Sweeter ‘tis to hearken
Than to bear a part,
Better to look on happiness
Than to carry a light heart,
Sweeter to walk on cloudy hills,
With a sunny plain below,
Than to weary of the brightness
Where the floods of sunshine flow.
--ALFORD
One morning John received a letter from Constantinople, which he had
scarcely opened before he exclaimed, ‘Ha! what does he mean? Given up
his appointment! Coming home! It is just like him. I must read you what
he says, it is, so characteristic.’
‘You must have been provoked at my leaving you all this time in doubt
what to do with our precious tour, but the fact is, that I have been
making a fool of myself, and as the Crusaders are the only cover my
folly has from the world, I must make the most of them. I give out
that my literary affairs require my presence; but you, as the means of
putting me into my post, deserve an honest confession. About six weeks
ago, my subordinate, Evans, fell sick--an estimable chicken-hearted
fellow. In a weak moment, I not only took his work on my hands, but
bored myself by nursing him, and thereby found it was a complaint only
to be cured by my shoes.’
‘Shoes! exclaimed Violet. John read on.
‘It was a dismal story of an engagement to a clergyman’s daughter; her
father just dead, she reduced to go out as a governess, and he having
half nothing of his own, mending the matter by working himself into a
low fever, and doing his best to rid her of all care on his account. Of
course I rowed him well, but I soon found I had the infection--a bad fit
of soft-heartedness came over me.’
‘Oh!’ cried Violet, ‘he gives up for this poor man’s sake.’
‘I thought all peace was over if I was to see poor Evans enacting the
enamoured swain every day of my life, for the fellow had not the grace
to carry it off like a man--besides having his business to do; or, if he
should succeed in dying, I should not only be haunted by his ghost,
but have to convey his last words to the disconsolate governess. So, on
calculation, I thought trouble would be saved by giving notice that I
was going home to publish the Crusaders, and sending him to fetch his
bride, on whose arrival I shall bid a long farewell to the Grand Turk. I
fancy I shall take an erratic course through Moldavia and some of those
out-of-the-way locations, so you need not write to me again here, nor
think of me till you see me about the end of August. I suppose about
that time Theodora will have finished the course of severe toil reserved
for young ladies every spring, so I shall come straight home expecting
to see you all.’
‘Home; does that mean Martindale?’ said Violet.
‘Yes. He has never looked on any place but Brogden as his home.’
‘You don’t think he repents of what he has done?’
‘No, certainly not. He has seen what a long engagement is.’
‘Yes; I almost wonder at his writing to you in that tone.’
‘He banters because he cannot bear to show his real feeling. I am
not anxious about him. He has £300 a year of his own, and plenty of
resources,--besides, the baronetcy must come to him. He can afford to do
as he pleases.’
‘What a noble character he must be!’ said Violet; ‘it is like a story.
How old is he?’
‘About nine-and-twenty. I am glad you should see him. He is a very
amusing fellow.’
‘How clever he must be!’
‘The cleverest man I know. I hope he will come soon. I should like to
have a little time with him before my winter migration. We have not
met since he was obliged to return, a fortnight after her death, when I
little expected ever to see him again.’
This prospect seemed to set John’s mind more than ever on Helen, as if
he wanted to talk over her brother’s conduct with her, and was imagining
her sentiments on it.
He spoke much of her in the day, and in the evening brought down a
manuscript-book.
‘I should like to read some of this to you,’ he said. ‘She had so few
events in her life at Elsdale that her letters, written to occupy me
when I was laid up, became almost a journal of her thoughts. I copied
out some parts to carry about with me; and perhaps you would like to
hear some of them.’
‘Indeed, I should, thank you, if you ought to read aloud.’
He turned over the pages, and seemed to be trying whether he could bear
to read different passages; but he gave up one after another, and nearly
half-an-hour had passed before he began.
‘February 20. It was the winter after her coming to Martindale.’
