Thy precious things, whate’er they be,
That haunt and vex thee, heart and brain,
Look to the Cross, and thou shall see
How thou mayst turn them all to gain.
--Christian Year
All went well and smoothly at Ventnor, until a sudden and severe attack
of some baby ailment threatened to render fruitless all Mr. Martindale’s
kind cares.
Violet’s misery was extreme, though silent and unobtrusive, and John was
surprised to find how much he shared it, and how strong his own personal
affection had become for his little nephew; how many hopes he had built
on him as the point of interest for his future life; the circumstances
also of the baptism giving him a tenderness for him, almost a right in
him such as he could feel in no other child.
Their anxiety did not last long enough for Arthur to be sent for; a
favourable change soon revived the mother’s hopes; and the doctor, on
coming down-stairs after his evening’s visit, told John that the child
was out of danger for the present; but added that he feared there were
many more such trials in store for poor Mrs. Martindale; he thought
the infant unusually delicate, and feared that it would hardly struggle
through the first year.
John was much shocked, and sat in the solitary drawing-room, thinking
over the disappointment and loss, severely felt for his own sake, and
far more for the poor young mother, threatened with so grievous a
trial at an age when sorrow is usually scarcely known, and when she had
well-nigh sunk under the ordinary wear and tear of married life. She
had been so utterly cast down and wretched at the sight of the child’s
suffering, that it was fearful to imagine what it would be when there
would be no recovery.
‘Yes!’ he mused with himself; ‘Violet has energy, conscientiousness,
high principle to act, but she does not know how to apply the same
principle to enable her to endure. She knows religion as a guide, not as
a comfort. She had not grown up to it, poor thing, before her need came.
She wants her mother, and knows not where to rest in her griefs. Helen,
my Helen, how you would have loved and cherished her, and led her to
your own precious secret of patience and peace! What is to be done for
her? Arthur cannot help her; Theodora will not if she could, she is left
to me. And can I take Helen’s work on myself, and try to lead our poor
young sister to what alone can support her? I must try--mere humanity
demands it. Yes, Helen, you would tell me I have lived within myself too
long. I can only dare to speak through your example. I will strive to
overcome my reluctance to utter your dear name.’
He was interrupted by Violet coming down to make tea. She was now happy,
congratulating herself on the rapid improvement in the course of the
day, and rejoicing that John and the doctor had dissuaded her from
sending at once for Arthur.
‘You were quite right, she said, ‘and I am glad now he was not here. I
am afraid I was very fretful; but oh! you don’t know what it is to see a
baby so ill.’
‘Poor little boy--’ John would have said more, but she went on, with
tearful eyes and agitated voice.
‘It does seem very hard that such a little innocent darling should
suffer. He is not three months old, and his poor little life has been
almost all pain and grief to him. I know it is wrong of me, but I cannot
bear it! If it is for my fault, why cannot it be myself? It almost makes
me angry.’
‘It does seem more than we can understand, said John, mournfully;
‘but we are told, “What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know
hereafter.”’
‘When all the other young things--lambs, and birds, and all--are so
happy, and rejoicing in the sunshine!’ continued Violet; ‘and children
too!’ as some gay young voices floated in on the summer air, and brought
the tears in a shower.
‘Don’t grudge it to them, dear Violet,’ said John, in his gentlest tone;
‘my dear little godson is more blessed in his gift. It seems to accord
with what was in my mind when we took him to church. I do not know
whether it was from my hardly ever having been at a christening before,
or whether it was the poor little fellow’s distressing crying; but the
signing him with the cross especially struck me, the token of suffering
even to this lamb. The next moment I saw the fitness--the cross given
to him to turn the legacy of pain to the honour of partaking of the
Passion--how much more for an innocent who has no penalty of his own to
bear!’
‘I have read things like that, but--I know I am talking wrongly--it
always seems hard and stern to tell one not to grieve. You think it very
bad in me to say so; but, indeed, I never knew how one must care for a
baby.’
‘No, indeed, there is no blaming you; but what would comfort you would
be to think of the Hand that is laid on him in love, for his highest
good.’
‘But he wants no good done to him,’ cried Violet. ‘He has been good and
sinless from the time before even his father or I saw him, when you--’
‘We cannot tell what he may need. We are sure all he undergoes is sent
by One who loves him better than even you do, who may be disciplining
him for future life, or fitting him for brighter glory, and certainly
giving him a share in the cross that has saved him.’
His gentle tones had calmed her, and she sat listening as if she
wished him to say more. ‘Do you remember,’ he added, ‘that picture you
described to me this time last year, the Ghirlandajo’s Madonna?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Violet, pleased and surprised.
‘She does not hold her son back from the cross, does she, though the
sword was to pierce through her own heart?’
