Unschooled affections, strong and wild,
Have been my playmates from a child,
And strengthening in the breast unseen,
Poisoned the fount within.
--Thoughts in Past Years
The morning of the next day had been fine, and was spent in shooting by
Arthur and Mr. Fotheringham; but the latter came home in time to ride
with John, to make a call on some old friends, far beyond what had long
been John’s distance.
The afternoon closed in a violent storm of wind and rain, which drove
Arthur indoors, and compelled Violet to resort for exercise to the
gallery, where she paced up and down with Johnnie in her arms, watching
for the return of the others, as each turn brought her to the end
window. As Lord Martindale came up-stairs, he paused at the sight of the
slender young figure--her head bent over her little one. Perhaps he was
thinking what might have been, if his own children had ever been as much
to their mother; for when Violet turned towards him he sighed, as he
roused himself, and asked whether she saw John coming. Then joining her,
he looked at his grandson, saying, ‘He is improving very fast. How like
you he grows!’
‘Poor little fellow, he was not at all well yesterday, and I began to
think of asking whether I should send for Mr. Legh.’
‘Whatever you do, beware of doctoring!’ was Lord Martindale’s rather
hasty answer. ‘Of doctoring and governessing!--I have seen enough of
it, and I resolved my two youngest should run wholesomely wild, never be
dosed, and never learn a lesson till they were six years old.’
‘But this poor little man is really delicate, and I have no experience,’
pleaded Violet.
‘Depend upon it, my dear,’ said Lord Martindale, with sorrowful emotion
in his voice, as he saw the little fair head resting caressingly on her
neck, ‘you are doing more for him than all the physicians in England.
You must not tease him and yourself with fretting and anxiety.’
‘I know it is my duty not to be over-anxious,’ said Violet, with her
heart full, as she clasped her hands close round her tiny treasure.
‘You must not,’ said his grandfather. ‘It was the notion that mine could
never have enough teaching or doctoring-as if that was what they wanted!
Some system or other was always being tried on them, and they were never
left to healthy action of mind or body, till the end was that I lost
my two pretty little girls! And poor John, I never saw a more
wretched-looking child than he was when I took him to Dr.--.’
‘And what was his advice?’
‘His advice was this. “Throw away lessons and physic. Give him other
children to play with, make him wear a brown holland pinafore, and
let him grope in the dirt.” I believe it saved his life! I begged Mrs.
Fotheringham to let him do just like her children, little thinking what
was to come of that.’ Then catching himself up, as if fearing to give
Violet pain, ‘Not that I should have regretted that connection. She
was all that could be wished, and I judged by personal merits.’ He
hesitated, but spoke warmly, as if applying the words to Violet. ‘Their
youth was my only objection from the first. Nothing would have rejoiced
me more than their marriage.’
‘O, yes,’ said Violet, ‘he says so much of your kindness.’ She feared
she had said too much, but Lord Martindale caught at her words. ‘Has he
ever adverted to that affair!’
‘Sometimes,’ said Violet, shyly.
‘What! Actually spoken of poor Helen! I am heartily glad to hear it. How
is he bearing it? Does he speak calmly?’
‘Yes, calmly and cheerfully, as if he liked to dwell on the thought.’
Lord Martindale laid his hand on her arm, and said, gratefully, ‘You
have done him a great deal of good.’
Seldom had she been more gratified, but at that moment a dripping figure
burst on them, and Theodora’s voice impetuously exclaimed, ‘Violet!
you must know something of babies! What shall I do for the child at the
lodge? She will die if something is not done quickly.’
She was in an agony of breathless agitation; the motherless baby at the
lodge had been taken violently ill, the parish doctor was not at home,
and she feared that Mr. Legh could not arrive from Whitford in time!
Violet shared in her distress, and gathering from her description that
it might be such an attack as Johnnie’s at Ventnor, longed to be on
the spot, and tried to believe the rain lessening enough for her to go.
Theodora seized on her proposal, but Lord Martindale interfered. ‘How
can you be so thoughtless?’ said he, in a far more decided manner than
usual.
‘The child’s life depends on it!’ said Theodora, vehemently.
‘Pshaw!’ said Lord Martindale, ‘Violet has her own life and her child’s
to think of.’
‘Then you won’t come!’
‘I am afraid I ought not,’ said Violet, mournfully.
