Call me false, or call me free,
Vow, whatever light may shine,
No man on your face shall see
Any grief for change of mine.
--E. B. BROWNING (The Lady’s Yes)
It appeared as if Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner were offended at
Theodora’s defection, for nothing was heard of them for several days,
and the household in Cadogan-place continued in a state of peacefulness.
Arthur was again at home for a week, and Theodora was riding with him
when she next met the two sisters, who at once attacked them for their
absence from the picnic, giving an eager description of its delights and
of the silence and melancholy of poor Lord St. Erme.
‘He and Mark were both in utter despair,’ said Jane.
‘Well, it is of no use to ask you; I have vowed I never will,’ said Mrs.
Finch; ‘or I should try to make you come with us on Wednesday.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘You living in Captain Martindale’s house, and forgetting the Derby!’
And an entreaty ensued that both brother and sister would join their
party. Arthur gave a gay, unmeaning answer, and they parted.
‘What do you think of it?’ asked Theodora.
‘Too much trouble,’ said he, lazily. ‘There is no horse running that
I take interest in. My racing days are over. I am an old domestic
character.’
‘Nonsense! You don’t look two-and-twenty! Lady Elizabeth’s sister would
not believe you were my married brother. You have not the look of it.’
Arthur laughed, and said, ‘Absurd!’ but was flattered.
When he told his wife of the invitation, he added, ‘I wonder if there is
a fresh breeze blowing up!’
‘I trust not.’
‘If she really wants to go, and she has never seen the thing, I had
rather take her in a sober way by ourselves, and come home at our own
time.’
‘Why don’t you! It would be very pleasant for you both, and I should be
so glad. Think how she shuts herself up with me!’
‘We will see. Anything for a quiet life.’
Theodora, being fond of horses, and used to hear much about them from
her brother, had a real curiosity to go to Epsom, and broached the
subject the next morning at breakfast. Before any answer had been given,
Mr. Fotheringham made his appearance.
‘Well, Percy,’ said Arthur, ‘you find this sister of mine bent on
dragging me to Epsom. Come with us! You will have an opportunity of
getting up an article against fashionable life.’
Theodora was ready to hide her desire for his consent, but thought
better of it, and said, ‘It is of no use to ask him.’
‘Indeed I would go,’ said Percy; ‘I wish I could; but I came here
to tell you that my Aunt Fotheringham is coming to London early on
Wednesday for advice for her son, and will only be there two days, so
that it is impossible to be away.’
‘Is Sir Antony Fotheringham coming?’ asked Violet, as Theodora did not
speak.
‘No; he is a fixture. He has never even seen a railroad. My aunt could
hardly persuade him to let her come up without the old chariot and
posters.’
‘You will bring them here to dinner,’ said Arthur. ‘Thank you, I must
not promise; I cannot tell what Pelham may be fit for. I must take him
to the Zoological Gardens. How he will enjoy them, poor fellow! The only
thing to guard against will be his growing too much excited.’
Percy was engaged that morning, and soon departed, with hardly a word
from Theodora, whose amiability had been entirely overthrown by finding
her service postponed to that of his aunt.
‘There’s the Derby happily disposed of!’ said Arthur, rising from the
breakfast-table. ‘I don’t see why,’ said Theodora.
‘What! Is not this Percy’s well-beloved aunt, who nursed Helen, and is
such a friend of John’s?’
‘I am not going to dance attendance on any one.’
‘It is your concern,’ said Arthur; ‘but, if you don’t take care, Percy
won’t stand much more of this.’
Vouchsafing no answer, she quitted the room. Arthur made a gesture of
annoyance. ‘She treats Percy like a dog!’ he said. ‘I believe my aunt is
right, and that it never will come to good!’
‘Shall you go with her, then?’
‘I must, I suppose. She will not let me off now.’
‘If we do not vex her by refusing, I hope she will give it up of
herself. I am almost sure she will, if no one says anything about it.’
‘Very well: I am the last person to begin. I am sick of her quarrels.’
Two wills were dividing Theodora: one calling on her to renounce her
pride and obstinacy, take up the yoke while yet there was time, earn the
precious sense of peace, and confer gladness on the honest heart which
she had so often pained. Violet was as the genius of this better mind,
and her very presence infused such thoughts as these, disposing her not
indeed openly to yield, but to allow it to drop in silence.
