The inmost heart of man if glad
Partakes a livelier cheer,
And eyes that cannot but be sad
Let fall a brightened tear.
Since thy return, through days and weeks
Of hope that grew by stealth,
How many wan and faded cheeks
Have kindled into health.
--WORDSWORTH’S Ode to May
‘I say,’ called Arthur, standing half in and half out of the French
window, as Sarah paced round the little garden, holding a parasol
over her charge, ‘if that boy kicks up a row at night, don’t mind Mrs.
Martindale. Carry him off, and lock the door. D’ye hear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the unmoved Sarah.
‘Stern, rugged nurse!’ said Arthur, drawing in his head. ‘Your boy ought
to be virtue itself, Violet. Now for you, John, if you see her at those
figures, take them away. Don’t let her think what two and two make.’
‘You are like one of my little sisters giving her doll to the other to
keep,’ said Violet.
‘Some folks say it is a doll, don’t they, John?’
‘Well, I will try to take as much care of your doll as she does of
hers,’ said John, smiling.
‘Good-bye, then! I wish I could stay!’
Violet went to the gate with him, while John stood at the window
watching the slender girlish figure under the canopy of clematis, as she
stood gazing after her husband, then turned and slowly paced back again,
her eyes on the ground, and her face rather sad and downcast.
That pretty creature was a strange new charge for him, and he dreaded
her pining almost as he would have feared the crying of a child left
alone with him.
‘Well, Violet,’ said he, cheerfully, ‘we must do our best. What time
would you like to take a drive?’
‘Any time, thank you,’ said she, gratefully, but somewhat plaintively;
‘but do not let me be a trouble to you. Sarah is going to hire a chair
for me to go down to the beach. I only want not to be in your way.’
‘I have nothing to do. You know I am no great walker, and I am glad of
an excuse for setting up my carriage. Shall we dine early, and go out
when the sun is not so high?’
‘Thank you! that will be delightful. I want to see those beautiful
places that I was too tired to look at on Saturday.’
Sarah’s rounds again brought her in sight; Violet crossed the grass,
and the next moment was under the verandah with the little long-robed
chrysalis shape in her arms, declaring he was growing quite good, and
getting fat already; and though to John’s eyes the face was as much
as ever like a very wizened old man, he could not but feel heartfelt
pleasure in seeing her for once enjoying a young mother’s exultation.
‘Poor thing!’ said he to himself, as she carried the babe upstairs, ‘she
has done too much, thought too much, felt too much for her years. Life
has begun before she has strength for the heat and burthen of the day.
The only hope is in keeping those overtasked spirits at rest, guarding
her from care, and letting her return to childhood. And should this work
fall on me, broken down in spirits and energy, with these long-standing
habits of solitude and silence? If Helen was but here!’
He was relieved by Violet’s reappearance at dinner-time, full of smiles,
proud of Johnnie’s having slept half the morning, and delighted with
“Mary Barton”, which, on his system of diversion for her mind, he had
placed in her way. She was amazed and charmed at finding that he could
discuss the tale with interest and admiration.
‘Arthur calls such books trash,’ said she.
‘He reads them, though.’
‘Yes, he always reads the third volume while I read the first.’
‘The best way. I always begin at the end to judge whether a book is
worth reading.’
‘I saw a French book on the table; are you reading it?’
‘Consulting it. You are welcome to it.’
‘I think,’ she said, timidly, ‘I ought to read some history and French,
or I shall never be fit to teach my little boy.’
‘I have a good many books at home, entirely at your service.’
‘Thank you, thank you! I thought last winter if I could but have read, I
should not have minded half so much.’
‘And why could you not?’
‘I had finished all my own books, and they cost too much to hire, so
there was only a great Roman History that Arthur had had at school. I
could not read more than thirty pages of that a day, it was so stupid.’
‘And you read those as a task! Very wise!’
‘Matilda said my education was incomplete, and she feared I should be
found deficient; and mamma told me to make a point of reading something
improving every day, but I have not begun again.’
‘I have some work on my hands,’ said John. ‘I was with Percy
Fotheringham eight years ago in Syria and Asia Minor. He has gone over
the same places a second time, and has made the journals up into a book
on the Crusaders, which he has sent from Constantinople for me to get
ready for publication. I shall come to you for help.’
‘Me! How can I?’ exclaimed Violet, colouring with astonishment.
‘Let us enjoy our holiday first,’ he replied, smiling. ‘See there.’
A low open carriage and a pair of ponies came to the gate; Violet was
enchanted, and stood admiring and patting them, while John looked on
amused, telling her he was glad she approved, for he had desired Brown
to find something in which Captain Martindale would not be ashamed to
see her.