Theodora flung away in passionate despair and contempt, and was rushing
off, when Violet pursued her, and implored her to listen one moment, and
she could not let go her last hope. Violet offered some medicine that
had been prepared for Johnnie--which she was sure could at least do no
harm, and she could give some advice. Perhaps she mingled it with too
many excuses and lamentations at being forced to stay at home; at least,
Theodora thought her fanciful, rejoicing in the self-importance of
imaginary ill-health.
‘Why! there’s the carriage!’ she exclaimed, as it drove down the avenue.
‘Yes, it is gone for John,’ said Theodora, bluntly.
‘Where is he?’
‘At the Goldingsby turnpike. He took shelter there, and Percy came back
to order the carriage to fetch him. Percy is gone on to Whitford for Mr.
Legh.’
‘What a pity! I could have gone to the lodge in the carriage.’
Theodora was provoked that her impatience had made her miss this chance:
so, without answering, she ran down the steps, and was almost whirled
along the avenue by the wild wind that roared in the branches, tearing
the leaves from the trees, and whirling them round and round. She hardly
felt it--her whole soul was set upon the little orphan; the misery of
watching the suffering she could not relieve, joined with passionate
resentment at her father and sister-in-law, who she fancied made light
of it. Only Mr. Fotheringham, when stopping at the lodge on his way, had
shown what she thought tolerable humanity. He had shared her concern,
consoled her despair, suggested asking counsel of Mrs. Martindale, and
finally rode off five miles to Whitford in quest of the doctor.
Violet’s advice proved not to be despicable; the measures she
recommended relieved the little one, and by the time Percy and the
apothecary made their appearance, it was asleep on Theodora’s lap, and
Mr. Legh pronounced that it was in a fair way to do well. She wished she
could have watched it all night, but it was late, and Mr. Fotheringham
stood waiting at the door. So she laid it in the cradle, gave her
directions to the old woman who had charge of it, and resumed her brown
cloak and hood, in which she walked about in all weathers, without
umbrella, for which, as for parasols, she had a supreme aversion.
Mr. Legh wished to prevail on her to let him drive her home, but she
would not hear of it. Percy put up his umbrella, and offered to shelter
her, but she held aloof.
‘No, no. Where did you get that elegant cotton machine?’
‘I borrowed it at the turnpike.’
‘And rode home with it on Arthur’s mare?’
‘Of course I did. I was not going to get wet through.’
‘But how did you get her to let you carry it. She objects to his taking
out his handkerchief.’
‘I am not going to be beaten by a mare, and she soon found that out.’
‘What have you done with her?’
‘I took her home, and came back again. I wonder what Arthur will say to
me for taking his gallant gray on to Whitford. I must get up a pathetic
appeal to the feelings of a father!’
‘Well, I did not recollect you had the gray, or I would have told you to
take my horse. However, there’s no harm done, and it saved time.’
‘Whoo--h!’ as the gust came roaring down furiously upon them, pelting
fiercely with rain, flapping and tearing at Theodora’s cloak, like the
wind in the fable, trying to whirl her off her feet, and making vehement
efforts to wrench the umbrella out of Percy’s hand. A buffet with wind
and weather was a frolic which she particularly enjoyed, running on
before the blast, then turning round to walk backwards and recover
breath to laugh at him toiling with the umbrella. Never had she looked
brighter, her dark eyes, lately so sad and soft, now sparkling and
dancing with mirth, her brown cheek glowing with fresh red from the rain
and wind that had loosened her hair, and was sporting with a long
black tress that streamed beyond her bonnet, and fluttered over her
face--life, strength, and activity in every limb, and her countenance
beaming with sportiveness and gaiety, the more charming because so
uncommon. It was a rare chance to catch Theodora at play.
‘Ha! you’ll be beat! You will have to shut up the miserable invention
unknown to our forefathers.’
‘Not I. I shall not give up the distinction between man and beast in the
rain.’
‘Man! Why even ants carry parasols.’
‘That is in the sun. Parasols belong to an epoch of earlier
civilization. Vide Ninevite carvings--Persian satraps!’
‘So you reduce yourself to a Persian satrap!’
‘No; it was reserved for modern times to discover the true application
of the umbrella. Were you rational enough to come back in the carriage?’
‘No, indeed. To do justice to Violet, she would have come down in it, if
I had not forgotten to tell her of it.’
‘I am glad you do her justice for once.’
She would not answer, and took advantage of another combat with the wind
to cover her silence.
‘Theodora,’ said he, abruptly, ‘I cannot help it; I must say it!’
‘Well?’
‘I do not think you feel as you ought towards your brother’s wife.’