‘Yes; but that was for the greatest reason.’
‘Indeed, it was; but He who was a Child, the firstborn Son of His
mother, does not afflict your baby without cause. He has laid on him as
much of His cross as he can bear; and if it be yours also, you know that
it is blessed to you both, and will turn to glory.’
‘The cross!’ said Violet; adding, after some thought, ‘Perhaps thinking
of that might make one bear one’s own troubles better.’
‘The most patient person I ever knew found it so,’ said John; and with
some hesitation and effort, ‘You know about her?’
‘A little,’ she timidly replied; and the tears flowed again as she said,
‘I have been so very sorry for you.’
‘Thank you,’ he answered, in a suppressed tone of grateful emotion,
for never was sympathy more refreshing to one who had long mourned in
loneliness.
Eager, though almost alarmed, at being thus introduced to the melancholy
romance of his history, Violet thought he waited for her to speak. ‘It
was dreadful,’ she said; ‘it was so cruel, to sacrifice her to those old
people.’
‘Was it cruel? Was it wrong?’ said John, almost to himself. ‘I hope not.
I do not think I could have decided otherwise.’
‘Oh, have I said anything wrong? I don’t properly know about it. I
fancied Arthur told me--I beg your pardon.
‘I do not think Arthur knew the circumstances; they have never been
much talked of. I do not know whether you would care to listen to a long
story; but I should like you, as far as may be, to understand her, and
consider her as your sister, who would have been very fond of you.’
‘And do you like to talk of it?’
‘That I do, now,’ said John; her delicate, respectful sympathy so
opening his heart, that what had been an effort became a relief.
‘I should be so glad. Baby is asleep, and I came down to stay with you.
It is very kind of you.’
‘You are very kind to listen,’ said John. ‘I must go a long way back, to
the time when I lost my little sisters.’
‘Had you any more sisters?’ said Violet, startled.
‘Two; Anna and another Theodora. They died at four and two years old,
within two days of each other, while my father and mother were abroad
with my aunt.’
‘What was their illness, poor little things?’ anxiously asked Violet.
‘I never knew. We all of us have, more or less, a West Indian
constitution; that accounts for anything.’
‘How old were you? Do you remember them?’
‘I was five. I have no distinct recollection of them, though I was very
fond of Anna, and well remember the dreariness afterwards. Indeed,
I moped and pined so much, that it was thought that to give me young
companions was the only chance for me; and the little Fotheringhams were
sent for from the parsonage to play with me.’
‘And it really began then!’
‘Yes,’ said John, more cheerfully. ‘She was exactly of my own age, but
with all the motherly helpful kindness of an elder sister, and full of
pretty, childish compassion for the little wretched solitary being that
I was. Her guarding me from the stout riotous Percy--a couple of years
younger--was the first bond of union; and I fancy the nurses called her
my little wife, I know I believed it then, and ever after. We were a
great deal together. I never was so happy as with them; and as I was a
frail subject at the best, and Arthur was not born till I was nine years
old, I was too great a treasure to be contradicted. The parsonage was
the great balance to the home spoiling; Mr. and Mrs. Fotheringham were
most kind and judicious; and Helen’s character could not but tell on all
around.’
‘Was she grave?’
‘Very merry, full of fun, but with a thoughtful staidness in her highest
spirits, even as a girl. I saw no change when we met again’--after a
pause: ‘No, I cannot describe her. When we go home you shall see her
picture. No one ever reminded me of her as you do, though it is not
flattering you to say so. If the baby had been a girl, I think I should
have asked you to call it by your second name. Well, we seldom spent
a day without meeting, even after I had a tutor. The beginning of our
troubles was her fifteenth birthday, the 10th of July. I had saved up
my money, and bought a coral cross and a chain for her; but Mrs.
Fotheringham would not let her keep it; she said it was too costly for
me to give to any one but my sister. She tried to treat it lightly; but
I was old enough to perceive her reason; and I can feel the tingling
in all my veins as I vowed with myself to keep it till I should have a
right to offer it.’
‘What did she do?’
‘I cannot tell; we did not wish to renew the subject. The worst of
it was, that my aunt, who hears everything, found this out. She
interrogated me, and wanted me to give it to Theodora, a mere baby. I
felt as if I was defending Helen’s possession, and refused to give it up
unless at my father’s command.’
‘I hope he did not order you.’
‘He never said a word to me. But our comfort was over; suspicion was
excited; and I am afraid my aunt worried Mrs. Fotheringham. Nothing
was said, but there was a check upon us. I was sent to a tutor at a
distance; and when I was at home, either she went out on long visits in
the holidays, or there was a surveillance on me; and when I did get
down to the parsonage it was all formality. She took to calling me Mr.