‘This morning was a pattern one for February, and I went out before the
brightness was passed, and had several turns in the walled garden. I am
afraid you will never be able to understand the pleasantness of such a
morning. Perhaps you will say the very description makes you shiver,
but I must tell you how beautiful it was. The frost last night was not
sharp, but just sufficient to detain the dew till the sun could turn it
into diamonds. There were some so brilliant, glancing green or red in
different lights, they were quite a study. It is pleasant to think that
this pretty frost is not adorning the plants with unwholesome beauty,
though the poor little green buds of currant and gooseberry don’t like
it, and the pairs of woodbine leaves turn in their edges. It is doing
them good against their will, keeping them from spreading too soon. I
fancied it like early troubles, keeping baptismal dew fresh and bright;
and those jewels of living light went on to connect themselves with the
radiant coronets of some whom the world might call blighted in--’
It had brought on one of his severe fits of coughing. Violet was going
to ring for Brown, but he stopped her by a sign, which he tried to make
reassuring. It was worse, and lasted longer than the former one, and
exhausted him so much, that he had to rest on the sofa cushions before
he could recover breath. At last, in a very low voice, he said,
‘There, it is of no use to try.’
‘I hope you are better; pray don’t speak; only will you have anything?’
‘No, thank you; lying still will set me to rights. It is only that these
coughs leave a pain--nothing to mind.’
He settled himself on the sofa, not without threatenings of a return
of cough, and Violet arranged the cushions, concerned at his trying to
thank her. After a silence, he began to breathe more easily, and said,
‘Will you read me the rest of that?’
She gave him the book to find the place, and then read--
‘The world might call them blighted in their early bloom, and deprived
of all that life was bestowed for; but how different is the inner
view, and how glorious the thought of the numbers of quiet, commonplace
sufferers in homely life, like my currant and gooseberry bushes, who
have found their frost has preserved their dewdrops to be diamonds for
ever. If this is too fanciful, don’t read it, but I go rambling on
as the notions come into my head, and if you only get a laugh at my
dreamings, they will have been of some use to you.’
‘How beautiful!’ said Violet; ‘how you must have liked receiving such
letters!’
‘Yes; the greatest blank in the day is post time.’
He held out his hand for the book, and found another passage for her.
‘I have been thinking how kindly that sentence is framed: “Casting all
your care on Him.” All, as if we might have been afraid to lay before
Him our petty perplexities. It is the knowing we are cared for in
detail, that is the comfort; and that when we have honestly done our
best in little things, our Father will bless them, and fill up our
shortcomings.
‘That dressmaker must have been a happy woman, who never took home
her work without praying that it might fit. I always liked that story
particularly, as it shows how the practical life in the most trivial
round can be united with thus casting all our care upon Him--the being
busy in our own station with choosing the good part. I suppose it is as
a child may do its own work in a manufactory, not concerning itself for
the rest; or a coral-worm make its own cell, not knowing what branches
it is helping to form, or what an island it is raising. What a mercy
that we have only to try to do right from moment to moment, and not
meddle with the future!’
‘Like herself,’ said John.
‘I never thought of such things,’ said Violet. ‘I never thought little
matters seemed worth treating in this way.’
‘Everything that is a duty or a grief must be worth it,’ said John.
‘Consider the worthlessness of what we think most important in That
Presence. A kingdom less than an ant’s nest in comparison. But, here,
I must show you a more everyday bit. It was towards the end, when she
hardly ever left her grandfather, and I had been writing to urge her to
spare herself.’
Violet read--
‘You need not be afraid, dear John; I am quite equal to all I have to
do. Fatigue never knocks me up, which is a great blessing; and I can
sleep anywhere at the shortest notice. Indeed, I don’t know what should
tire me, for there is not even any running up and down stairs; and as
to spirits, you would not think them in danger if you heard how I talk
parish matters to the curate, and gossip with the doctor, till grandpapa
brightens, and I have to shout an abstract of the news into his ear. It
is such a treat to bring that flash of intelligence on his face--and it
has not been so rare lately; he seems now and then to follow one of the
Psalms, as I read them to him at intervals through the day. Then for
pastime, there is no want of that, with the two windows looking out
different ways. I can’t think how you could forget my two beautiful
windows--one with a view of the back door for my dissipation, and the
other with the garden, and the varieties of trees and the ever-changing
clouds. I never look out without finding some entertainment; my last
sight was a long-tailed titmouse, popping into the yew tree, and setting
me to think of the ragged fir tree at Brogden, with you and Percy spying
up, questioning whether golden-crest or long-tailed pye lived in the
dome above. No, no; don’t waste anxiety upon me. I am very happy, and
have everything to be thankful for.’