‘John has told you this?’
‘No; I have observed it. You had set your affections on Arthur; and
thinking he had thrown himself away, you do not resist the common
propensity to hate a sister-in-law.’
‘You like to provoke me,’ said Theodora; ‘but,’ and her voice trembled,
‘it is unkind to bring this up--the pain and grief of my life, when I
was happy and forgetful for once.’
‘Far, far from unkindness. It is because I cannot bear to see you
unhappy.’
‘I trusted no one saw that.’
‘I have known you too long, and thought of you too much, not to be
grieved at the sight of your forced spirits and suppressed sorrow.’
It would have angered her from another; from him it touched her to find
how closely and kindly he had watched her.
‘I cannot help it,’ she said. ‘He was my all.’
‘Have you striven with it?’
‘Of course I have. I have lived in a tumult of occupation, but--’
‘But you have not conquered yourself, and grappled with the serpents
that poison your life.’
‘Pray what do you call those serpents?’
‘If you look them in the face, I believe you will find they are pride
and jealousy.’
‘You like to find generic names,’ said Theodora, trying for a cold
smile.
‘Because it is safer to know and crush a venomous beast than to dally
with it.’
‘If I find there are such serpents, I will crush them and thank you.’
‘No other woman would so have answered,’ cried Percy, exultingly.
‘Because,’ said she, her throat swelling, ‘no other man is true and
downright friend enough to warn me honestly.’
‘Theodora, Theodora, you are a grand creature, nearly thrown away for
want of breaking in.’
‘Too true,’ said she, sadly.
‘I must say it. Will you let me? Will you trust yourself and your
happiness to me? It has been the vision and hope of my solitude to see
you what you might be! the flaws in that noble nature corrected, its
grandeur and devotedness shining forth undimmed. Together we would crush
the serpents--bring out all that is excellent.’
‘I think there might be a chance for me with you,’ said she, in an odd
sort of tone.
‘You mean it?’ he exclaimed, trying to see her face, but her hood
flapped over it.
‘I do. You appreciate me.’
She let him walk beside her, and hold the umbrella over her; but not
a word was spoken till they were ascending the steps, when she said,
‘Don’t tell papa till night. I do not choose to look foolish.’
‘Good luck to thee, umbrella!’ said Percy, holding it on high, ere
closing it. ‘Thy sea-green dome has been a canopy of bliss. Honour to
thy whalebones!’ Then, in a very different manner, ‘Oh! Theodora, could
you but guess how you have mingled in every scheme or wish of mine; how
often I have laughed myself to scorn for dreaming, as if there could be
any chance!’
‘Ah! what an uproar my aunt will make!’ exclaimed Theodora, somewhat
exultingly. Some one crossed the hall, and she ran away, but stepped
back from the foot of the stairs, laid her hand on his arm, and with a
face inexpressibly sweet and brilliant, said, ‘We shall get on very well
together. We need have no nonsense. But I did not know how happy you had
made me.’
She escaped again; she would not have said thus much if she had not
known there could be no reply, for Lady Martindale was sailing down the
grand staircase.
She met him no more till dinner, when he was silent, and she talkative
and flighty, so that Violet suspected there had been a quarrel.
The next morning, the first tidings were that John had a cold and was
confined to his bed by cough and pain in the chest; while something too
was said of his having been kept up late at night talking. Theodora
paid a visit to the sick child in the early morning, and after breakfast
accompanied Violet to the lodge, where Violet found the poor little
thing nursed with more goodwill than skill by its old aunt and Theodora,
took it into her own motherly arms, gave it food and medicine, and
hushed it to sleep so successfully, that Theodora respected what she
called the feminine element.
The two sisters walked back happily together; but at the door Lord
Martindale met them, exclaiming, ‘Where have you been, Theodora? Come
here.’
Violet wished to be certified that John was not worse, but could find no
one but Mr. Fotheringham, who, with a little twist of the corner of
his mouth, assured her that there was no cause for uneasiness on that
account.
Some time had gone by; she was writing letters, while Percy stood in the
deep window, reading the newspapers, and making a great rustling with
them. Suddenly Arthur entered, exclaiming,
‘Well, Violet, here is a piece of news! Guess!’
‘That is the way people always tell wedding news.’
‘Right. Now then for the victims.’
‘Your sister? What really? And who? Oh, not Lord St. Erme?’
‘The very antipodes, as Harrison would say! Guess again.’
