Oh! woman is a tender tree,
The hand must gentle be that rears,
Through storm and sunshine, patiently,
That plant of grace, of smiles and tears.
--A. CLEVELAND COX
The height of the season was over, and London was beginning to thin.
Lady Elizabeth Brandon had accepted invitations for a round of visits to
her friends and relations, and Violet thought with regret how little she
had seen of her and Emma.
In fact, that unfortunate party at Mrs. Bryanstone’s had been a
sacrifice of the high esteem in which she had once been held. Emma, with
the harshness of youthful judgments, could not overlook the folly that
had hazarded so much for the sake of gaiety; and was the more pained
because of the enthusiasm she had once felt for her, when she
had believed her superior to all the world. She recollected her
love-at-first-sight for the pretty bride, and well-nigh regarded the
friendship as a romance of her girlhood. She did not blame poor Violet,
for no more could have been expected than that so simple a girl would
be spoiled by admiration, and by such a husband. She should always be
interested in her, but there could be no sympathy for deeper visions
and higher subjects in one devoted to the ordinary frivolities of life.
Violet owned she could not understand her; what could be more true?
So Emma betook herself more and more to her other friend, lamented over
present evils, made visionary amendments and erected dreamy worlds of
perfection, till she condemned and scorned all that did not accord with
them.
Lady Elizabeth would rather have seen her daughter intimate with Violet.
Mistaken though that party was, it was hard measure, she thought,
utterly to condemn a girl hardly eighteen. She could understand
Violet--she could not understand Miss Marstone; and the ruling
domineering nature that laid down the law frightened her. She found
herself set aside for old-fashioned notions whenever she hinted at any
want of judgment or of charity in the views of the friends; she could no
longer feel the perfect consciousness of oneness of mind and sufficiency
for each other’s comfort that had been such happiness between her and
her daughter; and yet everything in Theresa Marstone was so excellent,
her labours among the poor so devoted, and her religion so evidently
heartfelt, that it was impossible to consider the friendship as
otherwise than an honour to Emma.
Lady Elizabeth could only feel that she should be more at ease when she
was not always in dread of interrupting a tete-a-tete, and when there
was no longer any need to force Emma into society, and see her put on
that resigned countenance which expressed that it was all filial duty
to a mother who knew no better. Moreover, Lady Elizabeth hoped for a
cessation of the schemes for the Priory, which were so extravagant as to
make her dread Emma’s five-and-twentieth year.
Desirous as she was of leaving London, she would not consent to go to
her brother in the end of June, until she had certified herself that
Violet did not wish for her attendance.
Violet did think that it would have been a great comfort, but perceived
that it would be at some inconvenience; and further divined that to be
extremely useful and important was Theodora’s ruling desire. She was
afraid of heart-burnings, and, as usual, yielded her own wishes, begged
Lady Elizabeth not to disturb her plans, made many declarations of
Theodora’s kindness and attention; and in return, poor thing! was judged
by Emma to be in dread of lectures!
So the Brandons left London, and Violet sighed over the disappointment
their stay had been, knew she had given up the chance of a renewal of
intimacy, and thought Emma’s estrangement all her own fault.
Arthur, likewise, had a fit of restlessness. Some of his friends were
intending to go grouse shooting to Scotland, and it was evident that
he was desirous of joining them if Violet could only recover in time to
spare him. Theodora also wished that he should go, for she had a strong
suspicion that he was gliding fast into frequent intercourse with Mr.
Gardner, and hoped that absence would put a stop to it.
Not a word, not a look, ever referred to Mr. Fotheringham. Violet
thought it inexplicable, and could only suppose that Theodora had been
under some delusion, and had never known the meaning of love, for there
was nothing like sorrow or disappointment; she almost seemed to be glad
of her release.
It was a trial when the Review was published, containing the critique
upon modern poetry. For a whole day it was left unopened, because
neither sister liked to touch it in the presence of the other; but when,
in the morning, Violet took it to read, she found the leaves cut. Lord
St. Erme had been treated with some censure, but with a fair amount of
praise, and her own favourite pieces were selected for commendation; but
there was sufficient satire and severity to cause the universal remark
that it was hard on poor Lord St. Erme.
Often was the observation made, for the article excited much
attention--it was so striking and able, keenly and drolly attacking
absurdity and affectation, good-humoured and lively, and its praise so
cordial and enthusiastic. Every visitor was sure to begin, ‘Have you
read the paper on modern poetry?’ ‘Do you know who wrote it?’ or, ‘Is it
true it is by Mr. Fotheringham?’
Violet, though much confused, could not help having a sort of
satisfaction in seeing that neither could Theodora defend herself from
blushes, nor so preserve her equanimity as always to know what she was
saying, though she made heroic efforts, and those ignorant of the state
of affairs might not, perhaps, detect her embarrassment. If there had
been affection, surely this calmness must have given way!
One day Theodora was in a shop, and Violet waiting for her when Mr.