Martindale (by the bye, Violet, I wish you would not), was shy, and
shrank from me.’
‘Oh! that was the worst,’ cried Violet. ‘Did not she care?’
‘I believe her mother told her we were too old to go on as before. They
were all quite right; and I can now see it was very good for me. When
Mr. Fotheringham died, and they were about to leave the parish, I spoke
to my father. He had the highest esteem for them all, was fond of
her, knew they had behaved admirably. I verily believe he would have
consented at once--nay, he had half done so, but--’
‘Mrs. Nesbit, I am sure,’ exclaimed Violet.
‘He was persuaded to think I had not had time to know my own mind, and
ought not to engage myself till I had seen more of the world.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Nineteen! If you did not know your own mind then, when could you?’
John smiled, and replied, ‘It was better to have such a motive. My
position was one of temptation, and this was a safeguard as well as a
check on idle prosperity. An incentive to exertion, too; for my father
held out a hope that if I continued in the same mind, and deserved his
confidence, he would consent in a few years, but on condition I should
neither say nor do anything to show my feelings.’
‘Then you never told her?’
‘No.’
‘I should not have liked that at all. But she must have guessed.’
‘She went with her mother to live in Lancashire, with old Mr. and Mrs.
Percival, at Elsdale. There she lost her mother.’
‘How long did it go on before Lord Martindale consented?’ asked Violet,
breathlessly.
‘Five years, but at last he was most kind. He did fully appreciate her.
I went to Elsdale’--and he paused. ‘For a little while it was more than
I can well bear to remember.’
‘You gave her the cross?’ said Violet, presently.
‘On her next birthday. Well, then came considerations. Old Mrs. Percival
was nearly blind, and could hardly move from her chair, the grandfather
was very infirm, and becoming imbecile. His mind had never been clear
since his daughter’s death, and he always took Helen for her. She was
everything to them.’
‘And they would not spare her?’
‘She asked me what was to be done. She put it entirely in my hands,
saying she did not know where her duty lay, and she would abide by my
decision.’
‘Then it was you! I can’t think how you could.’
‘I trust it was not wrong. So asked, I could not say she ought to leave
those poor old people to their helplessness for my sake, and I could not
have come to live with them, for it was when I was in Parliament, and
there were other reasons. We agreed, then, that she should not leave
them in her grandfather’s lifetime, and that afterwards Mrs. Percival
should come to our home, Brogden, as we thought it would be. Indeed,
Violet, it was a piteous thing to hear that good venerable old lady
entreating my pardon for letting Helen devote herself, saying, she would
never have permitted it but for Mr. Percival, for what would become of
him without his granddaughter--hoping they would not long stand in
our way, and promising us the blessing that Helen enjoys. We could not
regret our decision, and to be allowed to stand on such terms with each
other was happiness enough then; yet all the time I had a presentiment
that I was giving her up for ever, though I thought it would be the
other way; the more when the next year I had the illness that has made
me good for nothing ever since. That made it much easier to me, for I
should have led her such a life of nursing and anxiety as I would not
inflict on any woman.’
‘Surely she had the anxiety all the same?’
‘There is a good deal spared by not being on the spot.’
‘How can he think so! said Violet to herself. I can’t imagine how she
lived as long as she did. ‘Did you not see her at all when you were
ill?’ she said.
‘Yes, we had one great treat that winter when I was at the worst. It was
one of my father’s especial pieces of kindness; he wrote to her himself,
and sent Simmonds to fetch her to Martindale.’
‘And were you able to enjoy having her?’
‘It was inflammation on the chest, so all my senses were free. She used
to sit by me with her sober face, at work, ready to read and talk to
me, and left sayings and thoughts that have brought refreshment at every
such time. It was indeed a blessing that she could come that first time
to teach me how to bear illness.’
‘How long did she stay?’
‘Only three weeks, for her absence only showed how little she could be
spared; but she left an influence on that room of mine that it has never
lost.’
‘How solitary it must have been when you were recovering.’
‘I had her letters. I will show you some of them some day. She used to
write almost daily.’
‘And it was when you were getting better that you took the great journey
in the East?’
‘Yes; Percy had just left Cambridge, and was ready to take the care of
me on his hands. Those two years went pleasantly by, and what a happy
visit it was at Elsdale afterwards! You can’t think how this talking
over our travels has brought it back. As long as Mrs. Percival lived we
did pretty well. She made Helen take care of herself, and I could go and
stay there; but after her death the poor old man grew more childish and
exacting. I once tried staying at the curate’s, but it did not answer.
He could not bear to have her out of his sight, and had taken an unhappy
aversion to me, fancying me some old admirer of his own daughter, and
always warning her against me.’
