Not so, bold knight, no deed of thine
Can ever win my hand;
That hope, poor youth, thou must resign,
For barriers ‘twixt us stand.
Yet what doth part us I will now reveal,
Nor, noblest one, from thee the truth conceal.
--FOUQUE
Arthur guessed rightly. Miss Gardner’s first leisure was spent in
writing her tidings to Theodora.
It was on a strange state of mind that they fell. Theodora had gone
abroad, softened and conscious of her faults, but her indomitable will
boiling up at each attempt to conquer them; knowing that her fate hung
in the balance, but helpless in the power of her own pride and temper.
Miserable, and expecting to be more wretched, her outward demeanour,
no longer checked by Violet, was more than ever harsh, capricious, and
undutiful, especially under her present deprivation of the occupations
that had hitherto been channels of kindly feeling.
She was less patient than formerly with her aunt, who was in truth more
trying. Quickly gathering the state of affairs with regard to Lord St.
Erme, she was very angry with Lord Martindale for not having consulted
her, and at the same time caressed her great-niece beyond endurance.
Besides, it was unbearable to hear sweet Violet scoffed at. Theodora
spoke hastily in her defence; was laughed at for having been gained
over; replied vehemently, and then repented of losing temper with one
so aged and infirm. Her attention to Mrs. Nesbit had been one of her
grounds of self-complacency; but this had now failed her--distance was
the only means of keeping the peace and Theodora left her chiefly to her
companion, Mrs. Garth, a hard-looking, military dame, who seemed so well
able to take care of herself, that there was none of the compassion that
had caused Theodora to relieve poor little Miss Piper.
It was not long before Lord St. Erme persuaded his aunt that her tour
in Germany would not be complete without a visit to Baden-Baden. Mrs.
Delaval and Lady Martindale immediately began to be as intimate as was
possible with the latter. Theodora intended to stand aloof, and to be
guarded and scornful; but Lady Lucy was such an engaging, affectionate,
honest-hearted little thing, regarding Miss Martindale with all her
brother’s enthusiastic devotion, and so grateful for the slightest
notice, that it really was impossible to treat her with the requisite
cold dignity.
And to admit Lady Lucy to her friendship was much the same thing as
admitting the brother. ‘St. Erme’ was the one engrossing subject of the
young girl’s thoughts and discourse, and it was soon plain that not a
conversation passed but was reported to him. If Theodora expressed an
opinion, ‘St. Erme’s’ remarks on it were certain to be brought to her
the next day; if a liking or a wish, he was instantly taking measures
for its gratification. She might try to keep him at a distance,
but where was the use of it when, if his moustached self was safely
poetizing in the Black Forest, his double in blue muslin was ever at her
elbow?
By and by it was no longer a moustached self. The ornaments were shaved
off, and she heartily wished them on again. What could be said when Lucy
timidly begged to know how she liked the change in St. Erme’s face, and
whether she shared her regrets for his dear little moustache? Alas! such
a sacrifice gave him a claim, and she felt as if each departed hair was
a mesh in the net to ensnare her liberty.
And what could she say when Lucy WOULD talk over his poems, and try to
obtain her sympathy in the matter of that cruel review which had cut
the poor little sister to the heart? It had been so sore a subject in
London, that she could not then bear to speak of it, and now, treating
it like a personal attack on his character, she told how ‘beautifully
St. Erme bore it,’ and wanted Miss Martindale to say how unjust
and shocking it was. Yet Miss Martindale actually, with a look
incomprehensible to poor Lucy, declared that there was a great deal of
truth in it.
However, in process of time, Lucy came back reporting that her brother
thought so too, and that he had gathered many useful hints from it; but
that he did not mean to attend to poetry so much, he thought it time
to begin practical life; and she eagerly related his schemes for being
useful and distinguishing himself.
It was not easy to help replying and commenting on, or laughing at,
plans which showed complete ignorance of English life, and then Theodora
found herself drawn into discussions with Lord St. Erme himself, who
took her suggestions, and built his projects with a reference to her, as
his understood directress and assistant; till she grew quite frightened
at what she had let him take for granted, and treated him with a fresh
fit of coldness and indifference, soon thawed by his sister. She could
not make up her mind to the humiliating confession by which alone she
could have dismissed him, and the dominion she should enjoy with him
appeared more and more tempting as she learnt to know him better, and
viewed him as a means of escape from her present life. If it had not
been for recollections of Violet, she would have precipitated the step,
in order to end her suspense, but that perfect trust that she would not
accept him unless she could do so with a clear conscience always held
her back.
It was at this juncture that, one day when walking with her father,
there was a sudden stop at the sight of another elderly gentleman. ‘Ha!
Hugh!’ ‘What, you here, Martindale!’ were mutually exclaimed, there
was an ardent shaking of hands, and she found herself introduced to a
cousin, whom she had not seen since she was a child.
He and her father had been like brothers in their boyhood, but the
lines they had since taken had diverged far and wide. The hard-working
clergyman had found himself out of his element in visits to Martindale,
had discontinued them, and almost even his correspondence, so that Lord
Martindale had heard nothing of his cousin since his wife’s death, two
years ago, till now, when he met him on the promenade at Baden, sent
abroad to recruit his worn-out health and eyesight.
All have either felt or beheld, how two such relations, on the verge of
old age, meet and refresh themselves with looking back, beyond the tract
of middle life, to the days shared together in youth! Lord Martindale
had not looked so bright, nor talked and laughed so much for years,
as over his boyish reminiscences, and his wanderings up and down the
promenade with his cousin seemed as if nothing could terminate them.
Clergymen and school-loving young ladies have a natural affinity,
and Theodora found a refuge from the Delavals and an opportunity for
usefulness. She offered to read to Cousin Hugh, she talked over parish
matters, and after relieving her mind with a conversation on the
question of how much the march of intellect ought to penetrate into
country schools, it was wonderful how much more equable and comfortable
she became. The return to the true bent of her nature softened her on
every side; and without the least attempt to show off, she was so free
from the morose dignity with which she had treated her own family since
going abroad, that Mr. Hugh Martindale could hardly believe the account
of her strange ungovernable character, as it was laid before him by her
father, in his wish for counsel.
He watched her anxiously, but made no attempt to force her confidence,
and let her talk to him of books, school discipline, parish stories,
and abstruse questions as much as she pleased, always replying in a
practical, sobering tone, that told upon her, and soothed her almost
like Violet’s mild influence, and to her great delight, she made him
quite believe in Violet’s goodness, and wish to be acquainted with her.
But all the time, Lord St. Erme was treated as her acknowledged suitor.
Perhaps Mr. Martindale thought it might be better if she were safely
married; or, at any rate, only knowing her personally as a high-minded
person of much serious thought, he believed her to be conscientiously
waiting to overcome all doubts, and honoured her scruples: while it
might be, that the desire for his good opinion bound Theodora the more
to Lord St. Erme, for with all her sincerity, she could not bear the
idea of his discovering the part she was playing, at the very time she
was holding such conversations on serious subjects. The true history
of her present conduct was that she could not endure to be known as the
rejected and forsaken of Mr. Fotheringham, and thus, though outwardly
tamer, she was more melancholy at heart, fast falling into a state of
dull resignation; if such a name can be applied to mere endurance of the
consequences of her own pride and self-will.
Now came Jane Gardner’s letter. Theodora read it through, then, with
calm contempt, she tore it up, lighted a taper, and burnt it to ashes.
‘There, Jane!’ said she, as it shrivelled, black and crackling, ‘there
is all the heed I take. Violet would no more allow me to be supplanted
than Percy could be inconstant.’
Inconstant! Where was her right so to term him? Was he not released, not
merely by the cold ‘Very well,’ which seemed to blister her lips in the
remembrance, but by her whole subsequent course? That thought came like
the stroke of a knife, and she stood motionless and stunned. Love of
Percival Fotheringham was a part of herself! Certain from her confidence
in Violet that Jane’s news was untrue, the only effect of hearing it was
to reveal to her like a flash that her whole heart was his. He had loved
her in spite of her faults. Suppose he should do so still! Her spirits
leapt up at this glimpse of forfeited unattainable joy; but she beheld a
forlorn hope. At least she would restore herself to a condition in which
she might meet him without despairing shame. The impulse was given,
and eager to obey it, while it still buoyed her above the dislike to
self-abasement, she looked round for the speediest measure, caring
little what it might be.
Her father was reading his letters in the next room, when, with flushed
cheek, and voice striving for firmness, she stood before him, saying,
‘It is time to put an end to this. Will you let Lord St. Erme know that
it cannot be!’
‘Now, Theodora!’ exclaimed the much-astonished Lord Martindale, ‘what is
the meaning of this?’
‘It cannot be,’ repeated Theodora. ‘It must be put a stop to.’
‘What has happened! Have you heard anything to change your mind?’
‘My mind is not changed, but I cannot have this going on.’
‘How is this? You have been encouraging him all this time, letting him
come here--’
‘I never asked him to come here,’ said Theodora, temper coming in, as
usual.
‘Theodora! Theodora! did I not entreat you to tell me what you wished,
when I first heard of this in London? Could I get a reasonable answer
from you?’
Theodora was silent.
‘Do you know what the world thinks of young ladies who go on in this
manner?’
‘Let it think as it may, I cannot accept him, and you must tell him so,
papa--’
‘No, indeed. I will not be responsible for such usage! It must be your
own doing,’ said Lord Martindale, thoroughly displeased. ‘I should be
ashamed to look him in the face!’
Theodora turned to leave the room.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked her father.
‘I am going to write to Lord St. Erme.’
‘Come back, Theodora. I must know that you are not going to carry
further this ill-usage of a most excellent man, more sincerely attached
to you than you deserve. I insist on knowing what you intend to say to
him.’
To insist was not the way to succeed with Theodora.
‘I do not exactly know,’ said she.
‘I wish I knew what to do with you!’ sighed Lord Martindale, in anger,
grief, and perplexity. ‘You seem to think that people’s affections are
made to serve for your vanity and sport, and when you have tormented
them long enough, you cast them off!’
Theodora drew her head up higher, and swelled at the injustice. It was
at that moment that Lord St. Erme entered the room. She went forward to
meet him, and spoke at once. ‘I am glad you are here,’ said she, proudly
pleased that her father should see her vindication from the charge of
trifling. ‘You are come to hear what I had been desiring my father to
tell you. I have used you very ill, and it is time to put a stop to it.’
Lord St. Erme looked from her to her father in wonder and dismay.
‘First understand,’ said Lord Martindale, ‘that this is no doing of
mine; I am heartily grieved, but I will leave you. Perhaps you may
prevail on this wilful girl--’
Theodora began a protest, and desired him to remain; but he would not,
and she found herself alone with her bewildered lover.
‘What is this? what have I done?’ he began.
‘You have done nothing,’ said she. ‘It is all my own fault. The truth
will be a cure for your regrets, and I owe you an explanation. I was
engaged to one whom I had known from childhood, but we disputed--my
temper was headstrong. He rejected me, and I thought I scorned him, and
we parted. You came in my way while I was angry, before I knew that I
can never lose my feelings towards him. I know I have seemed to trifle
with you; but false shame hindered me from confessing how matters really
stood. You ought to rejoice in being freed from such as I am.’
‘But with time!’ exclaimed Lord St. Erme, in broken words. ‘May I not
hope that time and earnest endeavours--?’
‘Hope nothing,’ said Theodora. ‘Every one would tell you you have had a
happy escape.’
‘And is this all? My inspiration!--you who were awakening me to a sense
of the greatness of real life--you who would have led me and aided me to
a nobler course--’
‘That is open to you, without the evils I should have entailed on you.