But there was another will, which reminded her that she had thrice
been baffled, and that she had heard the soft tyrant rejoicing with her
brother over her defeat! She thought of Violet so subjugating Arthur,
that he had not even dared to wish for his favourite amusement, as if he
could not be trusted!
Such recollections provoked her to show that there was one whose
determination would yield to no one’s caprice, and impelled her to
maintain the unconquerable spirit in which she had hitherto gloried.
Violet’s unexpressed opinion was tricked out as an object of defiance;
and if she represented the genius of meekness, wilfulness was not
without outward prompters.
Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner called, and found her alone. ‘There!’ said
the former, ‘am I not very forgiving? Actually to come and seek you out
again, after the way you served us. Now, on your honour, what was the
meaning of it?’
‘The meaning was, that this poor child had been told it was etiquette
for me to have a chaperon at my heels, and made such a disturbance that
I was obliged to give up the point. I am not ashamed. She is a good
girl, though a troublesome one at times.’
‘Who would have thought that pretty face could be so prudish!’
‘I suppose she is against your coming to Epsom!’ said Jane, interrupting
her sister.
‘No; my brother and I have been proposing to go, independently; so as to
be able to come home at our own time.’
‘You had better be satisfied with that, Georgina,’ said Jane. ‘We shall
find ourselves together at the stand, and it will spare a few dangerous
hysterics.’
‘I shall do nothing underhand,’ said Theodora. ‘I shall proclaim my
intention of joining you; but I doubt, because Lady Fotheringham is
coming to London.’
‘Her ladyship herself?’ cried Georgina. ‘What, in the name of wonder,
brings her from her antediluvian hall?’
‘She brings her son for advice.’
‘We can say no more,’ said Jane. ‘Percy’s expectations would be ruined
if the good lady found his intended concerned in such naughty doings.
She must stay at home.’
‘To entertain Pelham!’ cried Mrs. Finch, in a paroxysm of laughing, of
her most unreal kind.
‘Let me give you one piece of advice,’ said Jane. ‘Don’t make yourself
too great a favourite, as I unwittingly did, or you will have no
cessation of “I have a pony; it can trot; it can canter.”’
‘I have not decided.’
‘No,’ said Jane, ‘you cannot do it. We know Lady Fotheringham too well
to ask you to lose your place in her regard for our sake. Probably this
is a most important visit, and all may depend on her first impressions.’
‘I don’t depend on her.’
‘Ah! you don’t understand. She is the managing partner, and I have
little doubt this is only an excuse for coming to inspect you. It is
quite in their power, you know, to do the only rational thing under the
circumstances--make an eldest son of Percy, and set poor Pelham aside,
with enough to make him happy.
‘I do believe that must be it!’ cried Georgina. ‘She would be a dear old
woman if she would only do it!’
‘And you see it would be fatal for Theodora to appear as a fashionable
young lady, given to races, and the like vanities.’
‘I shall seem nothing but what I am.’
‘She would find Mrs. Martindale sighing at her inability to keep you out
of bad company. So sorry to trust you with us. She did her utmost. No,
no, Theodora; you must stay at home, and the good lady will be charmed.’
‘I do not intend to be turned from my course.’
‘No! Now, Jane, you should not have spoken in that way,’ said her
sister. ‘You will only make Theodora more resolved to come with us; and,
indeed, I had rather she did not, if it is to do her any harm.’
‘I shall leave you to settle it between you,’ said Jane, with apparent
carelessness. ‘I shall go home to appease for a little while the
unfortunate dressmaker, whom we are keeping so long waiting. Make the
most of Theodora, while you can have her.’
She would not have gone, had she not believed her work done.
‘I have made up my mind,’ said Theodora, as the door closed.
‘Theodora! I do beg you will not,’ cried Georgina, in an agitated voice,
fully meaning all she said. ‘You will vex and displease them all. I know
you will, and I could not bear that! Your happiness is not wasted yet!
Go, and be happy with your Percy!’
‘I have told Percy of my intentions. Do you think I would alter them for
this notion of Jane’s?’