‘How distressing! How wretched! It would have killed me long before! How
did she bear it? I know it was patiently, but I cannot understand it!’
‘Her letters will best show you. It was the perfect trust that it was
good for us; but what she underwent in those last three years we never
knew. Her brother was at Constantinople. I could not go to Elsdale,
and there was no one to interfere. We could not guess from her cheerful
letters how she was wearing herself out, bearing his caprices, giving up
sleep and exercise. I knew how it would be the first moment I met her,
when I went to Elsdale to the funeral; but it was supposed to be only
over-fatigue, and her aunt, Lady Fotheringham, took her home to recover.
She grew worse, and went to London for advice. There I met her, and--and
there she herself told me she had disease of the heart, and could not
live a year.’
Violet gave a sort of sob.
‘She held up to me that cross--that first gift--she bade me think of
the subjection of wills and affections it betokened. Little had we once
thought of that meaning!’
‘And then?’ asked Violet, with face flushed and hands clasped.
‘Lady Fotheringham took her to Worthbourne.’
‘Could you be with her?’
‘Yes. One of the especial subjects of thankfulness was that I was well
enough to stay with her. She was perfectly happy and contented, chiefly
concerned to soften it to me. It was as if she had finished her work,
and was free to enjoy, as she sank into full repose, sunsets, hoar
frosts, spring blossoms, the having me with her, her brother’s
return--everything was a pleasure. I can hardly call it a time of grief,
when she was so placid and happy. All the wishing and scheming was over,
and each day that I could look at her in her serenity, was only too
precious.’
‘Was there much suffering?’
‘At times there was, but in general there was only languor. She used to
lie by the window, looking so smiling and tranquil, that it was hard to
believe how much she had gone through; and so peaceful, that we could
not dare to wish to bring her back to care and turmoil. The last time
she was able to talk to me, she showed me the cross still round her
neck, and said she should like to think it would be as much comfort to
any one else as it had been to her. I did not see her again till I was
called in for her last look on anything earthly, when the suffering was
passed, and there was peaceful sinking.’
Violet was crying too much for words, until at last she managed to say,
‘How could you--what could you do?’
‘My illness was the best thing that could happen to me.’
‘How sorry you must have been to get well.’
He replied,
‘Her wings were grown,
To heaven she’s flown,
‘Cause I had none I’m left.’
‘Those lines haunted me when I found myself reviving to the weary
useless life I spend here.’
‘O how can you call it so?’ cried Violet. ‘How could Arthur and I do
without you?’
There was a sound up-stairs, and she started to the door, ran up, but
came down in a few moments. ‘He is awake and better,’ she said. ‘I
cannot come down again, for Sarah must go to supper. Good night; thank
you for what you have told me;’ then, with an earnest look, ‘only I
can’t bear you to say your life is useless. You don’t know how we look
to you.’
‘Thank you for your kind listening,’ he answered. ‘It has done me a
great deal of good; but do not stay,’ as he saw her evidently longing to
return to her child, yet lingering in the fear of unkindness to him. ‘I
am glad he is better; you and he must both have a good night.’
John was indeed refreshed by the evening’s conversation. It had
disclosed to him a new source of comfort, for hitherto his grief had
never known the relief of sympathy. His whole soul had been fixed on
one object from his boyhood; the hopes of deserving Helen had been his
incentive to exertion in his youth, and when disabled by sickness, he
had always looked forward to a new commencement of active usefulness
with her. It had been a life of waiting: patient, but without present
action, and completely wrapped up in a single attachment and hope. When
that was taken from him he had not failed in faith and submission, but
he had nothing to occupy him or afford present solace and interest; he
had no future save lonely waiting still, until he should again rejoin
her who had been his all on earth.
However, the effort made to reconcile his brother with the family had
produced an unlooked-for influence, and enlarged his sphere of interest.
At first came languid amusement in contemplating the pretty young
bride, then liking and compassion for her, then the great anxiety in her
illness, and afterwards real affection and solicitude for her and her
child had filled his mind, and detached him from his own sorrows; and he
now became sensible that he had, indeed, while trying to serve her
and his brother, done much for his own relief. What she said of their
dependence on him was not only a pleasure to him, but it awoke him to
the perception that he had not been so utterly debarred from usefulness
as he had imagined, and that he had neglected much that might have
infinitely benefited his brother, sister, and father. He had lived for
himself and Helen alone!
He tried to draw out Helen’s example to teach Violet to endure, and in
doing so the other side of the lesson came home to himself. Helen’s
life had been one of exertion as well as of submission. It had not been
merely spent in saying, ‘Thy will be done,’ but in doing it; she had
not merely stood still and uncomplaining beneath the cross, but she had
borne it onward in the service of others.