‘“My mind to me a kingdom is,” she might have said,’ observed John.
‘She might indeed. How beautiful! How ashamed it does make one of
oneself!’
So they continued, he choosing passages, which she read aloud, till
the evening was over, when he asked her whether she would like to look
through the book?’
‘That I should, but you had rather I did not.’
‘Yes, I do wish you to read it, and to know Helen. There is nothing
there is any objection to your seeing. I wrote them out partly for
Percy’s sake. Your reading these to me has been very pleasant.’
‘It has been so to me, I am sure. I do not know how to thank you; only I
am grieved that you have hurt yourself. I hope you are better now.’
‘Yes, thank you; I shall be quite right in the morning.’
His voice was, however, so weak, and he seemed so uncomfortable, that
Violet was uneasy; and as Brown lighted her candle in the hall, she
paused to consult him, and found that, though concerned, he did not
apprehend any bad consequences, saying that these attacks were often
brought on by a chill, or by any strong excitement; he had no doubt this
was occasioned by hearing of Mr. Fotheringham’s intended return; indeed,
he had thought Mr. Martindale looking flushed and excited all day.
Never did charge appear more precious than those extracts. She had an
enthusiastic veneration for Helen, and there was a youthful, personal
feeling for her, which made her apply the words and admire them far more
than if they had been in print. As she dwelt upon them, the perception
grew on her, that not only was it a duty to strive for contentment, but
that to look on all trials as crosses to be borne daily, was the only
way to obtain it.
Helen’s many homely trials and petty difficulties were what came to
her chiefly as examples and encouragements, and she began to make
resolutions on her own account.
Yet, one day, when Arthur was expected and did not come, she conjured
up so many alarms, that it was well that consideration for her companion
obliged her to let him divert her mind.
The next day John led her to the beach, and set her to find rare
sea-weeds for his mother. The charm of the pursuit, the curling tide,
the occasional peeps at Johnnie as he was paraded, serene and sleepy,
in Sarah’s arms, made time speed so fast that she was taken by surprise
when voices hailed them, and she beheld Arthur and his father.
No wedding-day being in the case, Arthur had gladly put off his coming
on a proposal from his father to accompany him, see John’s menage, and
be introduced to his grandson.
Much more warmly than in former times did Lord Martindale greet his
daughter-in-law, and quickly he asked for the baby. In spite of the
doctor’s prognostications, the little fellow had begun to mend, and he
looked his best, nearly hidden in hood and mantle, and embellished by
his mother’s happy face, as she held him in her arms, rejoicing in the
welcome bestowed on the first grandson.
Violet had never been so comfortable with Lord Martindale. There was the
advantage of being the only lady, and he unbent more than he ever did
at home. He had come partly to see what was to be the next arrangement.
Five weeks of London had been almost too much for Lady Martindale, with
whom it never agreed, and who had found a season with her unmanageable
daughter very different from what it had formerly been, when her aunt
arranged everything for her; and the family were about to return
home. Arthur was to bring his wife to Martindale as soon as his leave
began--but this would not be for a month; and his father, concerned to
see her still so delicate, advised him not to think of her return to
London in the hottest part of the year, and proposed to take her and
the baby home with him. John, however, declared that he should prefer
staying on at Ventnor with her; the place agreed with him, and he liked
the quiet for finishing Percy Fotheringham’s work besides, it suited
Arthur better to be able to come backwards and forwards. The only doubt
was whether she was tired of his dull company.
Arthur answered for her, and she was well satisfied, thinking it a great
escape not to have to go to Martindale without him, but afraid John
was giving up a great deal to her, when she must be a very tiresome
companion; at which Arthur laughed, telling her of John’s counter fears,
and adding, that he had never seen his brother in such good spirits in
all his life--he was now actually like other people.