‘Help me, Mr. Fotheringham,’ she began; but Arthur, with a tremendous
start, exclaimed, ‘Hollo! if that is not a shame! How I wish I had said
what a shocking bad match it is!’
‘You think so, do you?’ said Percy, advancing, and heartily shaking
Arthur’s ready hand.
‘Oh! that is your look-out,’ said Arthur, shrugging his shoulders.
‘But, do you really mean it?’ said Violet, looking from one to the
other, as Percy’s hand seemed to claim the same welcome from her.
‘Indeed, I do,’ said Percy, earnestly. ‘O, how glad John will be!’ was
her congratulation.
‘So, I must say nothing about the gray,’ proceeded Arthur. ‘What is it
some one says about Cupid’s steeds? I vow I will call her Psyche, if it
is only to make Theodora savage!’
‘Where is your father?’ said Percy.
‘With John. That was where I heard it.’ Then, as Percy was leaving the
room, ‘Well, you are a bold man! I hope you mean to kill the cat on the
wedding-day. That is all.’
‘I am obliged for your experience,’ said Percy.
‘If you make her like this one by the end of a year--’
‘O, hush, Arthur!’
Percy hastened from the room. Violet could not recover from her
astonishment. ‘Could Lord Martindale actually have consented?’
‘Makes no difficulty at all. He has grown wiser since poor John’s time.
I have taught him one may be trusted to choose for oneself.’
‘But your aunt?’
‘Ah! there is nothing she hates like a Fotheringham; but she has not the
power over my father she once had. She will have to take up with us for
very spite. But what they are to live on I do not know, unless my father
keeps them.’
‘I thought he was heir to a baronetcy.’
‘Yes; but there is a half-witted son of old Sir Antony in the way, who
will keep Percy out of the property for the term of his natural life, as
well as if he was a wise man.’
After luncheon, Violet had a message from John to ask for a visit from
her. She found him on the sofa in the sitting-room, apparently oppressed
and uncomfortable; but he looked brightened by her entrance, and pleased
when she offered to stay and read to him.
‘The very thing I have been figuring to myself as most agreeable. I
don’t want to talk or think. I have been overdoing both.’
So she had to repress her curiosity, and give him the repose of her
pleasant reading, till he dropped asleep; and after waiting some time,
in the fear of awakening him, she gently left the room, and had time for
another visit to the lodge, where she fell in with the lovers, and found
them disputing about the cotton umbrella. Percy announced that he should
give his own in exchange, and retain it for ever, as a trophy of what
could be accomplished with both horse and woman. Theodora was a little
cross. If he wished to keep it out of sentiment, that was all very well;
but to give it the turn of glorying over her was displeasing. He wanted
to make her confess that she had submitted to its shelter.
‘No, you only walked by me, and held it up.’
‘I appeal to you, Mrs. Martindale. Is not that the popular view of being
under an umbrella?’
Theodora would not speak, and Violet thought him wrong in teasing her.
Silence ensued, but ended in his saying, as they came to the steps,
‘Well, Theodora, shall I restore the umbrella as a hated object?’
‘No, no,’ said she; ‘do what you please with it, only don’t talk
nonsense about it.’
Then, when Violet was gone,--‘You must not triumph over me, Percy; I
cannot bear it. If it is pride, have patience with me.’
‘I should have asked you to forgive me,’ said Percy, affected by the
tone of humility.
‘No, no, indeed!’ said Theodora, smiling; ‘but I warn you, my serpent
is dealt with more safely by treading on it than by irritating it,’ and
there was an indignant gleam in her dark eye. ‘Now I am going to tell my
aunt.’
‘I would wish you well through it; but I believe you are eager for the
battle. Only let me say one thing, Theodora--be forbearing, or you will
be fostering the enemy.’
‘I can deal with her,’ said Theodora.
But she was met in a manner she had not expected. Mrs. Nesbit beckoned
her to her side, laid her hand on hers, and peered up in her face with
witch-like eyes, that disconcerted her usually ready speech, and called
up a blush.
‘I see,’ said Mrs. Nesbit. ‘I do not blame you for the fault of your
father and brother. I knew how it would be.’
‘Has mamma told you?’ said Theodora. ‘Papa promised that I should be the
first to tell!’
‘Your mamma does not know what will mortify her so extremely.’
‘Then how have you heard it?’
‘I have seen it. I knew what you had to tell from the instant you
entered. And your father has given you his consent?’ raising her hand,
as if to say, ‘I give up all hopes of him.’