‘That is my own dear Theodora! But it is not only that. They are such
good people--so kind! You must not risk their good opinion, for they
would be so fond of you!’
‘If their good opinion depends on narrow-minded prejudice, I do not wish
for it.’
‘If she would but come a day later,’ said Georgina; ‘for I do want you
to be with me very much, Theodora! I know I shall meet with nothing
but mortification, if you are not. People will only make that little
starched bow! And Mr. Finch has noticed your not being so much with me.
But no, no, you shall not come. You shall stay and see dear, good old
Lady Fotheringham! Oh! how I wish I could!’ and her breast heaved with a
suppressed sob.
‘Why do you not, then, dear Georgina? Let me tell her your feeling,
and--’
‘No, no, no, no! I can never see her again! Don’t talk to me about her!
She belongs to another state of existence.’
‘This will not do, Georgina. It is vain to turn aside now from what will
and must come on you some day.’
‘Don’t! don’t, Theodora!’ said she, petulantly. ‘Everything goes against
me! There’s Jane taken to lecturing, and even Mr. Finch is growing
crabbed, and declares he shall take me to vegetate in this horrid place
he has bought in the country.’
‘Oh, I am so glad!’ exclaimed Theodora. ‘Now then, there is a chance for
you. If you will throw yourself into the duties and pursuits--’
‘What! be squiress and Lady Bountiful; doctor old women, and lecture
school-children? No, no, that may do for you, but I am at least no
hypocrite!’
‘I should be a great hypocrite, if I did not believe the old women and
the children far better than myself,’ said Theodora, gravely. ‘But,
indeed, trying to make them comfortable would occupy your mind, and
interest you till--oh! if it would but help you on the only way to
happiness--’
‘Don’t talk of that word any more with me.’
‘If not happiness, it would be peace.’
‘Peace! I don’t know what you mean.’
‘If you watched my sister, you would.’
‘She is happy!’ said Mrs. Finch, in a tone of keen regret, laying her
hand on a toy of Johnnie’s; but instantly changing her note, ‘A cold,
inanimate piece of wax! That is what you call peace! I would not have
it.’
‘You don’t understand her--’
‘I know one thing!’ cried the fitful lady, vehemently; ‘that it is she
who governs you all, and wants to divide you from me. ‘Tis she and your
Percy who have robbed me of you, with their ill-natured stories.’
‘There is no ill-nature in them, and no one governs me,’ said Theodora.
‘Then you hold fast by me, and come with me?’
‘I do.’
‘My thorough-going old Theodora! I knew they could not spoil you, say
what they would!’ for she was by no means insensible of the triumph.
‘But, Georgina,’ continued her friend, earnestly, ‘you must be prudent.
Let me speak to you for once.’
‘Only don’t talk of prudence. I am sick of that from Jane.’
‘Yes! it is speaking on this world’s grounds; I will speak of higher
motives. Think what is to come by and by: there are things that cannot
be kept off by being forgotten. You are weary and dissatisfied as it
is; try whether boldly facing the thoughts you dread might not lead
to better things. There will be pain at first; but content will come,
and--’
‘If you will come and stay with me in the country, you shall teach me
all your ways. But no; it would put all the Fotheringhams in commotion!
If I had a happy home I might be good. You must not quite forsake me,
Theodora. But here’s Mrs. Martindale!’
Violet entering, Mrs. Finch greeted her in a subdued manner, and,
indeed, looked so dejected that when she was gone, Violet asked if she
was well.
‘Yes, poor thing, it is only the taste of the ashes she eats instead
of bread. But I have had her alone, and have got her to hear some grave
talk!’
‘Oh, how glad I am.’
‘But I cannot give up meeting her at Epsom. She would feel it a
desertion, and my influence is the best hope for her. Besides, I will
not sacrifice her to curry favour with the Worthbourne people.’
‘Surely it would not be doing so.’
‘I have made up my mind.’
Her better and worse feelings were alike enlisted in behalf of the
expedition. Sincerity, constancy, and generosity were all drawn in to
espouse the cause of pride and self-will; and she never once recollected
that the way to rescue her friend from the vortex of dissipation was not
to follow her into it.