Fotheringham passed, and instantly coming to the carriage door, shook
hands warmly, seemed rejoiced at the meeting, spoke of his last letter
from John in high approval of Mr. Fanshawe, and told her that in two
days’ time he was going to take a walking tour in Ireland. At that
instant the signal was made for taking up Miss Martindale, and with
a hasty farewell he disappeared, as Violet thought, unseen. On coming
home, Theodora went at once up-stairs; Violet some little time after
chanced to go to her room to ask her a question on her way to dress,
found her knock unanswered, but heard sounds which caused her gently to
open the door.
Theodora was kneeling by the bed; her face buried in her hands, her neck
crimson, sobbing and weeping in such violent grief as Violet had never
witnessed. She stood terrified, unnoticed, hardly able to bear not
to offer comfort; but she understood that nature too well not to be
convinced that no offence would be so great as to break into her grief
and to intrude upon what she chose to hide.
Violet, therefore, retreated, hoping that now there might be an
opening for sympathy, some depression that would allow her to show her
fellow-feeling; but no: when they met again Theodora was as cheerful
and disengaged as ever, and she could almost have persuaded herself that
these tears had been a dream.
Perhaps they so appeared to Theodora. She had been surprised into them,
and was angry at having been overcome--she who cared so little; but she
had woman’s feelings, though she had proved to be unfit for the dominion
of man, and was henceforth ready to stand alone, and use her strength
for the benefit of the weak. She would be the maiden aunt, the treasure
of the family, and Arthur’s house should be the centre of her usefulness
and attachments.
Therefore, so far from struggling against Violet, she delighted in the
care of one so tender and caressing; looked on her as the charm and
interest of her life, and rejoiced in being valuable at present, and
likely to render most important services, attaining in fact the solid
practical usefulness she had always coveted.
Everything that could please or amuse Violet she did, even to the length
of drawing her out about Wrangerton, and suppressing a certain jealousy
of Annette that was ready to spring up on discovering how strong was the
affection bestowed on that sister. Violet was especially happy in being
able to talk of home just now, when she was continually hearing of
Albert’s marriage, and the arrangements consequent thereon, and would
have felt it blank, indeed, to have no one but Sarah to share her
interest.
Uncle Christopher went to the wedding, and was invited to dinner in
Cadogan-place the Sunday after his return. Theodora condescended to be
frankly entertained with his dry humorous account of the magnificent
doings that had diverted him extremely, and caused Arthur and Violet
to congratulate themselves that, in their case, Matilda had not been
allowed her own way.
‘What a sensible, agreeable person your uncle is,’ said Theodora, as
Violet lay down to rest on the sofa, after dinner, and to turn over and
fondle one by one the little presents sent to her from Wrangerton.
Violet smiled thanks and pleasure in the praise, and Theodora set to
work to gratify her, by admiring each gift as much as her conscience
would let her, and was well pleased to find that she was not at all
wanted to commend a wonderful embroidered sachet from the bride, nor a
pair of gorgeous screens from Matilda; but that what was dwelt upon
were some sketches in Wrangerton Park, and the most prized of all was a
little pair of socks, in delicate fancy knitting, for Johnnie.
‘Dear, dear mamma! her own pretty rose-leaf pattern. Think of her
knitting for my Johnnie! He will soon know grandmamma’s socks!’ and she
put her fingers into one to judge of the size, and admire the stitch.
Theodora could see her do such things now, and not think her foolish.
‘Theodora, dear,’ said she, after a long pause, ‘there is something I
have been wanting to say to you for a long time. If I should be as ill
as I was before, if I should not live, I should like one thing--’
Theodora took her hand between both hers, for she could not answer.
‘I should like to know that his grandmamma would see my Johnnie, if it
was only for once. I know poor Arthur could not bear to hear me talk of
this, and he is anxious enough already, but you would tell him. You will
manage for mamma to see my boy, won’t you?’
‘I would take him to her at Wrangerton myself.’
‘I am quite content that you should chiefly take care of him, you know.
I am glad you have been here so long that he has grown fond of you. It
makes it much better to think of leaving him and his dear papa, to know
they have you.’
‘But, Violet, you must not talk so!’ cried Theodora, in a half-choked
voice.
‘No; I must not make myself cry,’ said Violet, quietly. ‘I will not go
on, when I have asked you one thing more, and that is, to write to John,
and tell him that I thank him for all he has done for me, and that this
has been a very happy year. You and John will comfort--’
Violet checked herself, for the tears could only be restrained by
silence, and she had made many resolutions against agitation.
‘All you wish!’ exclaimed Theodora; ‘but, indeed, you must not think
there is any fear--’
‘I will not talk about it,’ said Violet, in her submissive voice.
‘No; nor think about it.’
‘I try not to do so more than I ought. I am glad you are here!’
It was dark enough for Theodora to allow her eyes to fill with soft
tears, without a struggle to keep them back. The pleasure of being
valued was very great, and the entire trust Violet reposed on her gave
her as deep delight as she had ever experienced. What would it not be
after having nursed her and been everything to Arthur! With Violet and
Arthur depending on her, she could feel herself good for something, and
filling a place in the world.