‘Yes, he highly approves.’
Here Lady Martindale came into the room.
‘You need not be vexed, my dear,’ began Mrs. Nesbit. ‘It will not be
made public, and there will be no harm done.’
‘What will not, dear aunt? you alarm me.’
‘This foolish affair into which Lord Martindale and John have drawn this
poor child.’
‘Aunt! aunt!’ cried Theodora, ‘you do not know what you say. It is of
my own free will--uninfluenced. I would choose him, and hold fast to him
through worlds of opposition.’
‘Yes, yes; we understand all that,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, with a
contemptuous accent; ‘but as it cannot be at once, you will soon have
enough of that overbearing temper. At twenty, there is plenty of time to
get over such an affair, and form a more suitable connection.’
‘Never!’ cried Theodora.
‘What, my dear!’ said astonished Lady Martindale. ‘You engaged, and you
have not told me!’
‘Only since yesterday, mamma. He spoke to papa only this morning.’
‘But who is it? Nothing that your aunt disapproves, I trust, my dear.’
‘Percy Fotheringham,’ said Theodora, standing firm, and exulting in
defiance; but her aunt continued that same provoking disregard.
‘Yes, you see it is of no use to oppose her. For my part, I think her
papa has acted wisely in permitting the engagement. Contradiction would
embellish her hero; while, left to him, she will soon find him out. I do
not concern myself, for Miss Martindale can get over a little matter of
this kind.’
‘It is of no use to make protestations,’ said Theodora; and she left
the room much more annoyed than she could have been by the violent
opposition for which she was prepared. Cool contempt was beyond
everything irritating, especially where reply was impossible, and
argument undignified.
Mrs. Nesbit continued to behave as if the engagement did not exist,
and Violet could not suppose her informed of it. Lady Martindale looked
melancholy and distressed, especially after having been with John, whom,
however, she declared to be better, and desirous of seeing his sister.
Theodora went to him, but remained a very short time.
Violet ventured in with his mother, to wish him good night, and he
thanked her warmly for having read him to sleep. ‘When I am laid up
again, you will know where to find a nurse for me,’ added he to his
mother; a speech which obtained for Violet a positively cordial and
affectionate good night from Lady Martindale.
Though mending, he did not leave his room the next day, as it was damp
and chilly; and he again asked for Violet’s company in the afternoon,
since he supposed she was not thinking of going out.
‘O, no; no one does, except Theodora. I saw something brown half-way
across the park, which must be either her cloak, or the old cow-man’s
worst round frock.’
‘And Percy not in attendance?’
‘No; he and Arthur are lingering at luncheon, talking about the Austrian
army. When did you hear about this?’
‘As soon as I came in. He marched into my room, sat down, and said,
“There! I’ve done it.” I thought he had broken the knees of Arthur’s
gray, till he explained--“No; I have taken your sister on my hands.”’
‘So you were watching them all the evening!’
‘Yes; I was very anxious as to how my father might view it.’
‘I suppose that hurt you more than the rain?’
‘Excitement, as Brown would say. Perhaps it might. We talked long and
late, and afterwards I fell into the old strain of thought. From what
Percy tells me, his sister must have influenced Theodora far more than I
thought possible. To her he ascribes her religious tone. If he is right,
my mistake in neglecting her has been worse than I supposed.’
‘Then this is all the better! Do you remember saying you despaired of a
Petruchio?’
‘It is on the Petruchio principle that he takes her, and avowedly. None
but Katharina was ever so wooed or so won!’
‘That is very much to her honour.’
‘If she realizes his being in earnest. She would make one doubt whether
she has any earnest. Yesterday evening she so treated, the subject that
I was on the point of saying, “Reply not to me with a fool-born jest.”
And how do you think she answered my father, when he asked her if she
knew what she undertook? As my namesake said, “I shall wash all day and
ride out on the great dog at night.”
‘Was not that a sort of shyness?’
‘I would fain hope so. If I had ever seen anything like deep earnest
feeling I should be satisfied. Yet Percy declares, I trust he may be
right, that she has the very strongest affections, and much tenderness
of character. He says her nature came straight from the tropics, and
must not be judged by sober English rules.’
‘If you had seen her distress about the child at the lodge!’
‘Ah! he said those tears settled the matter, and showed him that she
had the woman’s heart as well as the candour that would conquer her
waywardness. It sounds a little too like a lover’s self-justification.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Violet. ‘You do not know what she is with the
dumb boy, and with Johnnie.’
