But when the self-abhorring thrill
Is past, as pass it must,
When tasks of life thy spirit fill
Risen from thy tears and dust,
Then be the self-renouncing will
The seal of thy calm trust.
--Lyra Apostolica
Arthur quitted London the day after his little girl’s christening,
talking of being absent only a fortnight, before taking his wife to
Windsor; and promising to return at once, if she should find herself in
the least unwell or dispirited. She was delighted to be well enough
not to spoil his sport, and Theodora was too anxious to have him at a
distance from Mr. Gardner to venture on any remonstrance.
It was the day the family were to come to London, and he left orders
with the ladies to say ‘all that was proper’, but the twelfth of August
was to him an unanswerable reason for immediate departure.
Theodora and Violet went to receive the party in the house in Belgrave
Square, both silent, yet conscious of each other’s feelings. Theodora
paced the room, while Violet leant back in a great blue damask chair,
overcome by the beatings of her heart; and yet, when the carriage
arrived, it was she who spoke the word of encouragement: ‘Your father is
so kind, I know he forgives us!’
Theodora knew Violet thought her own weakness and inefficiency needed
pardon, and therefore could bear the saying, and allow it to turn her
defiant shame into humility.
Mrs. Nesbit came in, supported between Lord and Lady Martindale, and
as Theodora hastened to wheel round the large arm-chair, and settle the
cushions for her, her eye glanced in keen inquiry from one niece to
the other, and they felt that she was exulting in the fulfilment of her
prediction.
Lord Martindale kissed his daughter with grave formality; and, as if
to mark the difference, threw much warm affection into his greeting of
Violet, and held her hand for some moments, while he asked solicitously
if she were well and strong, and inquired for her little ones.
She made Arthur’s excuses and explanations, but broke off, blushing and
disconcerted, by that harsh, dry cough of Mrs. Nesbit’s, and still
more, by seeing Lord Martindale look concerned. She began, with nervous
eagerness and agitation, to explain that it was an old engagement, he
would not be away long, and then would take her out of town--she was
hardly yet ready for a journey. From him she obtained kind smiles, and
almost fatherly tenderness; from Lady Martindale the usual ceremonious
civility. They asked her to dinner, but she was not equal to this; they
then offered to send her home in the carriage, and when she refused,
Lord Martindale said he would walk back with her, while Theodora
remained with her mother.
He was much displeased with his son for leaving her, especially when he
saw how delicate and weak she still looked; and he was much annoyed
at being unable to prevent it, without giving Arthur a premium for
selfishness; so that all he could do was to treat her with a sort of
compassionate affection, increased at each of her unselfish sayings.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I wish to have a little conversation with you,
when it suits you. I am anxious to hear your account of this unfortunate
affair.’
‘Very well;’ but he felt her arm tremble.
‘You must not alarm yourself. You are the last person deserving of
blame. I am only sorry that you should have had so much to harass you.’
‘O, Theodora has been so very kind to me.’
‘I rejoice to hear it; but tell me, will this evening or to-morrow
morning suit you best?’
‘Thank you, to-morrow, if you please,’ said Violet, glad to defer the
evil day.
At that moment she was astonished by the sudden apparition of Lord St.
Erme, and still more by his shaking hands with her. She thanked him for
his touches to her little boy’s portrait; he smiled, rejoiced that she
did not think he had spoilt it, and remarked upon the likeness. Lord
Martindale, who knew him but slightly, listened in surprise; and having
now come to her own door, she bade them farewell, and entered the house.
Theodora came back much later than Violet had expected, with a flush on
her cheek, and hurry and uncertainty in her manner. She had previously
made a great point of their spending this last evening alone together,
but her mood was silent. She declared herself bent on finishing the
volume of Miss Strickland’s “Queens”, which they were reading together,
and went on with it till bed-time without intermission, then wished
Violet good night without another word.
But Violet was no sooner in bed than Theodora came in, in her
dressing-gown, and sat down at her feet, looking at her, but hardly
answering the few words she ventured to speak. It was not till the clock
struck twelve that she rose from her seat.
‘Well, I must go; but I don’t know how to tear myself from the sight of
you. I feel as if I was driven from the only place where I ever might be
good.’
