one drop of water!’ And gaily driving him away, she held up the
sugar-tongs with the lump of sugar in his face, while he laughed and
yielded the field, saying, disdainfully, ‘Woman’s work.’
‘Under the circumstances,’ said John, ‘putting in no water was the best
thing he could do.’
‘Ay,’ said Arthur, ‘a pretty fellow you for a West Indian proprietor, to
consume neither sugar nor cigars.’
‘At this rate,’ said John, ‘they are the people to consume nothing.
There was such an account of the Barbuda property the other day, that my
father is thinking of going to see what is to be done with it.’
‘No bad plan for your next winter,’ said Arthur. ‘Now, Violet, to your
sofa! You have brewed your female potion in your female fashion, and may
surely leave your betters to pour it out.’
‘No, indeed! How do I know what you may serve us up?’ said she, quite
revived with laughing. ‘I won’t give up my place.’
‘Quite right, Violet,’ said John, ‘don’t leave me to his mercy. Last
time he made tea for me, it consisted only of the other ingredient,
hot water, after which I took the law into my own hands for our mutual
benefit. Pray what became of him after I was gone?’
‘I was obliged to have him up into my room, and give him his tea
properly there, or I believe he would have existed on nothing but
cigars.’
‘Well, I shall have some opinion of you when you make him leave off
cigars.’
‘Catch her!’ quietly responded Arthur.
‘There can’t be a worse thing for a man that gets bad coughs.’
‘That’s all smoke, Violet,’ said Arthur. ‘Don’t tell her so, or I shall
never have any peace.’
‘At least, I advise you to open the windows of his den before you show
my mother and Theodora the house.’
‘As to Theodora! what is the matter with her!’ said Arthur.
‘I don’t know,’ said John.
‘In one of her moods? Well, we shall have her here in ten days’ time,
and I shall know what to be at with her.’
‘I know she likes babies,’ said Violet, with confidence. She had quite
revived, and was lively and amused; but as soon as tea was over, Arthur
insisted on her going to bed.
The loss of her gentle mirth seemed to be felt, for a long silence
ensued; Arthur leaning against the mantel-shelf, solacing himself with
a low whistle, John sitting in meditation. At last he looked up, saying,
‘I wish you would all come and stay with me at Ventnor.’
‘Thank you; but you see there’s no such thing as my going. Fitzhugh is
in Norway, and till he comes back, I can’t get away for more than a day
or two.’
‘Suppose,’ said John, rather doubtingly; ‘what should you think of
putting Violet under my charge, and coming backwards and forwards
yourself?’
‘Why, Harding did talk of sea air, but she did not take to the notion;
and I was not sorry; for, of all things I detest, the chief is sticking
up in a sea place, with nothing to do. But it is wretched work going on
as we do, though they say there is nothing the matter but weakness. I
verily believe it is all that child’s eternal noise that regularly wears
her out. She is upset in a moment; and whenever she is left alone, she
sets to work on some fidget or other about the house, that makes her
worse than before.’
‘Going from home would be the best cure for that.’
‘I suppose it would. I meant her to have gone out with my mother, but
that can’t be anyway now! The sea would give her a chance; I could run
down pretty often; and you would see that she did not tire herself.’
‘I would do my best to take care of her, if you would trust her to me.’
‘I know you would; and it is very kind in you to think of it.’
‘I will find a house, and write as soon as it is ready. Do you think the
end of the week would be too soon for her? I am sure London is doing her
harm.’
‘Whenever you please; and yet I am sorry. I wanted my father to have
seen the boy; but perhaps he had better look a little more respectable,
and learn to hold his tongue first. Besides, how will it be taken, her
going out of town just as they come up?’
‘I rather think it would be better for her not to meet them till she is
stronger. Her continual anxiety and effort to please would be too much
strain.’
‘Very likely; and I am sure I won’t keep her here to expose her to Miss
Martindale’s airs. She shall come as soon as you like.’
Arthur was strengthened in his determination by the first sound that met
him on going up-stairs--the poor babe’s lamentable voice; and by finding
Violet, instead of taking the rest she so much needed, vainly trying to
still the feeble moaning. He was positively angry; and almost as if the
poor little thing had been wilfully persecuting her, declared it would
be the death of her, and peremptorily ordered it up-stairs; the nurse
only too glad to carry it off, and agreeing with him that it was doing
more harm to its mother than she did good to it. Violet, in submissive
misery, gave it up, and hid her face. One of her chief subjects for
self-torment was an imagination that Arthur did not like the baby, and
was displeased with its crying; and she felt utterly wretched, hardly
able to bear the cheerful tone in which he spoke! ‘Well, Violet, we
shall soon set you up. It is all settled. You are to go, at the end of
the week, to stay with John in the Isle of Wight.’