Little was needed to rouse in Arthur the dormant taste so long the
prevalent one. So eager was he when once stirred up, that his sister
almost doubted whether she might not be leading him into temptation,
as she remembered the warning against Mr. Gardner; but she repelled the
notion of his being now liable to be led away, and satisfied herself by
recollecting that whenever he had met his former school-fellow, he had
shown no disposition to renew the acquaintance.
All the notice of Percy that she chose to take, was, that on the Tuesday
evening, she said, as she wished Violet good night, ‘If Percy should
call with his aunt to-morrow, which I don’t expect, you will explain,
and say I hope to call early next day.’
‘Well! I hope you will get into no scrape,’ said Arthur; ‘but mind,
whatever comes of it, ‘tis your doing, not mine.’
Words which she answered with a haughty smile, but which she was never
to forget.
Violet saw the brother and sister depart, and could only hope that
nothing might be heard of the Fotheringham party; but before half the
morning had passed, the knock, for the first time unwelcome, sounded
at the door, and there entered not only Percy, but an elderly lady who
might have been supposed the grandmother, rather than the mother, of the
tall comely youth who bashfully followed her.
Violet strove, by the warmth of her reception, to make up for what was
wanting; but her sentences were broken and confused; she was glad and
she was sorry, and they would be very sorry, and something about not
expecting and calling early, was all mixed together, while she watched
with deprecating looks the effect upon Percy.
‘Is she gone?’ he asked, in a low stern voice.
‘Yes; but she told me to say, in case--we hardly thought it likely--but
in case Lady Fotheringham should be kind enough to call, she told me to
say she will certainly call early to-morrow.’
Violet knew she had made a most tangled speech, and that there was
great danger that her trembling sorrowful voice should convey to Lady
Fotheringham an impression that there was something amiss; but she could
only try to make the intelligence as little mortifying as possible.
The fact was enough. Percy stood in the window in silence, while his
aunt, on learning where Miss Martindale was, good-naturedly supposed
it had long been settled, and said it must be such a pleasure to the
brother and sister to go together, that she should have been grieved if
it had been prevented.
Violet spoke of the call to be made to-morrow; but Lady Fotheringham
seemed to have so little time free that it was not probable she would
be at home. Uneasy at Percy’s silence, Violet did not prosper in her
attempts at keeping up the conversation, until Percy, suddenly coming
forward, begged that ‘the boy’ might be sent for; his aunt must see
John’s godson. It was chiefly for his own solace, for he carried
the little fellow back to his window, and played with him there till
luncheon-time, while the ladies talked of Mr. Martindale.
Violet won her visitor’s heart by her kind manner to the poor son, who
was very well trained, and behaved like an automaton, but grew restless
with the hopes of wild beasts and London shops. His mother was about to
take leave, when Percy proposed to take charge of him, and leave her to
rest for the afternoon with Mrs. Martindale, a plan very acceptable to
all parties.
Lady Fotheringham was a woman of many sorrows. Her husband was very
feeble and infirm, and of a large family, the youngest, this half-witted
son, was the only survivor. Grief and anxiety had left deep traces on
her worn face, and had turned her hair to a snowy whiteness; her frame
was fragile, and the melancholy kindness of her voice deeply touched
Violet. There was much talk of John, for whom Lady Fotheringham had a
sort of compassionate reverence, derived from his patient resignation
during Helen’s illness, of which Violet now gathered many more
particulars, such as added to her affection and enthusiasm for both.
Of her nephew, Percival, Lady Fotheringham spoke in the highest terms,
and dwelt with pleasure on the engagement still connecting him with the
Martindale family. Violet was glad to be able to speak from her heart of
Theodora’s excellence and kindness.
By and by, her visitor, in a sad voice, began to inquire whether she
ever saw ‘a young connection of theirs, Mrs. Finch;’ and as Violet
replied, said she was anxious to hear something of her, though she
feared it was a painful subject. ‘I cannot help being interested
for her,’ she said. ‘She was a very fine girl, and had many good
dispositions; but I fear she was very ill managed. We grew very fond
of her, when she was at Worthbourne, poor thing, and if we and that
excellent elder sister could have kept her to ourselves, we might have
hoped--But it was very natural that she should grow tired of us, and
there was much excuse for her--’
‘Indeed there was, from all Theodora has told me.’