I could never have returned your feelings, and it would have been misery
for both. You will see it, when you come to your senses, and rejoice.’
‘Rejoice! If you knew how the thought of you is entwined in every
aspiration, and for life!’
‘Do not talk so,’ said Theodora. ‘It only grieves me to see the pain I
have given; but it would be worse not to break off at once.’
‘Must it be so?’ said he, lingering before his fleeting vision.
‘It must. The kindest thing by both of us is to cut this as short as
possible.’
‘In that, as in all else, I obey. I know that a vain loiterer, like
myself, had little right to hope for notice from one whose mind was bent
on the noblest tasks of mankind. You have opened new views to me, and
I had dared to hope you would guide me in them; but with you or without
you, my life shall be spent in them.’
‘That will be some consolation for the way I have treated you,’ said
Theodora.
His face lighted up. ‘My better angel!’ he said, ‘I will be content to
toil as the knights of old, hopelessly, save that if you hear of me
no longer as the idle amateur, but as exerting myself for something
serviceable, you will know it is for your sake.’
‘It had better be for something else,’ said Theodora, impatiently. ‘Do
not think of me, nor delude yourself with imagining you can win me by
any probation.’
‘I may earn your approval--’
‘You will earn every one’s,’ she interrupted. ‘Put mine out of your
head. Think of life and duty, and their reward, as they really are, and
they will inspirit you better than any empty dream of me.’
‘It is vain to tell me so!’ said the Earl, looking at her glancing eye
and earnest countenance. ‘You will ever seem to beckon me forwards.’
‘Something better will beckon you by and by, if you will only begin.
Life is horrid work--only endurable by looking after other people, and
so you will find it. Now, let us have done with this. Wish your sister
good-bye for me, and tell her that I beg her to forgive me for the pain
I have given you. I am glad you have her. She will make you happy--I
have only tormented those I loved best; so you are better off with her.
Good-bye. Shake hands, to show that you forgive me.’
‘I will not harass you by pertinacity,’ said poor Lord St. Erme,
submissively. ‘It has been a happy dream while I was bold enough to
indulge in it. Farewell to it, though not, I trust, to its effects.’
Lingering as he held her hand, he let it go; then, returning to the
grasp, bent and kissed it, turned away, as if alarmed at his own
presumption, and hastened from the room.
She flung herself into her father’s chair to consider of seeing Lady
Lucy, of writing to Violet, of breaking the tidings to her aunt, of
speaking to her Cousin Hugh; but no connected reflection could be
summoned up--nothing but visions of an Athenian owl, and green cotton
umbrella. At length the sound of the opening door made her start up.
‘Have I interrupted you?’ asked her cousin. ‘I thought I should find
your father here.’
‘I do not know where he is,’ said Theodora. ‘Can I do anything for you?
Oh! I beg your pardon; I had forgotten it was time to read to you.’
‘You know I always hoped that you would not make it a burden.’
‘If you knew the relief it is to be of any sort of use,’ returned she,
hastily setting his chair, and fetching the books.
Perhaps her attention wandered while she read, for they had hardly
finished before she looked up and said, ‘That always puts me in mind of
Arthur’s wife. The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is so entirely
her adorning--her beauty only an accessory.’
‘Yes; I wish I knew her,’ said Mr. Martindale.
‘Oh! how I wish she was here!’ sighed Theodora.
‘For any special reason?’
‘Yes; I want her to soften and help me. She seems to draw and smooth
away the evil, and to keep me from myself. Nothing is so dreary where
she is.’
‘I should not have expected to hear you, at your age, and with your
prospects, talk of dreariness.’
‘That is all over,’ said Theodora. ‘I have told him that it cannot be. I
am glad, for one reason, that I shall not seem to deceive you any more.
Has papa told you what he thinks my history!’
‘He has told me of your previous affair.’
‘I wonder what is his view?’
‘His view is one of deep regret; he thinks your tempers were
incompatible.’
Theodora laughed. ‘He has a sort of termagant notion of me.’
‘I am afraid you do no justice to your father’s affection and anxiety.’
‘It is he who does me no justice,’ said Theodora.
‘Indeed, I do not think that can be your sister’s teaching,’ said Mr.
Martindale.
‘I wish she was here!’ said Theodora, again. ‘But now you have heard my
father’s story, you shall hear mine;’ and with tolerable fairness,
she related the history of the last few months. The clergyman was much
interested in the narrative of this high-toned mind,--‘like sweet bells
jangled,’ and listened with earnest and sorrowful attention. There was
comfort in the outpouring; and as she spoke, the better spirit so far
prevailed, that she increasingly took more blame to herself, and threw
less on others. She closed her confession by saying, ‘You see, I may
well speak of dreariness.’
‘Of dreariness for the present,’ was the answer; ‘but of hope. You put
me in mind of some vision which I have read of, where safety and peace
were to be attained by bowing to the dust, to creep beneath a gateway,
the entrance to the glorious place. You seem to me in the way of
learning that lesson.’
‘I have bent to make the avowal I thought I never could have spoken,’
said Theodora.
‘And there is my hope of you. Now for the next step.’
‘The next! what is it?’
‘Thankfully and meekly to accept the consequences of these sad errors.’
‘You mean this lonely, unsatisfactory life?’
‘And this displeasure of your father.’
‘But, indeed, he misjudges me.’
‘Have you ever given him the means of forming a different judgment?’
‘He has seen all. If I am distrusted, I cannot descend to justify
myself.’
‘I am disappointed in you, Theodora. Where is your humility?’
With these words Mr. Martindale quitted her. He had divined that her
feelings would work more when left to themselves, than when pressed, and
so it proved.
The witness within her spoke more clearly, and dislike and loathing of
her proceedings during the last year grew more strongly upon her. The
sense of her faults had been latent in her mind for months past, but the
struggle of her external life had kept it down, until now it came forth
with an overpowering force of grief and self-condemnation. It was
not merely her sins against Mr. Fotheringham and Lord St. Erme that
oppressed her, it was the perception of the wilful and rebellious life
she had led, while making so high a profession.
Silently and sadly she wore through the rest of the day, unmolested
by any remark from the rest of the family, but absorbed in her own
thoughts, and the night passed in acute mental distress; with longings
after Violet to soothe her, and to open to her hopes of the good and
right way of peace.
With morning light came the recollection that, after all, Violet would
rejoice in what she had just done. Violet would call it a step in the
right direction; and she had promised her further help from above and
within, when once she should have had patience to take the right move,
even in darkness. ‘She told me, if I put my trust aright, and tried to
act in obedience, I should find a guide!’
And, worn out and wearied with the tossings of her mind, Theodora
resolved to have recourse to the kind clergyman who had listened to her
confidence. Perhaps he was the guide who would aid her to conquer
the serpents that had worked her so much misery; and, after so much
self-will, she felt that there would be rest in submitting to direction.
She sought him out, and joined his early walk.
‘Help me,’ she said; ‘I repent, indeed I do. Teach me to begin afresh,
and to be what I ought. I would do anything.’
‘Anything that is not required of you, Theodora, or anything that is?’
‘Whatever you or Violet required of me,’ said she, ‘that I would do
readily and gladly, cost me what it might.’
‘It is not for me to require anything,’ said Mr. Martindale. ‘What
I advise you is to test the sincerity of your repentance by humbling
yourself to ask your father’s forgiveness.’
He watched her face anxiously, for his hopes of her almost might be said
to depend upon this. It was one of those efforts which she made with
apparent calmness. ‘You and Violet ask the same thing,’ she said; ‘I
will.’
‘I am glad to hear you say this. I could not think you going on right
while you denied him the full explanation of your conduct.’
‘Did you mean that I should tell him all?’ exclaimed Theodora.
‘It would be a great relief to his mind. Few fathers would have left you
such complete liberty of action, consented to your engagement, and then
acted so kindly and cautiously in not forcing on you this, for which he
had begun to wish ardently. You have grieved him extremely, and you owe
it to him to show that this has not all been caprice.’
I have promised,’ repeated Theodora.
‘Your second effort,’ said Mr. Martindale, encouragingly. They were
nearly opposite an hotel, where a carriage was being packed. Theodora
turned, he understood her, and they walked back; but before they could
quit the main road, the travellers rolled past them. Lord St. Erme
bowed. Theodora did not look up; but when past asked if any one was with
him.
‘Yes; his sister.’
‘I am glad of it,’ said Theodora. ‘She is an excellent little thing, the
very reverse of me.’
Without failure of resolution, Theodora returned to breakfast, her
mind made up to the effort, which was more considerable than can be
appreciated, without remembering her distaste to all that bore the
semblance of authority, and the species of proud reserve that had
prevented her from avowing to her father her sentiments respecting Mr.
Fotheringham, even in the first days of their engagement; and she
was honest enough to feel that the manner, as well as the subject of
conversation, must show the sincerity of her change. She would not let
herself be affronted into perverseness or sullenness, but would try to
imagine Violet looking on; and with this determination she lingered in
the breakfast-room after her mother and cousin had left it.
‘Papa,’ said she, as he was leaving the room, ‘will you listen to me?’
‘What now, Theodora?’ said poor Lord Martindale, expecting some of those
fresh perplexities that made him feel the whole family to blame.
It was not encouraging, but she had made up her mind. ‘I have behaved
very ill about all this, papa; I want you to forgive me.’
He came nearer to her, and studied her face, in dread lest there should
be something behind. ‘I am always ready to forgive and listen to you,’
he said sadly.
She perceived that she had, indeed, given him much pain, and was
softened, and anxious for him to be comforted by seeing that her fault,
at least, was not the vanity and heartlessness that he supposed.
‘It was very wrong of me to answer you as I did yesterday,’ she said. ‘I
know it was my own fault that Lord St. Erme was allowed to follow us.’
‘And why did you consent!’
‘I don’t know. Yes, I do, though; but that makes it worse. It was
because my perverse temper was vexed at your warning me,’ said Theodora,
looking down, much ashamed.
‘Then you never meant to accept him!’ exclaimed her father.
‘No, not exactly that; I thought I might,’ said she, slowly, and with
difficulty.
‘Then what has produced this alteration?’
‘I will tell you,’ said she, recalling her resolution. ‘I did not know
how much I cared for Percy Fotheringham. Yesterday there came a foolish
report about his forming another attachment. I know it was not true;
but the misery it gave me showed me that it would be sin and madness to
engage myself to another.’
Lord Martindale breathed more freely. ‘Forgive me for putting the
question, it is a strange one to ask now: were you really attached to
Percy Fotheringham?’
‘With my whole heart,’ answered Theodora, deliberately.
‘Then why, or how--’
‘Because my pride and stubbornness were beyond what any man could bear,’
she answered. ‘He did quite right: it would not have been manly to
submit to my conduct. I did not know how bad it was till afterwards, nor
how impossible it is that my feelings towards him should cease.’
‘And this is the true history of your treatment of Lord St. Erme!’
‘Yes. He came at an unlucky moment of anger, when Violet was ill, and
could not breathe her saving influence over me, and I fancied--It was
very wrong, and I was ashamed to confess what I have told you now.’
‘Have you given him this explanation?’
‘I have.’
‘Well, I am better satisfied. He is a most generous person, and told me
he had no reason to complain of you.’
‘Yes, he has a noble character. I am very sorry for the manner in which
I have treated him, but there was nothing to be done but to put an end
to it. I wish I had never begun it.’
‘I wish so too!’ said Lord Martindale. ‘He is grievously disappointed,
and bears it with such generous admiration of you and such humility on
his own part, that it went to my heart to talk to him, especially while
feeling myself a party to using him so ill.’