Lord Martindale also feared that John found his undertaking wearisome,
and talked it over with him, saying it was very kind of him, very good
for Arthur’s wife; but was she society enough? ‘Would he not like to
have Theodora to relieve him of the charge, and be more of a companion?’
‘Thank you,’ said John, ‘we shall be very glad to have Theodora, if she
likes to come. It is a very good opportunity for them to grow intimate.’
‘I’ll send her next time Arthur comes.’
‘But you must not think it an act of compassion, as if Violet was on
my hands. She is a particularly agreeable person, and we do very well
together. In fact, I have enjoyed this time very much; and Theodora must
not think herself obliged to come for my sake, as if I wanted help.’
‘I understand,’ said his father; ‘and of course it will depend on what
engagements they have made; but I should be very glad she should be more
with you, and if she saw more of Arthur’s wife, it might detach her
from those friends of hers. I cannot think how it is Theodora is not
disgusted with Mrs. Finch! It is a comfort, after all, that Arthur did
not marry Miss Gardner!’
‘A great one!’
‘This girl has simplicity and gentleness at least, poor thing,’
continued Lord Martindale; ‘and I am quite of your opinion, John,
that marriage has improved him greatly. I never saw him so free from
nonsense. Strangely as it has come about, this may be the making of him.
I only wish I could see her and the poor child looking stronger. I will
send your sister, by all means.’
So Lord Martindale returned, and proposed the plan to his daughter. At
first, she was flattered at being wanted, and graciously replied, ‘Poor
John, he must want some variety.’
‘Not exactly that,’ said her father. ‘They are so comfortable together,
it is a pleasure to see them. I should like to stay there myself, and it
is a very agreeable scheme for you.’
‘I was considering my engagements,’ said Theodora. ‘Of course, if I am
really wanted, everything must be put aside.’
‘John desired you would not think it an act of charity,’ said her
father. ‘He says he finds her a most agreeable companion, and you need
only look upon it as a pleasant scheme for all parties.’
‘Oh,’ said Theodora, in a different tone.
‘He said you were not to put yourself out of the way. He would be
very glad of your company, and it will be very good for you all to be
together.’
‘Oh! then I don’t think it is worth while for me to go,’ said Theodora.
‘I am much obliged to John, but I should only interfere with his course
of education.’
‘Not go?’ said her father.
‘No, there is no occasion; and I wish to be at home as soon as I can.’
‘Well, my dear, you must decide your own way, but I thought you would be
glad of the opportunity of being with John, and I should be glad, too,
that you should see more of your sister. She is a very engaging person,
and I am sure you would find her a more satisfactory companion than Mrs.
Finch.’
After this speech, Theodora would have suffered considerably rather than
have gone.
‘They will soon be at Martindale,’ she said, ‘and I cannot stay longer
away from the village.’
‘I wish at least that you would go down as I did for a day with Arthur.
You would enjoy it, and it would give them all pleasure. Indeed, I think
it would only be a proper piece of attention on your part.’
She made no answer, but the next time Arthur was going, she instantly
stopped all her father’s arrangements for her accompanying him, by
saying she was going to a lecture on electricity; then, when Lord
Martindale began asking if Arthur could not change his day, she
majestically said, ‘No, Arthur would not disappoint Mrs. Martindale on
my account.’
‘If you would go, Theodora,’ said Arthur, eagerly, ‘Violet would not
mind waiting. She would be specially pleased to show you the boy. It is
very jolly there.’
The first time he had spoken to her of his three months’ old son. If she
had not been in a dire fit of sullen jealousy, it would have softened as
much as it thrilled her, but she had the notion that she was not wanted,
except to do homage to the universally-petted Violet.
‘I cannot spare a day.’