‘No,’ whispered Violet; ‘wherever our duty lies, we can be good.’
‘I could, if you were with me, to calm me, and tell me such things.’
‘You do not want me to tell you them. You have the Bible and Prayer
Book.’
‘I never saw the right way to follow them; till now, when it was
gleaming on me, I have to go away.’
‘The same grace that has shown you your way so far, dearest, will go on
to show you further, if you follow it on, even though the way be hard!’
‘The grace may be with you--it is!’ said Theodora, in a heavy, hopeless
manner; ‘but oh! Violet, think how long I have been driving it away!’
Violet sat up, took her hand, pressed it between both hers, and with
tears exclaimed: ‘You must not speak so. If you had not that grace,
should you be sorry now?’
‘I don’t know. I can hope and see my way to peace when you look at me,
or speak to me; but why should I be forced into the desert of my own
heart, to loneliness and temptation?’
‘If you are really resting on me, instead of on the only true help,
perhaps it is better you should be left to it. Theodora, dearest, may I
tell you something about myself? When first I saw my difficulties, and
could not get at mamma, I felt as if there was no one to help me, but
somehow it grew up. I saw how to find out guidance and comfort in the
Bible and in such things, and ever since I have been so much happier.’
‘How did you find it out?’
‘John helped me; but I think it comes without teaching from without, and
there is my hope for you, Theodora.’
‘Them that are meek shall He guide in judgment, and such as are gentle,
them shall He learn His way,’ murmured Theodora, hanging over her, with
tears fast dropping.
‘He shows Himself to those who will follow Him, and yield their own
will,’ said Violet.
‘Good night! Oh! what shall I do when I have not you to send me to bed
comforted? I had more to say to you, but you have smoothed it all, and I
cannot ruffle it up again.’
A night of broken sleep, and perplexed waking thoughts, was a bad
preparation for the morning’s conference. Lord Martindale came to
breakfast, and, as before, reserved all his kindness for Violet and the
children. Theodora disappeared when the little ones were carried away,
and he began the conversation by saying to Violet, ‘I am afraid you have
had a great deal of trouble and vexation.’
She replied by warm assurances of Theodora’s kindness; whence he led
her to tell the history of the rupture, which she did very mournfully,
trying to excuse Theodora, but forbidden, by justice to Percival;
and finding some relief in taking blame to herself for not having
remonstrated against that unfortunate expedition to the races.
‘No, my dear, it was no fault of yours. It was not from one thing more
than another. It was owing to unhappy, unbroken temper. Take care
of your children, my dear, and teach them submission in time.’ Then
presently resuming: ‘Is it your idea that she had any attachment to poor
Fotheringham?’
‘Much more than she knew at the time,’ said Violet.
‘Ha! Then you do not think she has given encouragement to that
absurd-looking person, Lord St. Erme?’
‘Lord St. Erme!’ cried Violet, startled.
‘Yes; when I parted with you yesterday, he walked back with me, and
proceeded to declare that he had been long attached to her, and to ask
my sanction to his following us to Germany to pay his addresses.’
‘Surely he has not spoken to her?’
‘No; he said something about not presuming, and of having been
interrupted. I could only tell him that it must rest with herself. There
is no objection to the young man, as far as I know, though he is an
idle, loitering sort of fellow, not what I should have thought to her
taste.’
‘I do not believe she likes him,’ said Violet.
‘You do not? I cannot make out. I told her that she was at liberty to
do as she pleased; I only warned her neither to trifle with him, nor to
rush into an engagement without deliberation, but I could get nothing
like an answer. She was in one of her perverse fits, and I have no
notion whether she means to accept him or not.’
‘I do not think she will.’
‘I cannot say. No one knows, without a trial, what the notion of a
coronet will do with a girl. After all her pretensions she may be the
more liable to the temptation. I have not told her aunt, that she may
be the more unbiassed. Not that I say anything against him, it is
everything desirable in the way of connection, and probably he is an
amiable good sort of man. What do you know of him! Are you intimate with
him?’
Violet explained the extent of their acquaintance. ‘I do not see my way
through it,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘I wish I could be clear that it is
not all coquetry. I wish John was at home.’