‘Go away?’ said Violet, in an extinguished voice.
‘Yes; it is the very thing for you. I shall stay here, and go backwards
and forwards. Well, what is it now?’
She was starting up, as the opening of the door let out another scream.
‘There he is still! Let me go to him for one minute.’
‘Folly!’ said Arthur, impatiently. ‘There’s no peace day or night. I
won’t stand it any longer. You are half dead already. I will not have it
go on. Lie down; go to sleep directly, and don’t trouble your head about
anything more till morning.’
Like a good child, though choking with tears, she obeyed the first
mandate; and presently was rather comforted by his listening at the foot
of the stairs, and reporting that the boy seemed to be quiet at last.
The rest of the order it was not in her power to obey; she was too much
fatigued to sleep soundly, or to understand clearly. Most of the night
was spent in broken dreams of being separated from her child and her
husband, and wakening to the knowledge that something was going to
happen.
At last came sounder slumbers; and she awoke with an aching head, but
to clearer perceptions. And when Arthur, before going down to breakfast,
asked what she wished him to say to John, she answered: ‘It is very kind
of him--but you never meant me to go without you?’
‘I shall take you there, and run down pretty often; and John has been
used to coddling himself all his life, so of course he will know how to
take care of you.’
‘How kind he is, but I don’t’--she broke off, and looked at the little
pinched face and shrivelled arms of the tiny creature, which she pressed
more closely to her; then, with a hesitating voice, ‘Only, if it would
do baby good!’
‘Of course it would. He can’t be well while things go on at this rate.
Only ask Harding.’
‘I wonder whether Mr. Martindale knew it was what Mr. Harding
recommended! But you would be by yourself.’
‘As if I had not taken care of myself for three-and-twenty years without
your help!’
‘And all your party will be in town, so that you will not miss me.’
‘I shall be with you very often. Shall I tell John you accept?’
‘Tell him it is very kind, and I am so much obliged to him,’ said
Violet, unable to speak otherwise than disconsolately.
Accordingly the brothers agreed that Arthur should bring her to Ventnor
on Saturday, if, as John expected, he could be prepared to receive her;
placing much confidence in Brown’s savoir faire, though Brown was beyond
measure amazed at such a disarrangement of his master’s methodical
habits; and Arthur himself gave a commiserating shake of the head as he
observed that there was no accounting for tastes, but if John chose
to shut himself up in a lodging with the most squallingest babby in
creation, he was not the man to gainsay him; and further reflected, that
if a man must be a younger son, John was a model elder brother.
Poor Violet! Her half-recovered state must be an excuse for her dire
consternation on hearing it was definitively settled that she was to be
carried off to Ventnor in four days’ time! How arrange for Arthur? Where
find a nursemaid? What would become of the baby so far from Mr. Harding?
The Isle of Wight seemed the ends of the earth--out of England! Helpless
and overpowered, she was in despair; it came to Arthur’s asking, in
displeasure, what she wanted--whether she meant to go or not. She
thought of her drooping infant, and said at once she would go.
‘Well, then, what’s all this about?’
Then came tears, and Arthur went away, declaring she did not know
herself what she would be at. He had really borne patiently with much
plaintiveness, and she knew it. She accused herself of ingratitude and
unreasonableness, and went into a fresh agony on that score; but soon
a tap at the door warned her to strive for composure. It was Sarah, and
Violet felt sure that the dreaded moment was come of her giving warning;
but it was only a message. ‘If you please, ma’am, there’s a young person
wants to see you.’
‘Come as a nursery maid?’ said Violet, springing up in her nervous
agitated way. ‘Do you think she will do?’
‘I don’t think nothing of her,’ said Sarah, emphatically. ‘Don’t you go
and be in a way, ma’am; there’s no hurry.’
‘Yes, but there is, Sarah. Baby and I are to go next Saturday to the
Isle of Wight, and I can’t take old nurse. I must have some one.’
‘You won’t get nobody by hurrying,’ said Sarah.
‘But what’s to be done, Sarah? I can’t bear giving the dear baby to a
stranger, but I can’t help it.’
‘As for that, said Sarah, gloomily, ‘I don’t see but I could look after
Master John as well as any that is like to offer for the present.’