‘I am glad to hear Miss Martindale keeps up her friendship. While
that is the case, I am sure there is nothing positively wrong, though
imprudent I fear she must be.’
Violet eagerly explained how every one was fully satisfied that,
though Mrs. Finch was too free and dashing in manner, and too fond of
attracting notice, there was principle and rectitude at the bottom, and
that her life of dissipation was chiefly caused by the tedium of her
home. All attachment between her and Mark Gardner had evidently died
away; and though it might have been wiser to keep him at a distance, she
had some good motives for allowing him to be often at her house.
Lady Fotheringham was relieved to hear this, and added that she might
have trusted to Jane. Violet was surprised to find that Miss Gardner
held a very high place in Lady Fotheringham’s esteem, and was supposed
by her to take most watchful, motherly care of her headstrong younger
sister. She had made herself extremely agreeable at Worthbourne, and
had corresponded with Lady Fotheringham ever since; and now Violet heard
that Jane had thought the marriage with Mr. Finch a great risk, and
would willingly have dissuaded her sister from it; but that Georgina
had been bent upon it! ‘thinking, no doubt, poor girl, that riches and
gaiety would make her happy! I wish we could have made it pleasanter to
her at Worthbourne!’
‘She has spoken very affectionately of you.’
‘Ah, poor child! she had met with little kindness before. She used
to pour out her griefs to me. It was that wretched Mark who broke her
heart, and after that she seemed not to care what became of her. But I
am a little comforted by your account. I will try to see her to-morrow,
poor dear. Percy was hoping I should be able, although I think that he
is quite right not to visit them himself.’
Violet agreed to all, and was pleased at the notion of the good
old lady’s influence being tried on one evidently amenable to right
impressions. As far as she herself was concerned, the visit was very
gratifying, and when the leave-taking came, it seemed as if they had
been intimate for years.
Violet sat pondering whether the dulness of Worthbourne and the
disappointment of her first love had been the appointed cross of
Georgina Gardner, cast aside in impatience of its weight. And then she
tried to reconcile the conflicting accounts of Jane’s influence in the
matter, till she thought she was growing uncharitable; and after having
tried in vain to measure the extent of Percy’s annoyance, she looked
from the window to see if carriages seemed to be returning from Epsom,
and then with a sigh betook herself to the book Theodora had provided
for her solitude.
She had long to wait. Arthur and his sister came home later than she had
expected, and did not bring the regale of amusing description that they
had promised her.
Arthur was silent and discontented, and went to his smoking-room.
Theodora only said it had been very hot, and for the first time really
looked tired, and owned that she was so. It had been hard work, first
to draw Arthur into Mrs. Finch’s party, against which he exerted all his
lazy good-humoured “vis inertia”--undertaking to show her everything,
and explain all to her, be at her service all the day, if only she would
keep away from them and their nonsense. But when their carriage was
found, and Arthur was dragged into the midst of them, a still harder
task arose. She was frightened to see Mark Gardner conversing with him,
while he looked eager and excited, and she hastened to interrupt, put
forth every power of attraction, in the resolve entirely to monopolize
Mr. Gardner; and for a long time, at the expense of severe exertion in
talking nonsense, she succeeded. But some interruption occurred;
she missed Mr. Gardner, she missed Arthur; they were waited for;
she wondered and fretted herself in vain, and at length beheld
them returning in company-heard Mrs. Finch gaily scolding them, and
understood that there had been bets passing!
She called it fatigue, but it was rather blank dread, and the sense that
she had put herself and others in the way of evil.
It was possible that Arthur might have been only a spectator; or,
if not, that he might have known where to stop. He had bought his
experience long ago, at high cost; but Theodora was but too well aware
of his unsteadiness of purpose and facile temper; and in spite of his
resolutions, it was a fearful thing to have seen him in such a place,
in such company, and to know that almost against his own desire she had
conducted him thither for the gratification of her self-will.