‘I do not think,’ said Violet, gathering courage--‘I do not think you
know how much Theodora wishes to be good.’
‘I wish she was half as good as you are, my dear!’ said Lord Martindale,
as if he had been speaking to a child. And he talked to her warmly of
her own concerns, and hopes of her visiting Martindale on their return;
trying to divest himself of a sense of inhospitality and harshness,
which grew on him whenever he looked at her slender figure, and the
varying carnation of her thin cheek.
She felt herself obliged to set forth to call on Lady Martindale.
Theodora was busy, packing up, and could not accompany her;
unfortunately for her, since Mrs. Nesbit took the opportunity of
examining her on the same subject, though far from doing it in the
same manner; commenting with short sarcastic laughs, censuring Mr.
Fotheringham for trying to domineer, but finding much amusement in
making out the grounds of his objection to Mrs. Finch, and taking
pleasure in bringing, by her inquiries, a glow of confusion and distress
on Violet’s cheeks. Next she began to blame her for having visited
such an imprudent person; and when Lady Martindale ventured to suggest
something about her not knowing, and Mrs. Finch having formerly been
a friend of the family, she put her down. ‘Yes, my dear, we are not
blaming Mrs. Arthur Martindale. We know it is not possible for every one
to be fastidious. The misfortune was in Miss Martindale’s being brought
into society which could not be expected to be select.’
Violet did not think herself called upon to stay to be insulted, and
rose to take leave, but did not escape without further taunts. ‘So you
are to be in London alone for the next month?’
‘Perhaps only for a fortnight!’
‘I can promise you that it will be a month. Young men are not apt to
spend more time at home than they can help. I am sorry to interfere
with your scheme of being installed at Martindale, but it is out of the
question. Theodora’s absence has been much felt by the curate, and our
past experience has prepared us for anything. I hope you will take care
of yourself.’
Mrs. Nesbit, as she lost her power of self-command and her cleverness,
without parting with her bitterness of spirit, had pitiably grown worse
and worse, so that where she would once have been courteously sarcastic,
she was now positively insolent.
It was too much for Lady Martindale, who, as she saw Violet colour
deeply, and tremble as she left the room, followed her to the head
of the stairs, and spoke kindly. ‘You must not imagine, my dear, that
either my aunt, or any of us, find fault with you. We all know that
you are inexperienced, and that it is not easy to cope with Theodora’s
eccentricity of character.’
Violet, still very weak, could have been hysterical, but luckily was
able to command herself, though, ‘thank you!’ was all she could say.
‘Of course, though such things are unfortunate, we cannot regret the
match; Lord Martindale and I are quite convinced that you acted amiably
by all parties. Good-bye, my dear; I am sorry I have not time to call
and see the children.’
‘Shall I send them to you when they wake?’ said Violet, pleased that
they were at length mentioned.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Lady Martindale, as if much tempted. ‘I am
afraid not, it might be too much for my aunt. And yet, I should have
liked to see the little girl.’
‘She is such a beauty,’ said Violet, much brightened. ‘So exactly like
her papa.’
‘I should like to see her! You have your carriage here, of course!’
‘No; I walked.’
‘Walked, my dear!’ said Lady Martindale, dismayed.
Violet explained how short the distance was; but Lady Martindale seemed
not to know how to let her go, nor how to relinquish the thought of
seeing her grand-daughter. At last she said, as if it was a great
resolution, lowering her voice, ‘I wonder if I could walk back with you,
just to see her.’
She took Violet into her room while she put on her bonnet, much as
if she feared being found out; and in passing the drawing-room door,
gathered her dress together so as to repress its rustling.
Wonder of wonders, to find Lady Martindale actually on foot by her side!
She went up at once to the nursery, where the children were asleep. At
Johnnie she looked little, but she hung over the cot where lay the
round plump baby face of little Helen. Though dreadfully afraid of being
missed, she seemed unable to turn away from the contemplation.
‘My dear,’ said she, in an agitated voice, as they left the nursery,
‘you must not keep these children here in London. You must not sacrifice
their health. It is the first consideration. Don’t let them stay in that
hot nursery! Pray do not.’
‘We shall be in the country soon,’ said Violet.