‘I was just going to have instanced her neglect of Johnnie.’
‘I assure you,’ cried Violet, eagerly, ‘that is only because she does
not like me. You cannot think how fond she is of him. When I am out
of the way she goes to the nursery and pets him till Sarah is almost
jealous of his fondness for her.’
‘I have no patience with her,’ exclaimed John.
‘I thought you would have been glad.’
‘I do not like Percy to make a mistake, and get his feelings trifled
with. He deserves a wife like himself.’
‘Did you hear of Arthur’s advice to him?’
‘To kill the cat on the wedding-day. That might answer if it were to be
at once; but it is a cat with nine lives, and I do not think she will
bear to have it killed before the wedding-day.’
‘Then it is not to be soon?’
‘No, my father thinks her not fit for a poor man’s wife, and cannot give
her more than £5000, so they must wait till they can begin on an income
equal to yours.’
‘And I suppose that will be when he gets some appointment.’
‘And there is the Worthbourne estate as a provision for the future, so
that there is no imprudence. For my part, I regret the delay; Theodora
would shine if she had to rough it, provided always she was truly
attached to her husband.’
‘She would bear poverty beautifully.’
‘But it is not a thing to advise. I am accused already of being romantic
and imprudent, yet I would urge it on my father if I saw them desirous
to hasten it. I do not understand them, and perhaps I am unreasonable. I
do not like his happiness to be in such perverse hands, yet I am uneasy
at the delay. It suits my aunt’s predictions, and they are far too apt
to come true. I feel them like a spell. She always foretold that Helen
and I should never marry. And it cannot be denied that she has great
insight into character, so that I am alarmed at her declaring this will
not come to good. If not, I have no hope for Theodora! She will either
be hard and unfeminine, or turn to worldliness, and be such another as
my aunt. She has it in her.’
‘You are taking to horrid predictions yourself.’
‘Well, I acknowledge her capabilities, but there has been woful
mismanagement, and my father feels it.’
‘I was surprised at his consenting so readily.’
‘He has once been too much grieved to be led to act against his own
judgment again. He thinks very highly of Percy, and is glad Theodora
should be in safe keeping; she was so wilful this last season in London
as to make him very uneasy.’
Mr. Fotheringham came in, and Violet was going, but was claimed for
some more work upon the Crusaders, and told that Arthur was gone out to
inspect his gray.
Arthur found the weather better than it appeared from indoors, and
strolled into the park to indulge in a cigar. Ere long he perceived the
brown waterproof cloak, and throwing away the end of his cigar, called
out, ‘Halloa! a solitary ramble. Have you given Earl Percy the slip?’
‘You do not expect him to be always philandering after me?’
‘There’s a popular delusion with regard to lovers.’
‘We are not such ninnies.’
‘But seriously, Theodora, what can induce Fotheringham to have you?’
‘I expected you to ask what induced me to have him.’
‘That in its own time! Tell me, first, why he takes you.’
‘The same reason that you took Violet.’
‘As if you and Violet were to be named together!’
‘Or you and Percy!’
They laughed, and Theodora then spoke with deep feeling. ‘It does
surprise me, Arthur, but it is the more pleasure. He has known me all my
life, and sees there is less humbug in me than in other women. He knows
I have a heart.’
‘That scientific discovery is his reason. Now for yours.’
‘Because he understands me.’
‘So your partnership is founded on a stock of mutual understanding!
I devoutly hope it is; for my notion is that Percy will stand no
nonsense.’
‘Of course not.’
‘It remains to be proved how you will like that.’
‘I am not given to nonsense.’
Arthur whistled.
‘That means that I will not yield when I am not convinced.’
‘And he will make you.’
‘He will never be unreasonable,’ exclaimed Theodora.
‘It does not follow that you will not.’
‘That is unjust. I yield where duty, good sense, or affection make it
needful.’
‘Oho! Affection! That is like other people. Now I see some hope of you.’
‘Did you think I would have had him without it?’
‘Certainly, it is the only explanation. You will not find being wife to
a scrub of an attache the same thing as being Miss Martindale.’
‘I am glad of it. My mind revolts at the hollowness of my present life.’
‘Well done!’ ejaculated Arthur.