They drove along the Undercliff, and her enjoyment was excessive. To one
so long shut up in town, the fresh air, blue sky, and green trees were
charms sufficient in themselves, and when to these were added the bright
extent of summer sea, the beautiful curving outline of the bay ending
in the bold Culver Cliffs, and the wall of rocks above, clothed in
part with garland-like shrubs and festoons of creepers, it was to her
a perfect vision of delight. There was an alternation of long pauses of
happy contemplation, and of smothered exclamations of ecstasy, as if eye
and heart were longing to take a still fuller grasp of the beauty of the
scene. The expression her face had worn at the cathedral entrance was
on it now, and seemed to put a new soul into her features, varied by the
beaming smiles as she cried out joyously at each new object-the gliding
sails on the water, the curious forms of the crags, or the hawks that
poised themselves in the air.
The flowers, too! They came to a lane bordered with copse, blue with
wild hyacinth. ‘Oh! it was so long since she had seen a wild flower!
Would he be so kind as to stop for one moment to let her gather one. She
did so much wish to pick a flower for herself once more!’
He drew up, and sat, leaning back, watching her with one of his smiles
of melancholy meaning, as she lightly sprang up the bank, and dived
between the hazel stems; and there he remained musing till, like a
vision of May herself, she reappeared on the bank, the nut-bushes making
a bower around her, her hands filled with flowers, her cheek glowing
like her wild roses, and the youthful delicacy of her form, and the
transient brightness of her sweet face, suiting with the fresh tender
colouring of the foliage, chequered with flickering sunshine.
‘Oh! I hope I have not kept you waiting too long! but, indeed, I did
not know how to turn back. I went after an orchis, and then I saw some
Solomon’s seal; and oh! such bluebells, and I could not help standing
quite still to feel how delicious it was! I hope that it was not long.’
‘No, not at all, I am glad.’
There was a moisture around the bright eyes, and perhaps she felt a
little childish shame, for she put up her hand to brush it off. ‘It is
very silly,’ she said. ‘Beautiful places ought not to make one ready to
cry--and yet somehow, when I stood quite still, and it was all so green,
and I heard the cuckoo and all the little birds singing, it would come
over me! I could not help thinking who made it all so beautiful, and
that He gave me my baby too.’--And there, as having said too much,
she blushed in confusion, and began to busy herself with her flowers,
delighting herself in silence over each many-belled hyacinth, each
purple orchis, streaked wood sorrel, or delicate wreath of eglantine,
deeming each in turn the most perfect she had ever seen.
John let her alone; he thought the May blossoms more suitable companions
for her than himself, and believed that it would only interfere with
that full contentment to be recalled to converse with him. It was
pleasure enough to watch that childlike gladsomeness, like studying a
new life, and the relief it gave him to see her so happy perhaps opened
his mind to somewhat of the same serene enjoyment.
That evening, when Brown, on bringing in the tea, gave an anxious glance
to judge how his master fared, he augured from his countenance that the
change of habits was doing him no harm.
In the evening, Mr. Fotheringham’s manuscript was brought out: John
could never read aloud, but he handed over the sheets to her, and she
enjoyed the vivid descriptions and anecdotes of adventures, further
illustrated by comments and details from John, far more entertaining
than those designed for the public. This revision was their usual
evening occupation, and she soon became so well instructed in those
scenes, that she felt as if she had been one of the travellers, and had
known the handsome Arab sheik, whose chivalrous honour was only alloyed
by desire of backsheesh, the Turkish guard who regularly deserted on the
first alarm, and the sharp knavish Greek servant with his contempt for
them all, more especially for the grave and correct Mr. Brown, pining
to keep up Martindale etiquette in desert, caravanserai, and lazzeretto.
She went along with them in the researches for Greek inscription,
Byzantine carving, or Frank fortress; she shared the exultation of
deciphering the ancient record in the venerable mountain convent, the
disappointment when Percy’s admirable entrenched camp of Bohemond
proved to be a case of ‘praetorian here, praetorian there;’ she listened
earnestly to the history, too deeply felt to have been recorded for the
general reader, of the feelings which had gone with the friends to the
cedars of Lebanon, the streams of Jordan, the peak of Tabor, the cave
of Bethlehem, the hills of Jerusalem. Perhaps she looked up the more
to John, when she knew that he had trod that soil, and with so true a
pilgrim’s heart. Then the narration led her through the purple mountain
islets of the Archipelago, and the wondrous scenery of classic Greece,
with daring adventures among robber Albanians, such as seemed too
strange for the quiet inert John Martindale, although the bold and gay
temper of his companion appeared to be in its own element; and in truth
it was as if there was nothing that came amiss to Percival Fotheringham,
who was equally ready for deep and scholarly dissertation, or for
boyish drollery and good-natured tricks. He had a peculiar talent for
languages, and had caught almost every dialect of the natives, as well
as being an excellent Eastern scholar, and this had led to his becoming
attached to the embassy at Constantinople, where John had left him on
returning to England. He was there highly esteemed, and in the way
of promotion, to the great satisfaction of John, who took a sort of
affectionate fatherly pride in his well-doing.