‘He is much too good for me,’ said Theodora, ‘but I could not accept him
while I contrasted him with what I have thrown away. I can only repent
of having behaved so badly.’
‘Well! after all, I am glad to hear you speak in this manner,’ said her
father.
‘I know I have been much to blame,’ said Theodora, still with her head
bent down and half turned away. ‘Ever since I was a child, I have been
undutiful and rebellious. Being with Violet has gradually brought me to
a sense of it. I do wish to make a fresh beginning, and to ask you to
forgive and bear with me.’
‘My dear child!’ And Lord Martindale stepped to her side, took her hand,
and kissed her.
No more was needed to bring the drops that had long been swelling in
her eyes; she laid her head on his shoulder, and felt how much she had
hitherto lost by the perverseness that had made her choose to believe
her father cold and unjust.
There was another trial for the day. The departure of Lord St. Erme and
his sister revealed the state of affairs to the rest of the world; Mrs.
Delaval came to make Lady Martindale a parting visit, and to lament over
their disappointment, telling how well Lord St. Erme bore it, and how
she had unwillingly consented to his taking his sister with him to
comfort him at that dull old place, Wrangerton.
Lady Martindale, as usual, took it very quietly. She never put herself
into collision with her daughter, and did not seem to care about her
freaks otherwise than as they affected her aunt. Mrs. Nesbit, who had
thought herself on the point of the accomplishment of her favourite
designs, was beyond measure vexed and incensed. She would not be
satisfied without seeing Theodora, reproaching her, and insisting on
hearing the grounds of her unreasonable conduct.
Theodora was silent.
Was it as her mother reported, but as Mrs. Nesbit would not believe,
that she had so little spirit as to be still pining after that
domineering, presuming man, who had thrown her off after she had
condescended to accept him?
‘I glory in saying it is for his sake,’ replied Theodora.
Mrs. Nesbit wearied herself with invectives against the Fotheringhams
as the bane of the family, and assured Theodora that it was time to lay
aside folly; her rank and beauty would not avail, and she would never be
married.
‘I do not mean to marry,’ said Theodora.
‘Then remember this. You may think it very well to be Miss Martindale,
with everything you can desire; but how shall you like it when your
father dies, and you have to turn out and live on your own paltry five
thousand pounds! for not a farthing of mine shall come to you unless I
see you married as I desire.’
‘I can do without it, thank you,’ said Theodora.
Mrs. Nesbit burst into a passion of tears at the ingratitude of her
nephews and nieces. Weeping was so unusual with her that Lady Martindale
was much terrified, sent Theodora away and did her utmost to soothe and
caress her; but her strength and spirits were broken, and that night she
had another stroke. She was not in actual danger, but was a long time
in recovering even sufficiently to be moved to England; and during
this period Theodora had little occupation, except companionship to her
father, and the attempt to reduce her temper and tame her self-will. Mr.
Hugh Martindale went to take possession of the living of Brogden, and
she remained a prisoner at Baden, striving to view the weariness and
enforced uselessness of her life, as he had taught her, in the light of
salutary chastisement and discipline.
PART III
Heartsease In thy heart shall spring
If content abiding,
Where, beneath that leafless tree,
Life’s still stream is gliding.
But, transplanted thence, it fades,
For it bloometh only
Neath the shadow of the Cross,
In a valley lonely.
--J. E. L.
CHAPTER 1
Love, hope, and patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
--COLERIDGE
The avenue of Martindale budded with tender green, and in it walked
Theodora, watching for the arrival of the sister-in-law, scarcely seen
for nearly four years.
Theodora’s dress was of the same rigid simplicity as of old, her figure
as upright, her countenance as noble, but a change had passed over her;
her bearing was less haughty; her step, still vigorous and firm, had
lost its wilfulness, the proud expression of lip had altered to one of
thought and sadness, and her eyes had become softer and more melancholy.
She leaned against the tree where the curate had brought her the first
tidings of Arthur’s marriage, and she sighed, but not as erst with
jealousy and repining.
There was, indeed, an alteration--its beginning may not be traced, for
the seed had been sown almost at her birth, and though little fostered,
had never ceased to spring. The first visible shoot had been drawn forth
by Helen Fotheringham; but the growth, though rapid, had been one-sided;
the branches, like those of a tree in a sea-wind, all one way, blown
aside by gusts of passion and self-will. In its next stage, the attempt
to lop and force them back had rendered them more crooked and knotty,
till the enterprise had been abandoned as vain. But there was a soft
hand that had caressed the rugged boughs, softened them with the dews of
gratitude and affection, fanned them with gales from heaven, and gently
turned them to seek training and culture, till the most gnarled and
hardened had learnt patiently to endure the straightening hand and
pruning knife.
Under such tranquil uneventful discipline, Theodora had spent the last
four years, working with all her might at her labours in the parish,
under Mr. Hugh Martindale, and what was a far more real effort,
patiently submitting when family duties thwarted her best intentions.
Parish work was her solace, in a somewhat weary life, isolated from
intimate companionship.
She had, indeed, Mr. Hugh Martindale for a guide and adviser, and to her
father she was a valuable assistant and companion; but her mother was
more than ever engrossed by the care of Mrs. Nesbit; her eldest brother
was still in the West Indies and Arthur only seen in fleeting visits, so
short that it had never been convenient for his family to accompany him,
nor had Theodora even been spared to attend Violet, when a little girl,
now nearly two years old, had been added to her nursery.
Letters ill supplied the lack of personal intercourse: Theodora did
not write with ease, and Violet could not pour herself out without
reciprocity; so that though there was a correspondence, it languished,
and their intimacy seemed to be standing still. Another great and heavy
care to Theodora was a mistrust of Arthur’s proceedings. She heard of
him on the turf, she knew that he kept racers; neither his looks nor
talk were satisfactory; there were various tokens of extravagance;
and Lord Martindale never went to London without bringing back some
uncomfortable report.
Very anxious and sad at heart, she hoped to be better satisfied by
judging for herself; and after long wearying for a meeting, her wishes
were at length in the way of fulfilment--Arthur’s long leave was to be
spent at home.
The carriage turned in at the lodge gates. She looked up--how
differently from the would-be careless air with which she had once
watched! But there was disappointment--she saw no brother! In a moment
Violet had descended from the carriage, and warmly returned her embrace;
and she was kissing the little shy faces that looked up to her, as all
got out to walk up the avenue.
‘But where is Arthur?’
‘He is soon coming,’ said the soft sweet voice. ‘He would not let us
wait for him.’
‘What! Has he not got his leave?’
‘Yes; but he is going to stay with some of his friends. Mr. Herries came
yesterday and insisted.’
Theodora thought there was a mournful intonation, and looked anxiously
at her face. The form and expression were lovely as ever; but the bright
colouring had entirely faded, the cheeks were thin, and the pensive
gentleness almost mournful. A careworn look was round the eyes and
mouth, even while she smiled, as Theodora gave a second and more
particular greeting to the children.
Johnnie was so little changed that she exclaimed at finding the same
baby face. His little delicate features and pure fair skin were as white
as ever; for not a spring had gone by without his falling under the
grasp of his old enemy the croup; and his small slight frame was the
more slender from his recent encounter with it. But he was now a
very pretty boy, his curls of silken flax fringing his face under his
broad-leafed black hat, and contrasting with his soft dark eyes, their
gentle and intelligent expression showing, indeed, what a friend and
companion he was to his mother; and it was with a shy smile, exactly
like hers, that he received his aunt’s notice.
‘And Helen, my godchild, I have not looked at her! Where are you?’
But the tread of country turf seemed to have put wildness into little
Helen. She had darted off, and hidden behind a tree, peeping out with
saucy laughter flashing in her glorious black eyes, and dimpling in the
plump roseate cheeks round which floated thick glossy curls of rich dark
chestnut. Theodora flew to catch her; but she scampered round another
tree, shouting with fun, till she was seized and pressed fast in her
aunt’s arms and called a mischievous puss, while Theodora exulted in the
splendour of her childish beauty, exuberant with health and spirits. The
moment she was released, with another outcry of glee, she dashed off
to renew the frolic, with the ecstasy of a young fawn, while the round
fat-faced Annie tumbled after her like a little ball, and their aunt
entered into the spirit of the romp, and pursued them with blitheness
for the moment like their own. Johnnie, recovering his mamma’s hand,
walked soberly beside her, and when invited to join in the sport, looked
as if he implored to be excused. Violet, rather anxiously, called them
to order as they came near the house, consigned Annie to Sarah, and
herself took Helen’s hand, observing, gravely, that they must be very
good.
‘One thing,’ she half-whispered; ‘I once had a hint from Miss Piper that
Mrs. Nesbit did not like Lady Martindale to be called grandmamma. What
do you think?’
‘What nonsense! Mamma ought to be proud of her grandchildren, and my
aunt will probably never see them or hear them at all. She never comes
out of the room.’
‘Indeed! Is she so much more infirm?’
‘Yes, very much aged. Her mind has never been quite itself since the
last stroke, though I can hardly tell the difference, but I think it has
softened her.’
‘I suppose Lady Martindale is very much with her!’
‘Almost always. She seems to cling to our presence, and I am never quite
secure that Mrs. Garth does not domineer over her in our absence, but
with all my watching I cannot discover. My aunt says nothing against
her, but I sometimes fancy she is afraid of her.’
‘Poor Mrs. Nesbit. She must be altered indeed!’
‘She is altered, but I never am clear how far it is any real change,
or only weakness. One comfort is, that she seems rather to like Cousin
Hugh’s coming to read to her twice a week. How he will delight in these
creatures of yours.’
‘Ah! we know him,’ said Violet. ‘You know he comes to us if he is in
London. How pleasant it must be for you.’
‘Ah, very unlike the days when poor Mr. Wingfield used to come to ask
me how to manage the parish,’ said Theodora, between a laugh and a sigh.
‘When did you hear from John?’
‘His godson had a letter from him on his birthday.’
‘O, Johnnie! that was an honour! Could you write and answer him?’
‘Mamma helped me,’ whispered the boy, while eyes and mouth lengthened
into a bright blushing smile.
‘Steady, Helen, my child! Quiet!’ exclaimed Violet, as the little girl’s
delight grew beyond bounds at the sight of the peacock sunning himself
on the sphinx’s head, and Johnnie was charmed with the flowers in the
parterre; and with ‘look but not touch’ cautions, the two were trusted
to walk together hand-in-hand through the gravelled paths.
‘The spirits will break out in little skips!’ said Theodora, watching
Helen. ‘She preserves her right to be called a splendid specimen! What a
pair they are!’
‘Poor Helen! I shall be in dread of an outbreak all the time we are
here,’ said Violet; ‘but she means to be good, and every one cannot be
like Johnnie.’
‘Ah! Johnnie one speaks of with respect.’
‘I don’t know what I should do but for him,’ said Violet, with her sad
smile; ‘he is so entirely my companion, and I suppose he seems more
forward in mind from being so much in the drawing-room.’
‘Well! he is come to a time of life to merit his papa’s notice.’
‘More than the rest,’ said Violet; ‘but unluckily he is a little bit of
a coward, and is afraid when papa plays with him. We make resolutions,
but I really believe it is a matter of nerves, and that poor Johnnie
cannot help it.’
‘What! Arthur is rough and teasing?’
‘He does not understand this sort of timidity; he is afraid of Johnnie’s
not being manly; but I believe that would come if his health would but
be stronger. It is very unlucky,’ said Violet, ‘for it vexes papa, and I
think it hurts Johnnie, though I am always forced to blame him for being
so silly. One comfort is, that it does not in the least interfere with
Johnnie’s affection--he admires him almost as he used when he was a
baby.’