So Arthur was vexed, and the frost was harder. John had not much
expected Theodora, and was more sorry for her sake than his own. The
last month was still better than the first, the brother and sister
understood each other more fully, and their confidence had become
thoroughly confirmed. The baby had taken a start, as Sarah called it,
left off unreasonable crying, sat up, laughed and stared about with
a sharp look of inquiry in his dark eyes and tiny thin face, so
ridiculously like his grandfather, Mr. Moss, that his mother could not
help being diverted with the resemblance, except when she tormented
herself with the fear that the likeness was unpleasing to Arthur, if
perchance he remarked it; but he looked so little at the child, that she
often feared he did not care for him personally, though he had a certain
pride in him as son and heir.
Violet herself, though still delicate and requiring care, had recovered
her looks and spirits, and much of her strength, and John walked and
conversed more than he had done for years, did not shrink from the
society of the few families they were acquainted with, and seemed to
have derived as much benefit from his kind scheme as the objects of it.
In fact his hopes and affections were taking a fresh spring--the effects
of his kindness to Arthur and Violet had shown him that he could be
useful to others, and he thus discovered what he had missed in his
indulged life, crossed in but one respect--he saw that he had set
himself aside from family duties, as well as from the more active ones
that his health prohibited, and with a feeling at once of regret and
invigoration, he thought over the course that lay open to him, and soon
began to form plans and discuss them with his ever ready listener. His
foreign winters need no longer be useless, he proposed to go to Barbuda
to look after his mother’s estates--indeed, it seemed so obvious
that when he once thought of it he could not imagine why it had never
occurred to him before; it would save his father the voyage, and when
he and Violet began to figure to themselves the good that could be done
there, they grew animated and eager in their castles.
That month sped fast away, and their drives were now last visits to the
places that had charmed them at first. Their work was prepared for Mr.
Fotheringham’s inspection, and Violet having copied out her favourite
passages of Helen’s book, returned it on the last evening. ‘I don’t
think I half understand all she says, though I do admire it so much, and
wish I was like it.’
‘You will be, you are in the way.’
‘You don’t know how foolish I am,’ said Violet, almost as if he was
disrespectful to Helen.
‘Helen was once seventeen,’ said John, smiling.
‘Oh, but I have no patience. I fret and tease myself, and fancy all
sorts of things, instead of trusting as she did. I don’t know how to do
so.’
‘I know how weakness brings swarming harassing thoughts,’ said John;
‘it is well for us that there are so many external helps to patience and
confidence.’
‘Ah! that is what shows how bad I am,’ said Violet, despondingly.
‘I never keep my mind in order at church, yet I am sure I was more
unreasonably discontented when I was not able to go.’
‘Which shows it is of use to you. Think of it not only as a duty that
must be fulfilled, but watch for refreshment from it, and you will find
it come.’
‘Ah! I have missed all the great festivals this year. I have not stayed
to the full service since I was at Rickworth, and what is worse, I do
not dislike being prevented,’ said Violet, falteringly; as if she must
say the words, ‘I don’t like staying alone.’
‘You must conquer that,’ said John, earnestly. ‘That feeling must never
keep you away. Your continuance is the best hope of bringing him; your
leaving off would be fatal to you both. I should almost like you to
promise never to keep away because he did.’
‘I think I can promise,’ said Violet, faintly. ‘It is only what mamma
has always had to do; and, last Christmas, it did keep me away. I did
think then he would have come; and when I found he did not--then I was
really tired--but I know I could have stayed--but I made it an excuse,
and went away.’ The tears began to flow. ‘I thought of it again when I
was ill; and afterwards when I found out how nearly I had been dying,
it was frightful. I said to myself, I would not miss again; but I have
never had the opportunity since I have been well.’
‘It is monthly at home,’ said John. ‘Only try to look to it as a favour
and a comfort, as I said about church-going, but in a still higher
degree--not merely as a service required from you. Believe it is a
refreshment, and in time you will find it the greatest.’
‘I’ll try,’ she said, in a low, melancholy voice; ‘but I never feel as
good people do.’
‘You have had more than usual against you,’ said John; cares for which
you were not prepared, and weakness to exaggerate them; but you will
have had a long rest, and I hope may be more equal to the tasks of daily
life.’
They were interrupted by tea being brought; and the conversation
continued in a less serious style.