The manuscript evinced so much ability and research, and was so full
of beautiful and poetical description, as not only charmed Violet,
but surpassed even John’s expectations; and great was his delight in
dwelling on its perfections, while he touched it up and corrected it
with a doubtful, respectful hand, scarcely perceiving how effective
were his embellishments and refinements. Violet’s remarks and
misunderstanding were useful, and as she grew bolder, her criticisms
were often much to the point. She was set to search in historical
authorities, and to translate from the French for the notes, work
which she thought the greatest honour, and which kept her mind happily
occupied to the exclusion of her cares.
Fresh air, busy idleness, the daily renewed pleasure of beautiful
scenery, the watchful care of her kind brother, and the progressive
improvement of her babe, produced the desired effect; and when the
promised day arrived, and they walked to the coach-office to meet
Arthur, it was a triumph to hear him declare that he had been thinking
that for once he saw a pretty girl before he found out it was Violet,
grown rosy in her sea-side bonnet.
If the tenor of John’s life had been far less agreeable, it would have
been sufficiently compensated by the pleasure of seeing how happy he had
made the young couple, so joyously engrossed with each other, and full
of spirits and merriment.
Violet was gladsome and blithe at meeting her husband again, and Arthur,
wholesomely and affectionately gay, appearing to uncommon advantage. He
spoke warmly of his father. It seemed that they had been much together,
and had understood each other better than ever before. Arthur repeated
gratifying things which Lord Martindale had said of Violet, and, indeed,
it was evident that interest in her was the way to find out his heart.
Of his mother and sister there was less mention, and John began to
gather the state of the case as he listened in the twilight of the
summer evening, while Arthur and Violet sat together on the sofa, and he
leant back in his chair opposite to them, his book held up to catch the
fading light; but his attention fixed on their talk over Arthur’s news.
‘You have not told me about the drawing-room.’
‘Do you think I am going there till I am obliged!’
‘What! You did not go with Lady Martindale and Theodora? I should like
to have seen them dressed. Do tell me how they looked.’
‘Splendid, no doubt; but you must take it on trust.’
‘You did not see them! What a pity! How disappointed Theodora must have
been!’
‘Were there not folks enough to look at her?’
‘As if they were of any use without you.’
‘Little goose! I am not her husband, thank goodness, and wishing him joy
that gets her.’
‘O, Arthur, don’t! I want to hear of Lady Albury’s party. You did go to
that!’
‘Yes, my mother lugged me into it, and a monstrous bore it was. I wish
you had been there.’
‘Thank you, but if it was so dull--’
‘Emma Brandon and I agreed that there was not a woman who would have
been looked at twice if you had been there. We wanted you for a specimen
of what is worth seeing. Fancy! it was such a dearth of good looks that
they were making a star of Mrs. Finch! It was enough to put one in
a rage. I told Theodora at last, since she would have it, there was
nothing in the woman but impudence.’
John glanced over his book, and perceived that to Arthur there appeared
profanation in the implied comparison of that flashy display of beauty
with the pure, modest, tender loveliness, whose every blush and smile,
as well as the little unwonted decorations assumed to honour his
presence, showed, that its only value was the pleasure it gave to him.
His last speech made her tone somewhat of reproof. ‘Oh! that must have
vexed her, I am afraid. She is very fond of Mrs. Finch.’
‘Out of opposition,’ said Arthur. ‘It is too bad, I declare! That
Georgina was well enough as a girl, spirited and like Theodora, only
Theodora always had sense. She was amusing then, but there is nothing so
detestable as a woman who continues “fast” after marriage.’
‘Except a man,’ observed John, in a tone of soliloquy. ‘She has grown
so thin, too!’ continued Arthur. ‘She used to be tolerably handsome when
she was a fine plump rosy girl. Now she is all red cheek-bone and long
neck! We are come to a pretty pass when we take her for a beauty!’
Oh! but there is your sister,’ said Violet. ‘Do tell me how she likes
going out. She thought it would be such a penance.’