They were at the foot of the steps, where Charles Layton, now a brisk
page, was helping to unpack the carriage, more intelligently than many a
youth with the full aid of his senses.
Lord Martindale met them with his grave kind welcome, which awed even
Helen into quiet and decorum, though perhaps, from the corners of her
eyes, she was spying the Scagliola columns as places for hide-and-seek.
She opened them to their roundest extent as her grandmamma came
down-stairs, and she tried to take shelter behind her brother from the
ceremonious kiss, while Johnnie tightly squeezed his aunt’s hand, and
Lady Martindale was quite as much afraid of them as they could be of
her.
So began the visit--a very different one from any Violet had hitherto
paid at Martindale. Theodora’s room was now her chief resort in the
morning, and there Johnnie went through his lessons with almost too
precocious ease and delight, and Helen was daily conquered over Mrs.
Barbauld. There they were sure to be welcome, though they were seldom
seen downstairs. Johnnie used to appear in the space before dinner, very
demure and well-behaved, and there seemed to be a fellow-feeling arising
between him and his grandfather, who would take possession of him if
he met him out-of-doors, and conduct him to any sight suited to his
capacity; but who was so much distressed at his forwardness in intellect
and his backwardness in strength, that Violet hardly dared to hold a
conversation about him for fear of a remonstrance on letting him touch a
book.
One day Mrs. Nesbit suddenly said to Theodora, ‘Arthur’s wife and
children are here, are not they?’
‘Yes; Violet would have come to see you, but we doubted if you were
equal to it.’
‘I have nothing to say to Mr. Moss’s daughter, but bring that eldest boy
here, I want to see him.’
Theodora stepped out into the gallery, where Johnnie was often to be
found curled up in the end window, poring over and singing to himself
the “White Doe of Rylstone”, which he had found among his uncle’s books.
She led him in, exhorting him not to be shy, and to speak out boldly in
answer to Aunt Nesbit; but perhaps this only frightened him more. Very
quiet and silent, he stood under his aunt’s wing with eyes cast down,
answering with a trembling effort the questions asked in that sharp
searching tone.
‘His mother all over!’ she said, motioning him away; but, the next day,
she sent for him again. Poor Johnnie did not like it at all; he could
hardly help shuddering at her touch, and at night begged his mamma not
to send him to Aunt Nesbit; for he could not bear it without her. She
had to represent that Aunt Nesbit was old and ill, and that it would
be unkind not to go to her: but then came the difficult question, ‘Why
don’t you go, mamma?’ However, when his compassionate feelings were
aroused, he bore it better; and though he never got beyond standing
silently by her chair for ten minutes, replying when spoken to, and
once or twice reading a few sentences, or repeating some verses, when
Theodora thought it would please her, it was evident that his visit had
become the chief event of her day. One day she gave him a sovereign,
and asked what he would do with it. He blushed and hesitated, and she
suggested, ‘Keep it, that will be the wisest.’
‘No,’ came with an effort, and an imploring glance at Aunt Theodora.
‘Well, then, what? Speak out like a man!’ Still reluctant, but it was
brought out at last: ‘Cousin Hugh told us about the poor sick Irish
children that have no potatoes. May I give it to him to send them?’
‘Never mind the Irish children. This is for yourself.’
‘Myself?’ Johnnie looked up, bewildered, but with a sudden thought,
‘Oh! I know, Aunt Theodora, won’t it buy that pretty work-basket to
give mamma on her birthday? She said she could not afford it. And Helen
wanted the great donkey in the shop-window. Oh! I can get Helen the
great donkey; thank you, Aunt Nesbit!’
The next day Aunt Nesbit received Johnnie by giving him five sovereigns
to take to Cousin Hugh for the Irish, desiring him to say it was his own
gift; and while Johnnie scrupulously explained that he should say that
she gave it to him to give, she began to instruct him that he would be a
rich man by and by, and must make a handsome and yet careful use of
his money. ‘Shall I?’ said Johnnie, looking up, puzzled, at his younger
aunt.
‘Yes, that you will,’ replied Mrs. Nesbit. ‘What shall you do then?’
‘Oh! then I shall buy mamma and my sisters everything they want, and
mamma shall go out in the carriage every day.
‘She can do that now,’ said Theodora, who had expected less commonplace
visions from her nephew.
‘No,’ said Johnnie, ‘we have not got the carriage now. I mean, we have
no horses that will draw it.’
It was another of those revelations that made Theodora uneasy; one of
those indications that Arthur allowed his wife to pinch herself, while
he pursued a course of self-indulgence. She never went out in the
evening, it appeared, and he was hardly ever at home; her dress, though
graceful and suitable, had lost that air of research and choiceness that
it had when everything was his gift, or worn to please his eye; and as
day after day passed on without bringing him, Theodora perceived that
the delay was no such extraordinary event as to alarm her; she was
evidently grieved, but it was nothing new. It was too plain that Arthur
gave her little of his company, and his children none of his attention,
and that her calmness was the serenity of patience, not of happiness.
This was all by chance betrayed; she spoke not of herself, and the
nightly talks between the two sisters were chiefly of the children. Not
till more than a week had passed to renew their intimacy, did Theodora
advert to any subject connected with the events of her memorable stay in
London, and then she began by asking, ‘What did I overhear you telling
papa about Lord St. Erme?’
‘I was speaking of his doings at Wrangerton.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Oh! they are admirable. You know he went there with that good little
Lady Lucy, and they set to work at once, doing everything for the
parish--’
‘Do your sisters know Lady Lucy?’
‘Very little; it is only formal visiting now and then. She leads a very
retired life, and they know her best from meeting her at the schools and
cottages.’
‘Good little girl! I knew there was something in her!’
‘She is always with her brother, walking and riding and writing for him,
carrying out all his views.’
‘I saw how he came forward about those poor colliery children. Such a
speech, as that, was turning his talents to good account, and I am glad
to hear it is not all speechifying.’
‘No, indeed, it is real self-denial. The first thing he did was to take
his affairs into his own hands, so that my father has comparatively
nothing to do with them. He found them in a bad state, which papa could
not help, with him living abroad, and attending to nothing, only sending
for money, whatever papa could say. So there was a great outlay wanted
for church and schools for the collieries at Coalworth, and nothing to
meet it, and that was the way he came to sell off all the statues and
pictures.’
‘Did he? Well done, Lord St. Erme!’ cried Theodora. ‘That was something
like a sacrifice.’
‘O yes! My sisters say they could have cried to see the cases go by
the windows, and I cannot help grieving to think of those rooms being
dismantled. I am glad they have kept the little Ghirlandajo, that is the
only one remaining.’
‘I honour them,’ said Theodora.
‘And it was for the sake of such a set,’ proceeded Violet; ‘there is a
bad Chartist spirit among those colliers, and they oppose him in every
way; but he says it is his own fault for having neglected them so long,
and goes on doing everything for them, though they are as surly and
sullen as possible.
Theodora looked thoughtful. ‘Poor Lord St. Erme! Yes, he has found
a crusade! I wish--! Well, I ought to be thankful that good has been
brought out of evil. I deserved no such thing. Violet, I wish he would
marry one of your sisters!’
‘O no, don’t wish that. I am glad there is no chance of it. Ranks
had better not be confounded,’ said Violet, with a sad seriousness of
manner.
‘You have just had a wedding in the family. A satisfactory one, I hope?’
‘Yes, I think so. Mamma and Annette like Mr. Hunt very much. They say
there is such a straightforward goodness about him, that they are sure
dear Olivia will be happy.’
‘Was there any difficulty about it!’
‘Why--Matilda and Albert seemed to think we should not think it grand
enough,’ said Violet, half-smiling. ‘He is a sort of great farmer on his
own estate, a most beautiful place. He is quite a gentleman in manners,
and very well off, so that my father made no difficulty, and I am very
glad of it. Olivia is the very person to enjoy that free country life.’
Violet sighed as if town life was oppressive.
‘To be sure! If one could be a farmer’s daughter without the pretension
and vulgarity, what a life it would be! That was my favourite notion
when I used to make schemes with poor Georgina Gardner. Do you ever hear
what she is doing, Violet? They have quite left off writing to me.’
‘Last time I heard of them they were in Italy.’
‘Going on in the old way, I fear. Poor Georgina! she was sadly thrown
away. But, at least, that Mark is not with them.’
‘O no,’ said Violet, sighing more deeply this time; ‘he is always about
in London.’
‘Ah! you see more of him than you wish, I fear?’
‘I see very little of him. Arthur would not ask him to our house at
Chichester for the Goodwood races, and it was such an escape!’
‘I am glad at least Arthur does not trouble you with him.’
Violet sat with her forehead resting on her hand, and there was a short
space of thoughtful silence. It resulted in Theodora’s saying, in a sad,
low, humble tone, her eyes looking straight into the red fire, ‘Do you
ever hear of Mr. Fotheringham?’
‘I believe he is still at Paris,’ said Violet. ‘I only hear of him
through John, who said he had been thinking of going to Italy. When he
came through London, after Lady Fotheringham’s death, he left his card,
but we were at Chichester. Have you seen that last article of his?’
‘What, that on modern novels? I was almost sure it was his, and yet I
doubted. It was like and yet not like him.’
‘It was his,’ said Violet. ‘He always has his things sent to me. I am
glad you observed the difference. I thought it so much kinder and less
satirical than his writings used to be.’
‘It was so,’ exclaimed Theodora. ‘There were places where I said to
myself, “This cannot be his; I know what he would have said,” and yet it
was too forcible and sensible to have been written by any one else.’
‘The strength is there, but not the sort of triumph in sarcasm that
sometimes made one sorry,’ said Violet; ‘and were you not struck by his
choice of extracts! I have fancied a different strain in his writings of
late.’
Theodora squeezed Violet’s hand. ‘I feared I had hardened him,’ she
said. ‘Thank you, good night.’
CHAPTER 2
St. Osyth’s well is turned aside.
--CRABBE
On the first convenient day, Lord Martindale sent Violet to call at
Rickworth Priory, a visit which she was the more desirous of making,
as Emma’s correspondence, after languishing for awhile, had ceased,
excepting that she sent a fresh allegory of Miss Marstone’s to Johnnie
on each birthday; and the Brandons having given up coming to London for
the season, she scarcely knew anything about them, excepting through
Theodora, who reported that they retired more and more from society, and
that Miss Marstone was much with them.
Theodora would have accompanied Violet, but she was sure that her
absence would be a boon to Emma, whom she had of late tried in vain to
draw out; and, besides, one of the housemaids was ill, and Theodora,
whom her Cousin Hugh called the mother of the maids, wished not to be
away at the doctor’s visit. So little Johnnie was his mother’s only
companion; but she was disappointed in her hopes of introducing him to
his godmother. To her surprise Lady Elizabeth was alone, Emma was at
Gothlands with her friend Miss Marstone.
‘They were very kind in asking me,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘and so was
Emma about leaving me; but I do not wish to be a drag upon her.’
‘Oh! how can you say so?’ exclaimed Violet.
‘It did not suit,’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘The uncle, old Mr. Randal, is
an old-fashioned, sporting squire, and the other Miss Marstones are gay
ladies. I felt myself out of my element when I was there before; but now
I almost wish I was with her.’
‘You must miss her very much, indeed.’
‘It is what we must all come to, my dear,’ said Lady Elizabeth, looking
at the young mother, with her boy leaning against her knee, deep in a
book of illustrations. ‘You have a good many years to look forward to
with your little flock; but, one way or other, they will go forth from
us.’
Lady Elizabeth thought Johnnie too much absorbed to hear; but Violet
found his hand lightly squeezing hers.
‘I thought you at least had kept your daughter,’ she said.