‘I do,’ said Theodora, vehemently. ‘Ours has never been a home; it was
all artificial, and we had separate worlds. You and I amalgamated best;
but, oh! Arthur, you never cared for me as I did for you. The misery
of my life has been want of affection. Any one who loved me could have
guided me at will. You doubt! You don’t know what is in me! How I felt
as if I would work night and day at my lessons, if they were ever to be
heard by mamma! I remember once, after a day’s naughtiness, lying awake,
sobbing, and saying, again and again, half aloud, “I would be good if
they would love me!”’
‘No one would have thought such fancies were in a wild colt like you.’
‘I would not have had them guessed for worlds. Then came that one gleam
of Helen. It was a new life; but it could not last. She went back, and I
cannot say things in letters. She told me to talk to John, but he was of
no use. He has always despised me.’
‘I don’t think you are right there.’
‘He would help me in trouble, but I am nothing to him. You were all I
had, and when you gave yourself away from me I was left alone with the
heart-ache, and began to think myself born to live without love.’
‘In spite of the lovers you had in London?’
‘You know better. That was the Honourable Miss Martindale. What did they
know of the real Theodora?’
‘Poor critturs, what indeed! They would have run far enough if they
had.’
‘I knew it. It is the soft, gentle, feminine mould that attracts men.’
‘Another curious discovery.’
‘I cannot change my nature. But when he comes, superior to them all,
understanding my true self, seeing me high-spirited and cold-mannered,
but able to look into me, and perceive there is warmth and
soundness--oh! is not that a new well-spring of happiness!’
‘Yes, he is as much out of the common run of folks as you are. You’ll go
as well together as Smithson’s pair of piebalds. I am satisfied; I only
wanted to know whether you cared for him, for you don’t “act as sich.”’
‘I can’t talk stuff. I managed pretty well with papa, but I could not
bear it with John. He began to praise Percy, which made me ready to
cry, and that provoked me: besides, I know he does not believe in me. He
cares for Helen’s brother far more than for his own sister, and does
not think me good enough for him. I saw he thought I should trifle, and
meant to give me a lecture; and I could not stand that, you know, so I
got away as fast as I could.’
‘John does not lecture as you might expect, if you give him his full
swing. He is the best and kindest fellow in the world.’
‘I know how Percy looks up to him. The only thing I don’t like is, that
I believe one cause of Percy’s attachment is my being his sister.’
‘I tell you, Theodora, if you are so outrageously jealous, you will
never get through the world in peace.’
‘I shall have no reason for jealousy.’
‘And for fear he should, had you not better give a hint to Wingfield?
You are turning the poor fellow’s head with your confabulations over
the dirty children, and you’ll have him languishing in an unrequited
attachment.’
‘He understands me too well,’ said Theodora.
‘You reckon a great deal on understanding! And you put yourselves to the
test. Why don’t you marry out of hand, and trust to the fates?’
‘We have talked it over,’ said Theodora. ‘As to our income being equal
to yours, that is nonsense. We have no expensive habits; but Percy says
£450 a year is too little, so we shall wait for the appointment, or till
he has made it up to £700. But I own I did not expect such ready consent
from papa.’
‘Ha! You would have liked a little opposition? You would sing a
different song if he had set his face against it. It is very knowing of
my aunt to take the line she does.’
‘I wish my aunt was twenty years younger!’
‘That you might fight it out, eh!’
‘One comfort is, she will never leave me her money now! But I must
go in, and send Miss Piper for a walk with Harrison. My aunt must be
repaying herself on her.’
‘Then I shall take another cigar, to get the damp out of my throat.’
‘You wretch, you like to boast of it!’
‘Ah! you don’t know what Percy learnt in Turkey.’
‘I know he always abominated smoking.’
‘Perhaps he’ll let you think so till you are married.’
‘For shame, Arthur! That’s the way you served your wife.’
‘Not I. She is duly grateful to me for only smoking at fit times and
places, wherein I don’t resemble her precious brother.’
Arthur thus reported this conversation to his wife. ‘I met Theodora in
the park. She is as remarkable an article as ever I saw.’
‘What do you think?--is she really attached to him?’
‘I know as little as she does.’
It was determined that the secret should be strictly kept; it was the
one point on which Lady Martindale was anxious, being thereto prompted
by her aunt. Theodora declared she had no one to tell, and Mr.
Fotheringham only desired to inform his uncle and aunt, Sir Antony and
Lady Fotheringham. He was now going to pay them a visit before settling
in his lodgings in London. Theodora’s engagement certainly made her
afford to be kinder to Violet, or else it was Percy’s influence that in
some degree softened her. She was pleased at having one of her favourite
head girls taken as housemaid under Sarah’s direction, her only doubt
being whether Violet was a sufficiently good mistress; but she had much
confidence in Sarah, whose love of dominion made her glad of a young
assistant.