Vainly did she strive to banish the thought, and to reassure herself by
his manner. She knew too well what it was wont to be when he had been
doing anything of which he was ashamed. One bet, however, was no great
mischief in itself. That book which Percy had given to her spoke of
‘threads turning to cords, and cords to cables strong.’ Had she put the
first thread once more into the hand of the Old Evil Habit’?
If she would confess the sin to herself and to her God, with earnest
prayer that the ill might be averted, perhaps, even yet, it might be
spared to them all.
But the proud spirit declared there was no sin. She had merely been
resolute and truthful. So she strengthened herself in her belief in her
own blamelessness, and drove down the misgiving to prey on the depths of
her soul, and sharpen her temper by secret suffering.
In the morning she accompanied Violet to call on Lady Fotheringham,
sullen, proud, and bashful at the sense of undergoing inspection, and
resolved against showing her best side, lest she should feel as if she
was winning Worthbourne for Percy.
That majestic ill-humour was wasted--Lady Fotheringham was not at home;
but Violet left a note begging her to come to luncheon the next day. It
passed, and she appeared not: but at twelve on Saturday, Percy’s tread
hurried up-stairs and entered the back drawing-room, where Theodora was
sitting.
Sounds of voices followed--the buzz of expostulation; tones louder
and louder--words so distinct that to prevent her anxious ears from
listening, Violet began to practise Johnnie in all his cries of birds
and beasts.
All at once the other room door was opened, and Theodora’s stately march
was heard, while one of the folding leaves was thrown back, and there
stood Percy.
Before a word could be spoken, he snatched up the child, and held him up
in the air to the full reach of his arms. Doubtful whether this was
to be regarded as play, Johnnie uttered ‘Mamma,’ in a grave imploring
voice, which, together with her terrified face, recalled Mr.
Fotheringham to his senses. With an agitated laugh he placed the boy
safely beside her, saying, ‘I beg your pardon. What a good little fellow
it is!’
Violet asked him to ring for the nurse; and by the time Johnnie had
been carried away, he had collected himself sufficiently to try to speak
calmly.
‘Do her parents know what is going on?’ he said. ‘I do not speak for my
own sake. That is at an end.’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Violet.
‘I told her I could not be made a fool of any longer, and when she
answered “Very well,” what could that mean?’
‘I am very much grieved that it has come to this,’ sighed Violet.
‘How could it come to anything else?’ he said, his face full of sorrow
and severity. ‘I was mad to suppose there was any hope for such a temper
of pride and stubbornness. Yet,’ he added, softening, and his quick,
stern eyes filling with tears, ‘it is a noble nature,--high-minded,
uncompromising, deeply tender, capable of anything. It has been a cruel
wicked thing to ruin all by education. What could come of it? A life
of struggle with women who had no notion of an appeal to principle and
affection--growing up with nothing worthy of her love and respect--her
very generosity becoming a stumbling-block, till her pride and
waywardness have come to such an indomitable pitch that they are
devouring all that was excellent.’
He paused; Violet, confused and sorrowful, knew not how to answer; and
he proceeded, ‘I have known her, watched her, loved her from infancy!
I never saw one approaching her in fine qualities. I thought, and still
think, she needs but one conquest to rise above all other women. I
believed guidance and affection would teach her all she needed; and so
they would, but it was presumption and folly to think it was I who could
inspire them.’
‘O, Mr. Fotheringham, indeed--’
‘It was absurd to suppose that she who trifles with every one would not
do so with me. Yet, even now, I cannot believe her capable of carrying
trifling to the extent she has done.’
‘She was in earnest,--oh! she was!’
‘I would fain think so,’ said he, sadly. ‘I held to that trust, in spite
of the evidence of my senses. I persuaded myself that her manners were
the effect of habit--the triumph of one pre-eminent in attraction.’
‘That they are! I don’t even think she knows what she does.’
‘So I believed; I allowed for her pleasure in teasing me. I knew all
that would come right. I ascribed her determination to run after that
woman to a generous reluctance to desert a friend.’
‘Indeed, indeed it is so!’