‘Emma will be five-and-twenty in the autumn.’
‘But, oh! Lady Elizabeth, I thought--’
‘I cannot tell, my dear. I hope Emma’s arrangements may be such that we
may go on together as before.’
‘How do you mean?’ exclaimed Violet, confounded.
‘Her judgment is sound,’ continued Lady Elizabeth, ‘if she will only use
it; and when it comes to the point, Miss Marstone’s may be the same.’
‘Is she gone to Gothlands to settle her plans?’
‘Yes; I could not well have gone with her, for we have four little
orphan girls in the house, whom I could not well leave to the servants.
That is quite as I wish, if the rest could be added without Theresa
Marstone making this her home, and introducing all the plans they talk
of.’
‘She could not introduce anything to make you uncomfortable!’
‘It is not so much comfort that I mean, my dear. I do not think that I
should object to giving up some of the servants, though in my time it
was thought right to keep up an establishment. Perhaps a family of women
are not called upon to do things in the same style, and there is no
doubt that our means may be better employed. We have too many luxuries,
and I would not wish to keep them. No, if it was entirely Emma’s doing.
I should be satisfied; but there is more influence from Miss Marstone
than I quite like. I cannot fully rely on her judgment, and I think she
likes to manage.’
‘She could never presume to manage in your house!’
‘Emma’s house, my dear.’
‘But that is the same.’
Lady Elizabeth sighed, and made a movement with her head, then said,
‘All that they think right and conscientious they will do, I am sure,
but the worst of it is that Theresa has friends who are not of our
Communion, and she does speak strongly of things that do not accord
with her notions. I cannot go along with her, and I must confess she
sometimes alarms me.
‘And does Emma think with her entirely?’
‘I fear--I mean I think she does; and, by the bye, my dear, do you know
anything of a Mr. Gardner?’
‘I do know a Mr. Mark Gardner.’
‘That is his name. He is staying in the neighbourhood of Gothlands,
and seems very deep in their counsels. I am afraid he is leading them
farther than Theresa Marstone herself would have gone.’
‘Oh, then, he cannot be the same person. I meant a very different
style of man, a cousin to those Miss Gardners who used to be friends of
Theodora.’
‘Ah! I meant to ask you about Miss Gardner and Percival Fotheringham.
What! you have not heard?’
‘No, nothing. What do you mean?’
‘Married.’
‘Married! No, never!’
‘I thought you would have known, all about it, and I was anxious to hear
what kind of connection it was for Percival.’
‘Do tell me, how did you hear of it? When was it?’
‘Not long ago, in Italy. I heard of it the other day from my nephew,
Edward Howard, who is just returned, and he told me that Mrs. Finch was
leading a dashing life at Florence, and that her sister had just married
Mr. Fotheringham, “the author.”’
‘O, I do not know how to think it possible! Yet it is such an uncommon
name.’
‘Do you know whether his name is Antony?’
‘Yes, it is his first name. I remember Arthur’s laughing at him for
being ashamed of it, as he said.’
‘That confirms it. I asked Edward if the Christian name was Percival,
and he said it was Antony, and some such name, but he could not be
sure.’
‘Ah! there would be a confusion owing to his being always called Percy.’
‘He said, too, that it was a good match for Miss Gardner, as he was heir
to an estate in Yorkshire.’
‘Worthbourne! Then I am afraid it must be too true. The author, too!’
‘So Edward was told.’
‘I must write and ask John Martindale. He will be sure to know the whole
history.’
The rest of the visit and the homeward drive were like a dream. Violet
was lost in amazement, compassion, and disappointment, and in the debate
how Theodora should be informed. Should she wait till there were further
particulars to confirm it! But when she thought it over, there seemed no
more wanting. She knew that Percy had been thinking of visiting Italy a
year ago, and the name, the authorship, and connection with Worthbourne
swept away all doubt. As to making inquiries, she did not know Arthur’s
present address; and even if she had had it, she would have shrunk from
saying anything that should lead to one additional conversation with
Mark Gardner; besides which, Arthur had a fashion of never answering any
question asked by letter.
Nor could Violet venture to delay. It was better that such tidings
should come from sympathizing lips than through the gossip of the
neighbourhood; and Theodora ought to be aware of them as soon as
possible, that she might no longer cherish the shade of her affection.
Alas! that he should have done this at the very moment when she had
truly become worthy of him, or, at least, of what he had once been!
At night, when Theodora came to linger over her fire, the intelligence
was reluctantly and hesitatingly spoken; Violet’s eyes were bent down,
for she knew how little that spirit could brook that its suffering
should be marked.
Theodora stood up before her, at her full height, with flashing eye and
indignant voice: ‘Do you think I believe it? No, indeed! I may have lost
him for ever, but he would never lose himself. I scorn this as I did
Jane Gardner’s own story that you were going to marry him to your
sister. I knew you both too well.’
Violet put her arm round Theodora. ‘Dearest, I am the more afraid that
we must believe this, because he was not always constant. He did think
of Annette.’
‘Think of her! What do you mean! Did he make her an offer!’
‘Yes. I would never have told you if I did not think it might help you
in this.’
‘I don’t want help,’ said Theodora, raising her head and turning from
Violet. ‘Let him do as he likes.’
But, ere she had made two steps towards the door, her breast heaved with
a convulsive sob. She threw herself on the ground, and rested her
face on Violet’s lap. The sobs came at long intervals, with a tight,
oppressed sound. Much alarmed, Violet caressed her, and tried to soothe
her with gentle words, and at last they unlocked her lips.
‘It is not myself! Oh, no! I knew I had forfeited him long ago. I had
proved myself unworthy. I had no right to hope. But that he should have
changed--let his clear sense be blinded by her art! He, to whom I could
have looked up all my life!--who was so noble in rejecting me!’
The large drops had gathered and flowed, seeming to scald their course
down her cheeks. ‘O Violet! I wish your sister had married him! Then
he would have been happy--he would not have degraded himself. Oh! what
change can have come over him?’
‘You know Lady Fotheringham was fond of Jane Gardner, and he might have
taken her upon her word.’
‘As if Percy would see with any old woman’s eyes, when once he came in
contact with her! No, I see but one explanation. It must have been I who
lowered his estimate of woman. Well I might do so, when I treated like
a toy the happiness he had confided to me. I, on whom he had fixed his
ardent soul for so many years past. No wonder he learnt to hold all
women cheap alike! O, that summer of madness! If I have dimmed the
brightness of that noble nature!’
‘Dear, dear Theodora, what can I say to comfort you? She may be altered;
he may have improved her.’
‘She is not capable of it,’ said Theodora; ‘there is nothing in her but
time-serving and selfishness. And he, with that large true heart, so
detesting falsehood--he must either be wretched or deceived--debased!
No, there is no comfort--there never will be.’
‘Except the best sort,’ tenderly whispered Violet. Theodora rested her
head on her hands, and remained perfectly still for some moments, then
looked up, and spoke in a depressed voice.
‘I cannot talk any more. I feel shattered from head to foot. I must be
quiet.’
‘Then, dearest, pray go to bed at once, and I will come and see you.’
‘I cannot. I undertook to give Maria her draught at one o’clock. May I
stay here while you go to bed?’
‘Anything, dearest, dearest sister.’
‘Only let me be in the room with you, and be quiet.’
She would not, as Violet entreated, lie down on the bed beside her,
but remained seated on the floor, her eyes riveted on the fire, never
looking round, her face stupefied, her hands hanging motionless, like
one stunned; and when Violet’s anxious gaze was closed by irresistible
sleep, that dark head was still motionless before the fire.
Her mind was indeed a blank, sensible of nothing but the effect of the
shock. The phrase now and then occurred, ‘Percy is married to Jane;’
but her perceptions were so sluggish that she scarcely knew that it
concerned her. She seemed to have forgotten who Percy was, and to shrink
from recalling the remembrance. There was a repose in this state of
stupor which she was reluctant to break; and after the great clock, so
melancholy in the silence, had tolled half-past twelve, her sensations
were absorbed in the dread of hearing One! the summons to exertion.
The single note pealed out, and died quivering slowly away; she rose,
lighted her candle, and quitted the room, feeling as if the maid’s
illness and the doctor’s directions belonged to some period removed by
ages.
CHAPTER 3
This house of splendour and of princely glory
Doth now stand desolated, the affrighted servants
Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last
Therein.
--Wallenstein
Theodora was no sooner in the gallery than she was recalled to the
present. There was a strange gleam of light reflected on the avenue.
Roused at once to action, she hurried towards the window. The fire was
within the house. She pushed open the door leading to Mrs. Nesbit’s
apartments. Light was flashing at every chink of the bed-room door. She
threw it back. Out rolled a volume of smoke, the glare of flame burst on
her, the curtains were blazing! ‘Aunt! Aunt Nesbit, are you there?
she cried, in tones low with horror and choked with smoke; she plunged
between the burning curtains, felt that she had a hold of something,
dragged it out, found it move and gasp, bore it from the room, and,
depositing it on a couch in the gallery, only then could perceive that
it was indeed Mrs Nesbit, uninjured, though half-suffocated.
Mrs. Garth, who slept in the adjoining room, with the door open, had
been waked by her call, and came running out. An old soldier, she had
full self-possession, and was at once effective, and it was well, for
she exclaimed, ‘Miss Martindale, you are on fire,’ just as the light and
the scorching were revealing the same to herself. There was no time for
personal terror, barely for pain, the fire was crushed out between them
by the help of a woollen table-cover, they scarcely knew how, they only
saw that the draught had increased the blaze in the room, and dense
clouds of smoke came bursting out upon them.
Mrs. Nesbit clung terrified to her niece, but Theodora, with a word or
two of encouragement, freed herself from her grasp, and leaving her
to Mrs. Garth’s care, flew up the nursery stairs. She must have the
children in their mother’s sight before the alarm should reach her.
Sarah’s first waking impulse was to growl, that Master Johnnie would
catch his death of cold, but the next moment she was equal to any
emergency; and the little ones were at their mother’s door just as
she was opening it, thinking the noise more than Maria’s illness could
occasion, and setting forth to see whether there was anything amiss in
the nursery. Theodora put Annie into her arms. ‘All safe. It is only the
north wing. Don’t be frightened. Stay where you are.’
Violet could only obey, thankful at having her three around her,
and trying to keep her terror from being visible enough to increase
Johnnie’s exceeding alarm, or to frighten Helen out of her happy state
of inquisitive excitement and curiosity.
Theodora had hurried to call her parents. They were already in motion.
Lord Martindale’s first care was for Violet and the children, Lady
Martindale’s for her aunt, and almost instantly she was embracing and
supporting the pale shrunken figure, now feebly tottering along the
gallery, forsaken by Mrs. Garth, who had gone back to secure her own
valuables.
By this time, the gallery was full of screaming maids, whom Sarah had,
with difficulty, prevented from leaping at once from attic windows; and
staring men, hallooing for water, which no one brought, except little
Helen, who, escaping from her mother’s room, ran barefooted into the
midst, holding aloft the water-bottle triumphantly, and very indignant
at being captured, and carried back in the butler’s arms.
The fire was spreading so fast that Lord Martindale decided on removing
all the helpless to the gardener’s house at the end of the pleasure
ground. He came himself to call Violet, told her not to be alarmed, and,
taking his grandson in his arms, led the way. Mrs. Nesbit was carried on
a mattress between two of the servants, Lady Martindale walking beside
her, absorbed in trying to guard her from injury or alarm; Annie, asleep
and unconscious, was in her mother’s arms, and Theodora carried
the amused and chattering Helen. At the foot of the stairs, Violet
exclaimed, ‘My cross, I must not leave it!’ and would have turned, but
Theodora prevented her. ‘I know where it is,’ she said, ‘I am going to
see how they are moving Maria;’ and putting Helen into the nearest pair
of arms, she ran back.