‘Why not at once? Does expense prevent you? Tell me, my dear, what it
would cost. I always have plenty to spare. Would £100 do it? and you
need tell no one. I could give you £200,’ said Lady Martindale, who
had as little idea of the value of money as any lady in her Majesty’s
dominions. ‘I must have that dear little girl in the country. Pray take
her to Ventnor. How much shall I give you?’
Much surprised, and more touched, Violet, however, could not accept the
offer. She felt that it would be casting a slight on Arthur; and she
assured Lady Martindale that she hoped soon to leave London, and how
impossible it was for her to move house without Arthur. It seemed to be
a great disappointment, and opened to Violet a fresh insight into Lady
Martindale’s nature; that there was a warm current beneath, only stifled
by Mrs. Nesbit’s power over a docile character. There seemed to be hopes
that they might love each other at last! In the midst there was a knock
at the door, and Lord Martindale entered, much surprised, as well as
pleased, to find his wife there, though put in some perplexity by her
instantly appealing to him to tell Violet that it was very bad for the
children to remain in town, and asking if it could not be managed to
send them to the sea-side. He made a grave but kind reply, that he was
sorry for it himself, but that Violet had assured him it would not be
for long; and Lady Martindale (who did not seem able to understand
why the lady of the house could not make everything give way to her
convenience)--now becoming alive to the fear of her aunt’s missing her,
and taking to heart her stolen expedition--hurried him off with her at
once. It was not till after their departure that Violet discovered that
he had been trying to atone for deficiencies, by costly gifts to herself
and her children.
All this time Theodora had been in her own room, packing, as she said,
but proceeding slowly; for there was a severe struggle of feelings, and
she could not bear that it should be seen. In the pain of parting with
Violet, she shrank from her presence, as if she could not endure to
prolong the space for last words.
They came at last. Theodora sat ready for her journey, holding her
god-daughter in her arms, and looking from her to Violet, without a
word; then gazing round the room, which had been the scene of such
changes of her whole mind.
At last she spoke, and it was very different from what Violet expected,
‘Violet, I will try to endure it; but if I cannot--if you hear of me as
doing what you will disapprove, will you refrain from giving me up, and
at least be sorry for me?’
After what Lord Martindale had said, Violet could guess at her meaning.
‘Certainly, dear Theodora. You would not do it if it was wrong?’
‘You know what I mean?’
‘I think I do.’
‘And you are not infinitely shocked?’
‘No; for you would not do it unless you could rightly.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Not if there was--anything remaining--of the former--’
‘You are a good little thing, Violet,’ said Theodora, trying to laugh;
‘nearly as simple as your daughter. You will save her a great deal of
trouble, if you tame her while she is young.’
Then came a pause, lasting till Theodora thought she heard the carriage.
‘You will forgive me if I accept him?’
‘I shall know it is all right. I trust you, dear sister.’
‘Tell me something to help me!’
Violet drew out Helen’s cross. ‘Be patient, be patient,’ she said. ‘The
worse things are, the more of the cross to be borne.’
Theodora held out her hand for it. ‘I hope I am mending,’ said she, as
she gave it back with a melancholy smile. ‘It does not give me the
bad jealous thoughts I had when first I knew you possessed it. Tell me
something to make me patient.’
‘May I tell you what came into my head after you were talking last night
of not seeing your way, and wanting to be led. I thought of a verse in
Isaiah.’ Violet found the place and showed it.
‘Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of His
servant, that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? Let him trust in
the name of the Lord and stay upon his God.’
‘Thank you, Violet,’ said Theodora, looking on to the next verse. ‘I
will try to be patient; I will try not to kindle a fire for myself. But
if they tease me much, if I am very weary--’
The summons cut her short--Lord Martindale ran up to hasten her; a
fervent embrace--she was gone!
And Violet, with worn-out strength and spirits, remained to find how
desolate she was--left behind in dreary summer London. There was nothing
for it but to be as foolish as in old times, to lie down on the sofa and
cry herself to sleep. She was a poor creature, after all, and awoke to
weariness and headache, but to no repining; for she had attained to
a spirit of thankfulness and content. She lay dreamily, figuring
to herself Arthur enjoying himself on the moors and mountains, till
Helvellyn’s own purple cap came to brighten her dreams.