The party was now breaking up, Violet in high spirits at returning home,
and having Arthur all to herself, as well as eager to put her schemes of
good management into practice. The sorrow was the parting with John, who
was likely to be absent for several years.
Before going he had one last conversation with his sister, apropos to
some mention of a book which she wished to send to London to be returned
to Miss Gardner.
‘Does Violet visit her?’ he asked.
‘There have been a few calls; Jane Gardner has been very good-natured to
her.’
‘Is that cousin of theirs, that Gardner, still abroad?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘I hope he will stay there. He used to have a most baneful influence
over Arthur. Theodora, if by any chance it should be in your power, you
ought to do your utmost to keep them from coming in contact. It may be a
very superfluous fear, but your intimacy with those ladies might be the
means of bringing them together, and there is nothing I should so much
dread.’
‘Surely Arthur may be trusted to choose his own friends.’
‘You don’t know what happened in their school days! No, you were too
young. It was discovered that there was a practice of gambling and
drinking wine in the boys’ rooms, and Arthur was all but expelled;
but it turned out that he had been only weak, and entirely led by this
fellow, and so he was spared. Percy could tell you many histories of
Gardner’s doings at Cambridge. Arthur’s worst scrape since he has been
in the Guards was entirely owing to him, and it was evident he still had
the same power over him.’
‘Arthur is no boy now.’
‘I doubt,’ said John, half smiling.
‘No one can make the least charge against him since his marriage.’
‘It has done much for him,’ answered John, ‘and she has improved
wonderfully. Theodora, now that I am going away, let me once more
tell you that you are throwing away a source of much happiness by
disregarding her.’
‘Her romantic friendship with Emma Brandon is a proof that she cannot
have much in common with me.’
‘There is one thing you have not in common with either,’ exclaimed John,
‘and that is an unassuming temper.’
‘Yes, I know you all think me prejudiced. I do not want you to go away
misunderstanding me,’ answered Theodora. ‘She has good principles, she
is amiable and affectionate; but there are three points that prevent me
from esteeming her as you do. She has a weak fretful temper.’
‘I am sure you have seen no sign of it.’
‘It is just what is never shown; but I am convinced poor Arthur suffers
from it. Next, she thinks a great deal of her appearance; and, lastly,
she is fond of power, and tries to govern, if not by coaxing, by
weakness, tears, hysterics--all the artillery of the feeble. Now, a
woman such as that I can pity, but cannot love, nor think a fit wife for
my brother.’
‘I can’t tell, I don’t know,’ said John, hesitating in displeasure and
perplexity; ‘but this once I must try whether it is of any use to talk
to you. Her spirits and nerves are not strong, and they were cruelly
tried last spring; but Arthur only saw her cheerful, and never guessed
at the tears she shed in secret, till we found her papers blistered
with them, when her never complaining and letting him go his own way had
almost cost her her life! and if you knew her, you would see that the
tendency to over-anxiety is the very failing with which she struggles. I
wish I could make you see her in her true light.’
‘I cannot help it, John,’ said Theodora, ‘I must speak the truth. I see
how it is. Men are not clear-sighted in judging of a pretty woman of
engaging manners. They are under a fascination. I don’t blame you--it is
exactly the same with papa and Percy.’
‘Indeed?’
And for the last time baffled, John parted with his sister in much
anxiety and disappointment, such as made it repose to turn to that other
gentle, open-hearted, confiding sister, whose helplessness and sympathy
had first roused him from despondency and inaction.
He begged her to write to him; an honour and a pleasure indeed; and now
there was no fear of her letters being such as that she had sent him at
Martindale. He declared the correspondence would be a great pleasure to
him--he could not bear to think of hearing of those in whom he took so
much interest only at second-hand; and besides, he had been accustomed
to pour out his mind so much in his letters to Helen, that he felt the
want of full and free confidence. His letters to his mother were
not safe from the eye of his aunt, and neither his father nor Mr.
Fotheringham could be what a lady correspondent would be to a man of his
character, reflective, fond of description, and prone to dwell on the
details of what interested him.
So the time of his departure came, whereat Arthur lamented, vowing it
was a horrid bore that he could not live in England, and hoping that
Barbuda would patch him up for good; while Violet made arrangements for
his convenience and pleasure on the voyage, such as no sister had ever
supplied for him before.