Harrison’s successor, Mr. Armstrong and his wife were on foot, and ready
to receive them. Their spare bed was for Mrs. Nesbit, in their own the
three children were placed. In all his haste, Lord Martindale paused
till he could lay his little shivering ice-cold charge in the bed, and
see him hide his head in his mother’s bosom. ‘Good boy!’ he said, ‘I
told him not to cry for you, and he has not made a sound, though I have
felt him trembling the whole way. Take care of him.’
Little did she need the recommendation, though it sent a thrill of
gladness through her that it should have been made at such a time. She
had great apprehension of the effect of the shock on the child’s tender
frame and timid nature, his obedience and self-command seeming almost
to enhance the excess of terror. The shuddering horror and convulsive
clinging were beyond control, and were renewed whenever a fresh glare
broke out from the burning house; to turn him away from the window,
or to put up blinds and curtains made it worse, for the shadows of the
trees, flickering mysteriously, seemed still more terrific. His sister
screamed with excitement and delight at each brighter burst of flame,
till she suddenly laid down her head and fell fast asleep; but still his
nervous trembling continued at intervals, and his mother could not leave
him, nor cease from saying consoling words of his heavenly Guardian,
the only means that soothed him, especially when his sighing exclamation
recurred, ‘O, if papa was but here!’ the tune to which her heart was
throbbing throughout that dreadful night. She felt guilty of being
useless, but he was her first care, and her power of real service was
small: so she could only hang over him, and as she watched the healthful
sleep of her little girls, join her prayers and thanksgivings with his,
that all papa’s treasures were safe. Not till the flames were dying
down, morning twilight showing cold and gray, and Sarah coming in with
bundles of rescued garments, was Johnnie’s mind free enough to unclasp
his hand, and show something fast held in it. ‘Aunt Helen’s cross,
mamma; I thought I might keep hold of it, because I was frightened.’
Her caresses lulled him at last to sleep, while she grieved at
Theodora’s having gone in search of the cross. She knew of her safety
from Sarah, who reported that she had been working like any ten; but she
had not yet seen her, and the silence and suspense became oppressive.
Theodora had hardly spent a moment in seeking the cross, she tied on
Violet’s bonnet over the hair falling round her, hurried to assist in
carrying the sick maid to a bed made up for her at the stables, and
then, missing the dumb page from among the servants, she rushed back
to look for him, dashed up the stairs through thick smoke, found him
asleep, and crossing a floor that almost burnt her foot, she shook
him awake, and saw him too in safety. She bethought her of her brother
John’s possessions, now that the living were all secure; she hurried
into the work, she tore down his prints and pictures, carried them and
his books out,--desks, drawers, weights she would never have dreamt of
lifting, were as nothing to her. Many times did her father meet her,
exclaim and urge her to desist, and to go to Armstrong’s; she said she
was just going: he went in one of the thousand directions in which he
was called at once, and presently again encountered her, where he least
expected it, coming out of a cloud of smoke with a huge pile of books
in her arms! On she worked, regardless of choking, blinding
smoke--regardless of the glare of flame--never driven from the field but
by a deluge from a fire-engine; when stumbling down-stairs, guided by
the banisters, she finally dismayed her father, who thought her long
ago in safety, by emerging from the house, dragging after her a
marble-topped chess table, when half the upper windows were flashing
with flame.
Then he locked her arm into his, and would not let her stir from his
side.
Water had been the great deficiency. Fire-engines were slow in coming,
and the supply from the fountains was as nothing, so that the attempt
had necessarily been to carry out property rather than to extinguish the
fire. Sarah, after coolly collecting all that belonged to her mistress
or the children, had taken the command of Miss Altisidora Standaloft,
(who usually regarded her as vulgarity personified,) scolded away her
hysterics, and kept guard over her, while she packed up her lady’s
jewels and wardrobe, not until then allowing her the luxury of shrieking
at every jet of flame. The other servants and the villagers had worked
with hearty goodwill below stairs; and when Theodora had time to look
around, the pleasure-ground presented a strange scene. Among the trodden
plants and shrubs lay heaps of furniture, sofas, chairs lying tumbled
here and there, with plate, pictures, statues, ornaments heaped in wild
confusion, crowds of people, in every variety of strange dishabille,
gathered round; two long lines of them handing bucket after bucket,
with machine-like regularity, from the fountain; others removing the
furniture from the terrace; cushions, ormolu, fine china, handed out of
the lower windows; the whole seen by the wild lurid light that flashed
from the windows above, strangely illuminating the quiet green trees,
and bringing out every tiny leaf and spray by its fierce brilliancy,
that confused every accustomed shadow, while the clouds of smoke rolled
down as if to wither all around.
And above the rushing roaring sound! the thunder of falling ceilings;
the red light within some familiar windows; the gray sky reflected in
others, till, after a few uncertain flickers, the glow awoke in them
also. Then arose the whiter gusts of vapour, when water, hissing and
boiling, contended with fire.
In vain! the flame surmounted! Shouts, cries! Lord Martindale pushing
nearer, calling to all for heaven’s sake to come out, leave all, only
come out; men rushing from the doors, leaping from the lower windows;
one dark figure emerging at the moment before a tremendous crash shook
the earth beneath their feet; the fire seemed for a moment crushed out,
then clouds of smoke rose wilder and denser, yellowed by the light of
the morning; the blaze rushed upwards uncontrolled, and the intensity of
brightness, behind and above the walls, glared on the mass of awe-struck
faces. There was not a movement, not a word, not a sound, save that of
the roaring flame.
The first voice was Lord Martindale’s: ‘Are all out? Is every one safe?’
‘Yes, my lord, all but the claret of 1826,’ said that last to escape,
half-clad, grimy, and singed, only in courteous voice, the butler.
‘Thank God!’ said Lord Martindale, fervently. ‘And, Simmonds, thank you
for what you have done to-night;’ and he heartily shook the butler’s
hand.
‘Oh, my lord, if it had been more! If that claret was but safe, I should
feel I had done my duty,’ said Simmonds, almost overcome, but giving
place to Mr. Hugh Martindale, who, just released from a chain of buckets
in the kitchen yard, was coming up to wring his cousin’s hand, say there
seemed no more to be done, and repeat his congratulations on the safety
of life and limb. But a fresh alarm arose, lest the fire might extend to
the stabling; and in watching the horses led out, the spreading of wet
tarpaulins on the roof, the engines playing on the burning mass in
the house, and the flames rising with diminishing fierceness in the
intervals of the bursts of steam, there was such intense excitement that
no one could think of aught but the sight before them.
At last there was a touch on Lord Martindale’s arm; a message from the
gardener’s house that he must come directly: Mrs. Nesbit was in a fit.
The morning dewiness and calmness of the garden had a curious effect,
as they walked hastily through it, out of sight of the confusion on the
lawn; everything looked so blue and pale, especially Violet, who came
down to meet them.
‘I have sent for Mr. Legh,’ she said. ‘It is very terrible. She is quite
insensible, but--’
She broke off suddenly. Theodora had sat down, untied her bonnet, then
tried to rise, but tottered, and sank senseless on the floor.
Her father lifted her, so as to place her with her head on Violet’s lap.
Violet removed the bonnet, the hair came with it, burnt off in masses,
the very eyelashes and brows were singed, the forehead, cheeks, and neck
frightfully reddened and blistered. Lord Martindale took her hands
to chafe them: they were bleeding, and purple from bruises, the arms
scorched and burnt--injuries overlooked in the excitement, but ready to
repay themselves after her five hours’ violent and incessant exertion.
It was a frightfully long swoon; and her father, almost in despair,
had sent a second messenger for medical aid before Violet could look
up consolingly, and direct his attention to the signs of returning
animation. She presently half opened her eyes, perceived in whose arms
she lay, and who was bending over her--she heard his fond words; but
reviving no further, closed her eyes, without attempting to speak.
Lord Martindale could no longer delay going up-stairs. There the scene
was most distressing; there was complete insensibility, with a tendency
to convulsive movement, a condition so plainly hopeless that he would
fain have removed his wife, hitherto so unaccustomed to any spectacle of
suffering. But Lady Martindale was not to be detached from her who
had absorbed her affection from infancy. Wrapped in that one idea, she
hardly heard his representations of their daughter’s state, and, with
piteous looks, repelled his assurances that her care was unavailing, and
ought to be relinquished to Mrs. Garth and the maids. He was obliged
at length to desist, and returned just as Violet and Mr. Martindale had
succeeded in moving Theodora to a slippery horse-hair sofa. She looked
up and replied, ‘Better, thank you,’ to his first inquiry; but when
asked if she was in pain, was forced to answer, ‘Yes, not much,’ and
closed her eyes, as if she only wished not to be disturbed.
They held council over her: Mr. Martindale urged taking her at once to
his parsonage; he would find the carriage, and Violet should bring her,
leaving the children to follow under Sarah’s charge when they should
awake. Violet only demurred at leaving Lady Martindale; but Lord
Martindale authoritatively told her, that it was not fit for her to
be in Mrs. Nesbit’s room, and he should be much obliged to her to see
Theodora properly taken care of.
The transit was serious, every one longed to have it over, but dreaded
the arrival of the carriage, which came before it was expected. Resolute
as ever, Theodora astonished them by springing at once on her feet,
disdaining aid, but she had hardly taken a step, before she faltered,
and was just falling, when her father caught her in his arms and carried
her to the carriage, where Violet was ready to uphold her sinking head.
Mr. Martindale took the short way, and was at home before them, to lift
her out, and transport her at once to her room. Since the marriage of
Pauline, Theodora had given up a personal attendant, and no ladies’
maids were forthcoming, except Miss Standaloft, whose nerves could not
endure the sight of Mrs. Nesbit, far less of Miss Martindale, so the
whole business of undressing fell upon Violet, and the rector’s little
under-maid, who, having been a school-girl, was of course devoted
to Miss Martindale. A difficult task it was, for besides the burns,
bruises, and faintness, every muscle and sinew were so strained and
tender from the violent exertion, and the blows she had unconsciously
received, that the gentlest touch and slightest movement were severely
painful. Violet was most grateful for her never-failing resolution.
Every move was made unhesitatingly the moment it was requisite, and not
a complaint was uttered, scarcely even a confession of suffering; on
anxious inquiry, ‘Never mind, it can’t be helped,’ was the utmost reply,
given in a blunt, almost annoyed manner, as if she could not bear to be
disturbed out of that silence of endurance.
In the same manner, between stupefaction and fortitude, the surgeon’s
visit was gone through, and Violet heard from him that there was no
serious consequence to be apprehended, provided fever could be averted.
Violet, much alarmed as to the effect of the tidings of the previous
night, thought it right to mention that she had undergone a severe
shock, and perceived that he thought it greatly increased the chance
of serious illness; but he could do nothing but insist on tranquillity;
and, as Theodora had now fallen into an exhausted sleep, he returned to
his other patient.
The hours seemed to have forgotten their reckoning; it was to Violet as
if she had been years without looking after her children, and when
she found it was only half-past nine, she was dismayed to think of the
length of day yet to come. Leaving Theodora’s sleep to be guarded by the
little maid, she ventured down. The dumb boy was watching, with tearful
eyes, at the foot of the stairs, his whole face one question about Miss
Martindale. Answering him reassuringly on the slate, she opened the
dining-room door, and a refreshing sight met her eyes. Round the
breakfast-table sat her own three, from their glossy heads to their
little shining shoes, in order trim, as if no disaster had ever come
near them;--little Annie on Cousin Hugh’s knee; Helen’s tongue going
as fast as ever; Johnnie in shy good behaviour. A general cry of joy
greeted her, and they were in an instant around her, telling of the
wonders of the lawn, how the dying gladiator was lying on the blue
damask bed, and the case of stuffed humming-birds on the top of the
kitchen dresser, and the poor peacock so frightened that he hid himself
in the laurels, and would not come near them.