‘Our last tea-drinking,’ said John. ‘Certainly, it has been very
pleasant here.’
‘This island, that I thought so far away, and almost in foreign parts,’
said Violet, smiling; ‘I hope it has cured me of foolish terrors.’
‘You will bravely make up your mind to Martindale.’
‘I shall like to show Johnnie the peacock,’ said Violet, in a tone as if
seeking for some pleasant anticipation.
John laughed, and said, ‘Poor Johnnie! I shall like to see him there in
his inheritance.’
‘Dear little man! I hope his grandfather will think him grown. I am glad
they did not see him while he was so tiny and miserable. I am sure they
must like him now, he takes so much notice.’
‘You must not be disappointed if my mother does not make much of him,’
said John; ‘it was not her way with her own.’
Then, as Violet looked aghast, ‘You do not know my mother. It requires
a good deal to show what she can be, beneath her distant manner. I never
knew her till two years ago.’
‘When you were past thirty!’ broke from Violet’s lips, in a sort of
horror.
‘When I was most in need of comfort,’ he answered. ‘There has been
a formality and constraint in our life, that has not allowed the
affections their natural play, but indeed they exist. There have been
times when even I distrusted my mother’s attachment; but she could not
help it, and it was all the stronger afterwards. Madeira taught me what
she is, away from my aunt.’
‘I do hope it is not wrong to feel about Mrs. Nesbit as I do! I am ready
to run away from her. I know she is spying for my faults. Oh! I cannot
like her.’
‘That is a very mild version of what I have felt,’ said John; ‘I believe
she has done us all infinite harm. But I am hardly qualified to speak;
for, from the time she gave up the hope of my being a credit to the
family, she has disliked me, said cutting things, well-nigh persecuted
me. She did harass Helen to give me up; but, after all, poor woman, I
believe I have been a great vexation to her, and I cannot help being
sorry for her. It is a pitiable old age, straining to keep hold of what
used to occupy her, and irritated at her own failing faculties.’
‘I will try to think of that,’ said Violet.
‘I wonder what powers she will give me over her West Indian property;
I must try,’ said John; ‘it will make a great difference to my
opportunities of usefulness. I must talk to my father about it.’
‘How very kind Theodora is to poor little Miss Piper,’ said Violet.
‘Yes; that is one of Theodora’s best points.’
‘Oh! she is so very good; I wish she could endure me.’
‘So do I,’ said John. ‘I have neglected her, and now I reap the fruits.
In that great house at home people live so much apart, that if they wish
to meet, they must seek each other. And I never saw her as a child but
when she came down in the evening, with her great black eyes looking so
large and fierce. As a wild high-spirited girl I never made acquaintance
with her, and now I cannot.’
‘But when you were ill this last time, did she not read to you, and
nurse you?’
‘That was not permitted; there might have been risk, and besides, as
Arthur says, I only wish to be let alone. I had not then realized that
sympathy accepted for the sake of the giver will turn to the good of the
receiver. No; I have thrown her away as far as I am concerned; and when
I see what noble character and religious feeling there is with that
indomitable pride and temper, I am the more grieved. Helen walked with
her twice or three times when she was at Martindale, and she told me how
much there was in her, but I never tried to develop it. I thought when
Helen was her sister--but that chance is gone. That intractable spirit
will never be tamed but by affection; but, unluckily, I don’t know,’
said John, smiling, ‘who would marry Theodora.’
‘Oh! how can you say so? She is so like Arthur.’
John laughed. ‘No, I give up the hope of a Petruchio.’
‘But Mr. Wingfield, I thought--’
‘Wingfield!’ said John, starting. ‘No, no, that’s not likely.’
‘Nor Lord St. Erme!’
‘I hope not. He is fancy-bit, I suppose, but he is not her superior.
Life with him would harden rather than tame her. No. After all,
strangely as she has behaved about him, when she has him in sight, I
suspect there is one person among us more likely to soften her than any
other.’
‘Arthur?’
‘Arthur’s son.’
‘Oh! of course, and if she will but love my Johnnie I don’t much care
about his mamma.’