‘All I know is, that at home she is as sulky as a Greenland bear, and
then goes out and flirts nineteen to the dozen.’
Arthur!’ came the remonstrating voice again, ‘how you talk--do you mean
that she is silent at home? Is she unhappy? What can be the matter with
her?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Has not she said anything about baby?’
‘Not she. Not one of them has, except my father.’
‘I thought she would have liked to have heard of baby,’ said Violet,
in a tone of disappointment; ‘but if there is anything on her spirits,
perhaps she cannot think about him. I wonder what it can be. It cannot
be any--any--’
‘Any love affair! No! no! Miss Martindale may break hearts enough, but
she will take care of her own, if she has one.’
‘Is she so much admired?’
‘Of course she is. You do not often see her style, and she talks and
goes on at no end of a rate.’
‘I remember how she grew excited at the ball, after disliking the
prospect.’
‘Is this mere general admiration,’ asked John, ‘or anything more
serious?’
‘Upon my word, I cannot say. There is no earnest on her part. She will
rattle on with a poor fellow one night as if she had eyes for no one
else, then leave him in the lurch the next. She cares not a rush for any
of them, only wants to be run after. As to her followers, some of them
are really smitten, I fancy. There was Fitzhugh, but he is an old hand,
and can pay her in her own coin, and that sober-faced young Mervyn--it
is a bad case with him. In fact, there is a fresh one whenever she goes
out--a Jenny Dennison in high life--but the most bitten of all, I take
it, is Lord St. Erme.’
‘Lord St. Erme!’ exclaimed both auditors in a breath.
‘Ay. She met him at that breakfast, walked about the gardens with him
all the morning, and my mother wrote to my aunt, I believe, that she was
booked. Then at this Bryanstone soiree, the next night, Fitzhugh was in
the ascendant--poor St. Erme could not so much as gain a look.’
‘So he is in London!’ said Violet. ‘Do tell me what he is like.’
‘Like a German music-master,’ said Arthur. ‘As queer a figure as ever
I saw. Keeps his hair parted in the middle, hanging down in long lank
rats’ tails, meant to curl, moustache ditto, open collar turned down,
black ribbon tie.’
‘Oh! how amazed the Wrangerton people would be!’
‘It is too much to study the picturesque in one’s own person in
England!’ said John, laughing. ‘I am sorry he continues that fashion.’
‘So, of course,’ continued Arthur, ‘all the young ladies are raving
after him, while he goes mooning after Theodora. How the fair sex must
solace itself with abusing “that Miss Martindale!”’
‘I wish he would be a little more sensible,’ said John. ‘He really is
capable of something better.’
‘Where did you know him?’
‘At Naples. I liked him very much till he persecuted me beyond endurance
with Tennyson and Browning. He is always going about in raptures with
some new-fashioned poet.’
‘I suppose he will set up Theodora for his muse. My mother is enchanted;
he is exactly one of her own set, music, pictures, and all. The
second-hand courtship is a fine chance for her when Miss Martindale is
ungracious.’
‘But it will not come to anything,’ said John. ‘In the meantime, her
ladyship gets the benefit of a lion, and a very tawny lion, for her
soirees.’
‘Oh! that soiree will be something pleasant for you,’ said Violet.
‘I shall cut it. It is the first day I can be here.’
‘Not meet that great African traveller?’
‘What good would Baron Munchausen himself do me in the crowd my mother
is heaping together?’
‘I am sure your mother and sister must want you.’
‘Want must be their master. I am not going to elbow myself about and be
squashed flat for their pleasure. It is a dozen times worse to be in a
mob at home, for one has to find chairs for all the ladies. Pah!’
‘That is very lazy!’ said the wife. ‘You will be sorry to have missed it
when it is too late, and your home people will be vexed.’
‘Who cares? My father does not, and the others take no pains not to vex
us.’
‘O, Arthur! you know it makes it worse if you always come to me when
they want you. I could wait very well. Only one day above all you must
come,’ said she, with lowered voice, in his ear.
‘What’s that?’
John could not see how, instead of speaking, she guided her husband’s
hand to her wedding-ring. His reply transpired--‘I’ll not fail. Which
day is it?’
‘Friday week. I hope you will be able!’
‘I’ll manage it. Why, it will be your birthday, too!’
‘Yes, I shall be so glad to be seventeen. I shall feel as if baby would
respect me more. Oh! I am glad you can come, but you must be good, and
go to the soiree. I do think it would not be right always to leave them
when they want you. Tell him so, please, Mr. Martindale.’
John did so, but Arthur made no promises, and even when the day came,
they were uncertain whether they might think of him at the party, or as
smoking cigars at home.