All alarms had gone away like a dream of the night, and the day had
dawned on the happy creatures in all its freshness and newness, which
their elders would fain have shared, but the necessity of attending to
them had something reviving in it, and Violet could not look at them
without renewed thrills of thankfulness. It was like rescued mariners
meeting after a shipwreck, when her father-in-law came in and embraced
her and the children affectionately, with a special caress for Johnnie,
‘the best little boy he ever saw.’ He looked worn and depressed, and
Violet hastened to help Mr. Martindale in setting breakfast before him,
while he anxiously bade her rest, hoped she had not been hurt by all
she had undergone; and asked for Theodora, whose illness, and his wife’s
despair at her aunt’s condition, were the chief actual distress. For the
rest, he was so thankful that no life had been lost, as to have hardly a
thought to bestow on the ruin and destruction.
There was now time for the question, how did the fire begin? Mrs.
Nesbit, before her attack came on, had said, that wishing to take a
draught, and not liking to call Mrs. Garth, she had drawn the light near
to the curtains, and had, doubtless, left it there. It seemed as if
Mrs. Garth had taught her to dread disturbing her at night, and now
Lady Martindale shrank with horror from letting her even approach the
patient.
But how had Mrs. Nesbit been rescued without the slightest burn, and
what had occasioned Theodora’s injuries? Not till Violet began to
explain did it dawn on her what a heroine she was describing. All had
been so simply and fearlessly done, that it had not struck her till she
heard it in her own narration.
Lord Martindale was much affected. ‘My brave girl!’ he said; ‘then under
Providence the safety of every one of us is owing to her. I wish she was
awake that I might tell her so this minute!’
It was delightful to see how this seemed to compensate for everything;
and, indeed, he said it was almost worth while to have been burnt out
for the sake of seeing how nobly every one had behaved, servants and
neighbours, rich and poor, working alike at the risk of their lives, and
he was positively overcome as he spoke of the warm sympathy that met him
on all sides, testifying the universal respect and affection with
which he was regarded. Notes and messages were coming in from all the
neighbourhood to intreat to be allowed to shelter his family; but it was
impossible to move at present, and his views were fixed on occupying the
house which had so long stood empty.
‘Arthur can have a room fitted up there directly,’ he said. ‘Where is
he, my dear? How soon can he come?’
Violet was obliged to confess her ignorance. He had said he should be
going about, and had given her no address. Much vexed, Lord Martindale
forbore to distress her by remarks, and replied to his cousin’s question
whether the house was insured--
‘For twenty thousand pounds, but that is nothing like the amount of
damage. I hardly know how we shall meet it. I must have John at home to
settle matters. How strange it is to look back. I remember as if it was
yesterday, when John was born, Mrs. Nesbit insisting on my pulling down
the poor old house, to make the place fit, as she said, for my son’s
inheritance, and there is an end of it! Who would have told her that
she would burn it down herself, poor woman? She always detested the
old hall. Don’t you remember the stags’ antlers, Hugh? Ay, Johnnie, you
would have wondered at those--a dozen stags’ heads with branching horns
in the hall.’
‘Oh! tell me, grandpapa! Was it where you lived when you were a little
boy?’
‘Ay, Johnnie,’ said Lord Martindale, pausing to take him on his
knee. ‘Cousin Hugh could tell you how we went on together there! Such
jackdaws’ nests as used to be in the chimneys--’
‘I do believe,’ said his cousin, ‘you have more regret at this moment
for the old house than for this one!’
‘Well! when I think of going home, the old red pediment with the white
facings always comes into my mind, as it used to look up the avenue,
when we came back for the holidays. Those old shields with the
martlets--see, Johnnie, like that--’ holding up the crest on a spoon,
‘where the martins used to build their nests over the windows, were such
as I never saw anywhere else. I found one of them lying about at the
farm the other day.’
‘Do you remember the hornet’s nest in the wall of the garden--?’
‘What a garden that was! They have never found any pear equal to that
jargonelle, where you ate twenty the first day of the holidays. What do
you think of that, Johnnie?’
‘Ay, Johnnie, and I can tell you of something grandpapa did,’ retorted
Mr. Hugh Martindale; and to Violet’s diversion, the two old cousins
continued to make Johnnie an excuse for bringing up their boyish
memories, which seemed to rise on them the more vividly, now that the
great mansion no longer obstructed their view. It was complete oblivion
of everything else, and seemed to do infinite good to Lord Martindale,
but soon it was interrupted; Lady Elizabeth had driven over to beg to
carry the whole party back to Rickworth with her, or at least to take
home Violet and the children; but this could not be; Violet could not
leave Theodora, and though Lord Martindale pressed her to consult her
own comfort by removing, he was evidently gratified by her begging to
be allowed to remain at the parsonage. He then returned to his wife, and
Lady Elizabeth, after offers of every service in her power, took leave,
while Violet returned to her charge.
Theodora awoke with less fever than they had ventured to hope, and
quite composed, though much surprised with her first acquaintance with
illness, and not even comprehending that she could not get up, till the
pain of the attempt corroborated Violet’s assurance.
‘How base it is,’ said she, ‘not to be able to do a few hours’ work
without having to take to one’s bed. I flattered myself I was not so
despicably weak, for a woman.’
‘You might be satisfied,’ said Violet, her heart too full to say more.
‘Not while your Sarah walks about as if nothing had happened.’
‘Where should any of us be but for you?’ said Violet, bending over her.
‘There’s not an inch of me fit for kissing!’ exclaimed Theodora, turning
away.
‘Lord Martindale will soon come to tell you what he thinks of it.’
‘Papa! Where is he? I don’t remember him since we went down to
Armstrong’s. Yes, I do though!’ she paused, ‘but I can’t think of
it. Crying would be worse. What a queer thing fainting is! I used to
speculate what it was like.’
‘How do you like it?’ said Violet, perceiving her mood.
‘Tolerably, in some respects; but it makes one’s memory hazy. What has
become of mamma? I suppose she is afraid of the sight of my visage.’
‘Oh! no, no!’
‘My aunt, of course! How could I forget! Mrs. Armstrong spoke of
her being ill. Was it another stroke!’ said Theodora, alarmed as her
recollection returned, and Violet was obliged to tell the whole.
‘My poor mother!’ said Theodora, gravely, ‘I wish I could help--’
There was a knock at the door. Miss Standaloft stood hesitating and
making signs to Violet.
‘Is there any news of Mrs. Nesbit?’ asked Theodora. ‘There can be only
one thing to hear. Is it over?’
It was, and the end had been quiet. Theodora drew a long breath, and
repeated, ‘Poor mamma!’
‘Do you want me? Do you think I might go to her!’ said Violet. ‘She has
no one with her but the gentlemen.’
‘I should be very glad if you were there. Only don’t hurt yourself, or
Arthur will be angry; and to have you to nurse would be more than could
be borne. My poor aunt! I think she softened at the last, and she loved
us all very much at one time.’
‘I am glad she was kind to Johnnie,’ said Violet.
Miss Altisidora was induced to sit on the other side the curtain,
intending to call Sarah if anything was wanted, and Violet walked across
the park, dreading to enter for the first time the presence of the
shadow of death, fearing in her lowliness to intrude or presume, but
drawn onwards by the warmhearted yearning to perform a daughter’s part,
if perchance her husband’s mother could derive the least solace from her
attentions.
She crossed the trodden grass, and gazed on the ruin of the abode that
had once almost oppressed her with its grandeur. Past away! and with
it, she whose hopes and schemes were set on the aggrandizement of the
family--she had gone where earthly greatness was weighed in its true
balance! And the lime trees budded, new and young in their spring
greenness, as when the foundation-stone was laid!
Violet thought how she had been taught to look on this as her boy’s
inheritance, and therewith came the prayer that he might win his true
inheritance, made without hands, ever spring-like and beyond the power
of the flame! She looked up at the shell, for it was no more, she only
recognized the nursery windows by their bars; the woodwork was charred,
the cement blackened by the fire, where yesterday Helen’s and Annie’s
faces had been watching her return! A sick horror passed over her as she
thought how much had depended on Theodora’s watchful night, and imagined
what might have awaited Arthur!
Then with hopeful, grateful anticipation, she looked to his coming,
and his greeting after such perils endured in his absence. ‘O, will not
thankfulness bring him those thoughts! It must! He must join with me,
when he owns the mercy and sees our children safe. Oh! then blessings on
this night’s danger! Let me see, he will learn it from the paper!
When can he come? Oh! how his looks and one word from him will reward
Theodora!’
She felt as if her happy anticipation had been selfish when she came
near the cottage with its blinded windows. Lord Martindale was speaking
to some one, but turned at once to her. ‘You here, my dear? You have
heard?’
‘Yes, I have; but Theodora and I thought as Lady Martindale has no maid
here, that I had better come and see if I could do anything for her. Can
I?’ said she, with her humble sweetness.
‘I cannot tell, my dear,’ he answered. ‘She attends to nothing, and has
not been able to shed tears. We cannot rouse her. Indeed, I am sorry you
came; you ought to be resting.’
‘O, no, we both wished it. Should I be troublesome to her?’
‘No, indeed, my dear child,’ said he, affectionately. ‘It is a great
relief to me that you should be with her, for here is much that I must
attend to, and I wish nothing so much as to get her to the parsonage.
The carriage is waiting, but she will not hear of coming away, and I do
not know how to leave her here.’
So saying, he led her into the room; Violet gave one shrinking glance
towards the bed, while the chill of awe shot through her veins; but
the chief thought was needed for her who sat rigid and motionless, with
fixed tearless eyes, and features in cold stillness more than ever like
marble. Violet felt as if that deathly life was more painful to look
upon than death itself, and her hand trembled in Lord Martindale’s
grasp; he pressed it closer, and going up to his wife, said, ‘Anna, my
dear, here is our child Violet so kind as to come and see you.’
Lady Martindale made a courteous movement, as if by mechanism, but
without looking up. He was delaying, unable to leave them thus, though
he was much wanted below stairs.
‘I will stay while you go,’ whispered Violet, though she longed to keep
him, for that presence filled her with trembling, and promising speedy
return, he departed.
For some minutes she could venture nothing, and the silence in which
she heard only the beatings of her own heart seemed more than she
could bear; but at last she collected herself, and an impulse suddenly
occurring to her, she ventured to touch her mother-in-law, and said,
‘Theodora has been asking for you.’
Lady Martindale shook her head. ‘I cannot come, I cannot leave her.’
‘Poor Theodora is so much hurt!’ pleaded Violet; ‘you will be surprised
to see how she is scorched! Such arms and hands, that she cannot help
herself--and she wants cold applications continually.’
Lady Martindale once looked attentive, but a glance at her aunt brought
back her face of silent misery. Violet was perplexed, but strove
on--‘Poor Theodora! I hope you will come to her. She wants care very
much. Did you know that it was in saving her that she was so sadly
burnt?’
‘No: was it?’
‘Yes; she snatched her out through the burning curtains. That was the
way Theodora’s hair was all burnt off, and her arms are so blistered!’
continued Violet, controlling her trembling, and speaking as when she
was persuading one of the children--‘Poor Theodora! Will you not come
and see her?’
‘Where is she?’
‘She is at the parsonage. They are ready to take us.’