‘But how am I to understand her neglect of my aunt--the one relation
whom I have tried to teach her to value--my aunt, who was the comfort
of my sister and of her brother--who had suffered enough to give her a
claim to every one’s veneration! To run away from her to the races, and
the society of Mark Gardner and Mrs. Finch! Ay, and what do you think we
heard yesterday of her doings there, from Gardner’s own mother? That she
is giving him decided encouragement! That was the general remark, and
on this, poor Mrs. George Gardner is founding hopes of her son settling
down and becoming respectable.’
‘Oh! how terrible for you to hear! But it cannot be true. It must be
mere report. Arthur would have observed if there had been more than her
usual manner.’
‘A pretty manner to be usual! Besides, Jane Gardner did not deny it.’
‘Jane Gardner?’
‘Yes. My aunt called at Mrs. Finch’s, but saw neither of them; but this
morning, before she went, Miss Gardner called. I did not see her. I was
out with Pelham, and my aunt spoke to her about all this matter. She
answered very sensibly, regretted her sister’s giddy ways, but consoled
my aunt a good deal on that score, but--but as to the other, she could
not say, but that Mark was a great admirer of--of Miss Martindale, and
much had passed which might be taken for encouragement on Wednesday by
any one who did not know how often it was her way!’
‘It is a pity that Miss Gardner has had to do with it,’ said Violet.
‘When I have been talking to her, I always am left with a worse
impression of people than they deserve.’
‘You never have a bad impression of any one.’
‘I think I have of Miss Gardner. I used to like her very much, but
lately I am afraid I cannot believe her sincere.’
‘You have been taught to see her with Theodora’s eyes. Of course,
Mrs. Finch despises and contemns prudence and restraint, and the elder
sister’s advice is thrown aside.’
‘You never saw Jane Gardner?’
‘Never;--but that is not the point here. I am not acting on Jane
Gardner’s report. I should never trouble myself to be jealous of such
a scoundrel as Mark. I am not imagining that there is any fear of her
accepting him. Though, if such a notion once possessed her, nothing
would hinder her from rushing on inevitable misery.’
‘Oh, there is no danger of that.’
‘I trust not. It would be too frightful! However, I can look on her
henceforth only as John’s sister, as my little playmate, as one in
whom hopes of untold happiness were bound up.’ He struggled with strong
emotion, but recovering, said, ‘It is over! The reason we part is
independent of any Gardner. She would not bear with what I thought it my
duty to say. It is plain I was completely mistaken in thinking we
could go through life together. Even if there was reason to suppose her
attached to me, it would be wrong to put myself in collision with such a
temper. I told her so, and there is an end of the matter.’
‘It is very, very sad,’ said Violet, mournfully.
‘You don’t think I have used her ill.’
‘Oh, no! You have borne a great deal. You could do no otherwise; but
Arthur and John will be very much vexed.’
‘It is well that it is known to so few. Let it be understood by such as
are aware of what has been, that I bear the onus of the rupture. No more
need be known than that the break was on my side. We both were mistaken.
She will not be blamed, and some day’--but he could not speak calmly--’
she will meet one who will feel for her as I do, and will work a cure of
all these foibles. You will see the glorious creature she can be.’
‘The good will conquer at last,’ said Violet, through her tears.
‘I am convinced of it, but I fear it must be through much trial and
sorrow. May it only not come through that man.’
‘No, no!’
‘Then good-bye.’
They shook hands with lingering regret, as if unwilling to resign their
relationship. ‘You will explain this to Arthur, and give him my thanks
for his friendliness; and you--accept my very best thanks for your great
kindness and sympathy. If she had known you earlier--But good-bye. Only,
if I might venture to say one thing more--you and Arthur will not give
me up as a friend, will you?’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Violet, as well as her tears would permit, ‘I am sure we
are but too glad--’
He pressed her hand gratefully, and was gone; while overwhelmed with
the agitation she sank weeping on the sofa, only conscious that they all
were in some sort guilty of a great injury to Mr. Fotheringham. In this
state of distress she was found by Theodora, who came down so lofty
and composed, that no one could have divined who was the party chiefly
concerned in what had taken place.
Without comment, she treated Violet as for a nervous attack, taking
great care of her till the sobs subsided, and there only remained a
headache which kept her on the sofa for the rest of the day. Theodora
read aloud, but which of them marked the words? Late in the afternoon
she put down the book, and wrote a note, while Violet silently marvelled
at the unconcern of her countenance.