‘You! Oh, that would be nice! But I thought you did not like children?’
‘I don’t, but I don’t mind while he is too little to make a racket, and
worrit one out of one’s life. It is only for the present, till you can
suit yourself, ma’am--just that you may not be lost going into foreign
parts with a stranger.’
Sarah had been nursing the baby every leisure moment, and had, during
the worst part of Violet’s illness, had more to do with him than the
regular nurse. This was happily settled, and all at which Violet still
demurred was how the house and its master should be provided for in
their absence; to which Sarah replied, ‘Mary would do well enough
for he;’ and before Violet knew to which she must suppose the pronoun
referred, there was a new-comer, Lady Elizabeth, telling her that Arthur
had just been to beg her to come to her, saying he feared he had hurried
her and taken her by surprise.
Under such kind soothing Violet’s rational mind returned. She ceased to
attempt to put herself into a vehement state of preparation, and began
to take so cheerful a view of affairs that she met Arthur again in
excellent spirits.
Emma Brandon pitied her for being left alone with Mr. Martindale, but
this was no subject of dread to her, and she confessed that she was
relieved to escape the meeting with the rest of the family. The chief
regret was, that the two friends would miss the constant intercourse
with which they had flattered themselves--the only thing that made
London endurable to poor Emma. She amused Violet with her lamentations
over her gaieties, and her piteous accounts of the tedium of parties and
balls; whereas Violet declared that she liked them very much.
‘It was pleasant to walk about with Arthur and hear his droll remarks,
and she liked seeing people look nice and well dressed.’
‘Ah! you are better off. You are not obliged to dance, and you are safe,
too. Now, whenever any one asks to be introduced to me I am sure he
wants the Priory, and feel bound to guard it.’
‘And so you don’t like any one, and find it stupid?’
‘So I do, of course, and I hope I always shall. But oh! Violet, I
have not told you that I saw that lady again this morning at the
early service. She had still her white dress on, I am sure it is
for Whitsuntide; and her face is so striking--so full of thought and
earnestness, just like what one would suppose a novice. I shall take her
for my romance, and try to guess at her history.’
‘To console you for your godson going away?’
‘Ah! it won’t do that! But it will be something to think of, and I will
report to you if I make out any more about her. And mind you give me a
full account of the godson.’
Arthur wished the journey well over; he had often felt a sort of
superior pity for travellers with a baby in company, and did not relish
the prospect; but things turned out well; he found an acquaintance, and
travelled with him in a different carriage, and little Johnnie, lulled
by the country air, slept so much that Violet had leisure to enjoy the
burst into country scenery, and be refreshed by the glowing beauty of
the green meadows, the budding woods, and the brilliant feathery broom
blossoms that gilded the embankments. At Winchester Arthur came to her
window, and asked if she remembered last year.
‘It is the longest year of my life,’ said she. ‘Oh, don’t laugh as if I
had made a bad compliment, but so much has happened!’ There was no time
for more; and as she looked out at the cathedral as they moved on, she
recollected her resolutions, and blamed herself for her failures, but
still in a soothed and happier frame of hope.
The crossing was her delight, her first taste of sea. There was a fresh
wind, cold enough to make Arthur put on his great-coat, but to her
it brought a delicious sense of renewed health and vigour, as she sat
inhaling it, charmed to catch a drop of spray on her face, her eyes and
cheeks brightening and her spirits rising.
The sparkling Solent, the ships at Spithead, the hills and wooded banks,
growing more defined before her; the town of Ryde and its long pier,
were each a new wonder and delight, and she exclaimed with such ecstasy,
and laughed so like the joyous girl she used to be, that Arthur felt old
times come back; and when he handed her out of the steamer he entirely
forgot the baby.
At last she was tired with pleasure, and lay back in the carriage in
languid enjoyment; fields, cottages, hawthorns, lilacs, and glimpses of
sea flitting past her like pictures in a dream, a sort of waking trance
that would have been broken by speaking or positive thinking.
They stopped at a gate: she looked up and gave a cry of delight. Such
a cottage as she and Annette had figured in dreams of rural bliss,
gable-ends, thatch, verandah overrun with myrtle, rose, and honeysuckle,
a little terrace, a steep green slope of lawn shut in with laburnum and
lilac, in the flush of the lovely close of May, a view of the sea, a
green wicket, bowered over with clematis, and within it John Martindale,
his look of welcome overpowering his usual gravity, so as to give him an
air of gladness such as she had never seen in him before.