‘There, I shall take it to the post. You may read it if you like, while
I put on my bonnet.’ Violet read.
‘MY DEAR MAMMA,--Our engagement is at an end. Mr. Fotheringham tried to
exercise a control over my actions to which I could not submit; and
in especial was affronted by my going to Epsom with Arthur, instead of
staying at home for the chance of seeing Lady Fotheringham. We came to
high words, perceived the error of thinking our tempers accorded, and
agreed to part. I have no cause of complaint, though I am at this moment
much displeased with him; for when he had done with me he went and
stormed to poor Violet till he brought on one of her hysterical
affections. No one can have acted with kinder or more conscientious
intentions than she has done throughout the affair. I do not mean to
come away till after her confinement. London is wide enough for him and
for me, and I would not leave her on any account. ‘Your affectionate
daughter,
‘THEODORA A. MARTINDALE.’
Violet glowed with indignation at such mention of Percy. She never loved
him! It is as John thought!
Theodora, returning, took the note, and began to put it into its
envelope without a word.
‘Thank you,’ said Violet; ‘it is very kind in you to stay with me. It is
a great comfort to Arthur.’
‘Is it no comfort to you?’ said Theodora. ‘If I am in your way, I will
go.’
‘Oh! what should I do without you? It makes such a difference to me. I
rely upon you to take care of Arthur, and Johnnie, and everything. Only
don’t do what is not pleasant to you.’
‘I wish to live to be useful. I had rather be useful to you and Arthur
than to any one. If you will keep me, I stay.’
All the rest of the day Violet could only feel that she could not be
displeased with one so devoted to her. She wondered what Arthur would
say. His comment was--
‘Well, I always expected it. It is a pity! She has thrown away her only
chance of being a reasonable woman.’
‘You saw no cause for that horrid report?’
‘Not a bit. She is not so frantic as that comes to. She went on in her
old way, only a little stronger than usual; but Percy was quite right
not to stand it, and so I shall tell her.’
However, Theodora kept him from the subject by the force of her
imperturbability, and he could only declaim against her to his wife.
‘I don’t believe she cared a farthing for him.’
‘I almost fear not. Yet how could she accept him?’
‘He was the biggest fish that had ever come to her bait. She could not
have played her pranks on him without hooking him; but he has broken the
line, and it serves her right. I only wish she took it to heart! It is a
lucky escape for him. What will his lordship think of it?’
Lord Martindale wrote, evidently in much annoyance, to desire Arthur to
send him a full history of the transaction, and after much grumbling, he
was obeyed. What he said to his daughter did not transpire, but Violet
gathered that the opinion at Martindale was, that she had not age or
authority sufficient for the care of the young lady. In this she
fully acquiesced, and, indeed, had some trouble in silencing repining
speculations on what might have happened if she had been older, or in
stronger health, or more judicious.
It was a universal failure, and she felt as if they were all to blame,
while it terrified her to recollect John’s predictions as to the effect
on Theodora’s disposition.
Another question was, how Mrs. Finch would feel on the matter. Theodora
had written to her, and received one of her warm impulsive answers,
as inconsistent as her whole nature; in one place in despair that her
friend’s happiness had been sacrificed--in another, rejoicing in her
freedom from such intolerable tyranny, and declaring that she was the
noblest creature and the naughtiest, and that she must see her at once.
But she never came, and when Theodora called was not at home. Violet had
Jane to herself for an unpleasing hour of condolence and congratulation,
regrets and insinuations, ending with the by no means unwelcome news
that Mr. Finch was tired of London, and that they were going into the
country--and not Mark--going to set off in a week’s time. Two more calls
failed, and Theodora only received a note, in which Mrs. Finch declared
herself “abimee desolee” that her husband would drag her off into the
country at such short notice, that her world of engagements had hindered
her from meeting her best of friends. Then, with a sudden transition to
slang, she promised excellent fun in riding, boating, &c., if Theodora
would come to see her, and plenty of admirers ready to have their heads
turned, ending rather piteously with ‘Who knows but I might take a turn
for good? I know I wish I could, if it was not so horridly tiresome. You
won’t forget your poor G. F.’