‘Oh, no! I cannot go. You go to her.’
‘Pray, pray come with me. Theodora is so ill! It would do her so much
good to see you; and we are afraid of her being anxious or distressed,
lest she should have fever. Won’t you come?’
A motion, as if she could not bear this, made Violet fear she must
desist, and she paused for a short interval, then said, ‘SHE was very
fond of Theodora.’
‘Oh! Yes, yes--’
‘She would not like her to be left so long.’
‘I thought you were taking care of her.’
‘Oh, yes! but I cannot be the same as you would. One always wants one’s
mother so much in illness.’
‘She was always a mother to me!’ The tears came at last, and she wept
unrestrainedly; while Violet hung over her with soft caressing words
of sympathy that cannot be detailed, till the first grief had had its
course, and she again tried the experiment of repeating Theodora’s name,
and saying how much she was suffering.
Lady Martindale did not reply, but suffered Violet to put on her cloak,
and gradually lead her from the room, saying at each pause something of
‘poor Theodora.’
The deed was done; it might be by importunity, but it was worth
achieving, even at the risk of being vexatious. Lord Martindale could
hardly believe his eyes when he saw his wife on her way to the carriage,
and Theodora was equally astonished when she appeared at her bedside.
It was a new thing to see one, hitherto healthy and independent, so
completely prostrated; and no more was needed to awaken the natural
affection so long stifled or thrust aside. Lady Martindale was greatly
shocked, and, perhaps magnifying her daughter’s illness, had no room for
any other thought. She wished to do everything for her herself--would
hardly admit Violet’s assistance--and took every care, with skilfulness
that was marvellous in one trained to ineffectiveness.
To Theodora her attendance was a new and exquisite repose. It was the
first taste of her mother’s love, and made her content to be helpless;
as there she lay, murmuring thanks, and submitting to be petted with a
grateful face of childlike peace, resting in her mother’s affection, and
made happy by the depth of warm feeling in her father’s words.
‘It is a good speculation to be ill,’ said she, with a smile of strong
feeling when they had bidden her good night, and left her to Violet, who
was to sleep on a mattress on the floor.
CHAPTER 4
Will you walk into my parlour?’ said a spider to a fly.
--MARY HOWITT
And where was Arthur?
Spending the day with his sporting friends, much to his own
satisfaction, till in the evening, greatly against his will, he was
taken out to dine with an old Mr. Randall, of Gothlands, the master of
the hounds.
His nieces, the Misses Marstone, were the ladies of the
house--well-dressed people, a little ‘passees’, but apparently not
having found it out. Arthur watched the arrivals hoping that the order
of precedence might not consign him to the flow of talk, of which he
had already had quite a sufficiency, when, to his surprise, two ladies,
evidently at home, entered together.
One--thin, sallow, spectacled--was, as he knew, an inhabitant; but the
other--small, slight, and retiring, and, in spite of clinging unfresh
muslin and shrinking figure, with the unmistakable air of high breeding,
was a most unexpected sight. At least, thought he, here was one lady
who would not bore him, and making his way to her, he inquired for
Lady Elizabeth. Emma, on the other hand, asked after Violet; and it was
curious that both questions were put and answered with constraint, as if
each was conscious of being something like a truant.
Another surprise. ‘Mr. Gardner.’ In walked Mark himself, and, after
shaking hands with the elder Miss Marstone, came towards Emma and her
friend, and was received with cordial familiarity. He entered into
conversation with Arthur, drawing a little further from Miss Brandon at
each step, till having brought him close to old Mr. Randall, and placed
him under the infliction of a long prose about the hounds, he retreated,
and was soon again in conversation with the two friends, Emma’s face
raised and lighted up with eagerness.
Colonel Martindale had no escape from the head of the table and the
eldest of the Misses Marstone. Resigning himself to his fate, he made
talk; and, though now broader, redder, and somewhat coarser in feature
and complexion than he had been a few years ago, he looked so gay and
unencumbered, that his neighbour speculated as to whether he could be
the eldest son, and resolved to discover what her sister, Sarah Theresa,
knew of him.
‘It is so pleasant when friends meet unexpectedly,’ said she. ‘I did not
know you were acquainted with either of our guests.’
‘Miss Brandon is a near neighbour of my father, and a great friend of
Mrs. Martindale.’
Death to any incipient scheme of Miss Marstone; but she smiled on,
and remarked, ‘A very amiable girl, and a beautiful place, is it not,
Rickworth?’
‘Very pretty, a fine property,’ said Arthur, talking as if in his
sleep, for he had caught Mark Gardner’s voice saying something about an
oratory.
‘My sister is often staying there,’ proceeded the lady. ‘You know Miss
Brandon’s scheme of restoring the Priory?’
‘I did not know that was anything more than talk.’
‘I used to think so,’ said Miss Marstone; ‘but both she and my
sister Sarah treat it quite seriously, and Mr. Gardner is their prime
counsellor.’
Arthur started, and with difficulty refrained from laughing.
‘Ah! I believe he has been a little wild, but that is all over now. He
has taken quite a different turn now, and given up everything of that
sort--throws himself into all their views.’
‘Indeed!’ said Arthur, who knew to his cost that if the reform had taken
place at all, it must have been of extremely recent date.
‘O, yes, I assure you. He is staying with the curate, Mr. Silworth.’
‘Ha! that is an old name at school.’
‘Yes; he was an old schoolfellow--a very good man, to whose persuasions
everything is owing.’
She pointed him out, and the first glance was a revelation to Arthur,
who recognized him as the boy who, at school, had been the most easily
taken in. He soon understood the state of affairs. Mark, clever,
gentlemanly in appearance, and apt at catching the tone of the society
around him, was making a bold stroke--had persuaded his kind-hearted,
simple friend to believe him a sincere penitent, and to introduce him
as such to the ladies at Gothlands, from whom he caught the talk most
pleasing to them. At present it was all ecclesiastical aesthetics, and
discontent with the existing system, especially as regarded penitence;
by and by, when his hold should be secure, he would persuade the heiress
that she had been the prime instrument in his conversion, and that she
had gained his heart.
A bit of rhapsody from Miss Sarah Theresa, and poor Emma’s embellished
and animated countenance, were sufficient indications that they were
smoothly gliding into the snare; and accustomed as Arthur was to see
Mark Gardner in a very different aspect, he was astonished at his
perfect performance of his part--the humility and deference befitting
the sense of his errors, and conversation so entirely at home in all
their peculiar language and predilections, that Arthur was obliged to
feel for the betting-book in his own pocket to convince himself that
he was still deeply involved with this most admirable and devoted of
penitents. He could not help, as he took leave, giving a knowing look,
conveying how easily he could spoil his game.
However, Arthur was in reality much annoyed. Of late years his easy
temper had well-nigh surrendered itself to the ascendency of Mark
Gardner; and though dissatisfied, remorseful, and anxious, he had
allowed himself to be led farther and farther into extravagance. The
sight of his home excited regrets, therefore he shunned it; and though
weary and discontented in his chains, he was devoid of force or will to
break them, and a sort of torpor seemed to make it impossible for him to
resist Mark Gardner. Their money matters were much entangled. They had
entered into a partnership for keeping horses for the turf, and there
was a debt shared between them, the amount of which Arthur dreaded to
investigate.
That Gardner should obtain a rich wife would be the greatest relief to
Colonel Martindale; but he had rather it should have been any heiress in
the world but Emma Brandon. He had a friendly feeling towards her, and a
respect for her mother, that made him shrink from allowing her to become
a victim, especially when he would himself be the gainer; and, on the
other hand, he could not endure to betray a friend,--while he knew that
his wife, his father, and his sister would be horrified at his secrecy.
After a night spent in execrating the dinner-party, he received a call
from Mr. Gardner, who, without being aware that he took any interest
in Miss Brandon, came to put him upon his guard, but found him less
manageable than usual. Arthur made a formidable description of Lady
Elizabeth’s discretion, underrated the value of Rickworth, and declared
that it would be so tied up that Mark would gain nothing but a dull,
plain little wife. Not thus deterred, Mark only asked of him discretion;
and when, trying to cloak his earnest under faltering jest, he declared
that he had a regard for the Brandons, and should get into a scrape
with his father, his friend held out the allurement of freedom from his
difficulties, but was obliged to touch on this lightly, for Arthur’s
honour was ready to take fire at the notion of being bought. It ended
in Gardner’s treating the matter as if he had engaged not to betray
him, and being hardly gainsaid, otherwise than by a sort of bantering
proviso, that in case of an appeal direct, he could not be expected to
vouch for Mark’s entire and disinterested reformation.
With an intense dislike to the world in general, Arthur was considering
how to prevent his wife from meeting Lady Elizabeth, and how to be out
of the way before the report should spread of Mark’s addresses, when
everything else was driven from his mind by the arrival of the papers,
with the announcement of the fire at Martindale.
The safety of the infant family of the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel
Martindale was the first news that met his eye; next, that of the
death of Mrs. Nesbit,--the chief thought that occupied him in his hasty
homeward journey.
He had been taught to think himself her heir; and though never forgiven
for his marriage, hoped that the will might not have been altered,
and considered that, whether it were in his favour or not, so large
a property coming into the family could not fail to render his
circumstances more easy, by enabling his father to augment his
allowance, which, though ample in itself, appeared far from sufficient
to a man with expensive tastes and an increasing family. The hope of
independence, and of not being obliged to wish success to Gardner, was
an opening into liberty and happiness.
By night he was at the parsonage, and Violet in his arms as soon as the
door was opened. That moment was perfect--he was so eagerly tender, so
solicitous lest she should have been injured by terror or exertion, so
shocked at her peril in his absence. In the fulness of her heart she
even asked him to come and see the children safely asleep.
‘Now? What should I do that for?’
There was no unkindness, but the full felicity of the evening was
marred.
There was no room for him at the parsonage, and an apartment in the
empty house had been fitted up for him, so that she only saw him for
an hour of confused talk over the events of the fire, and Theodora’s
condition, which was very uncomfortable; for though the fever was
slight, the burns and bruises were in an unsatisfactory state, and eyes,
arms, and hands of very little use. She was patient, and resolute as
ever, and so grateful to her nurses that waiting on her was a pleasure.
In fact, attendance on her was the only resource for occupying Lady
Martindale, who, when not thus engaged, was listless and dejected,
attending to nothing that passed around her, and sometimes giving way
to inconsolable bursts of grief. It was as if her aunt had been her one
idea in life, and without her she could turn to nothing else. Violet
was very anxious to prevent the children from molesting her, and in much
dread of their troubling her, now that all were in such close quarters.
It was trying to be engaged with Theodora, and to hear the little feet
and voices where they were not intended to be.
But when she was able to hasten to the rescue, she beheld Helen in Lady
Martindale’s lap, and Johnnie by her side, all three intent on making
bouquets; and all apologies and proposals to fetch them away were
replied to by assurances of their goodness, and the pleasure afforded by
their company.
It appeared that while playing in the garden, the little brother and
sister had been, as it were, fascinated by watching her fixed melancholy
figure in the drawing-room. Again and again they had peeped in at the
window, striving to forget, but ever attracted by the sweet compassion
of their hearts; till at last, after much pausing and whispering, they
had betaken themselves to the corner of the garden where Cousin Hugh had
given permission to gather as they liked, and at the expense of his own
small fingers, Johnnie had pulled the first bud of sweet-brier. Lady
Martindale had felt a soft touch, and heard a little timid, coaxing
voice--‘Grandmamma, may we? Would you like this little, young rose?’
while towards her was raised a face delicate and glowing with pale pink
like the bud itself.
Grandchildren and flower were at once in her bosom. Warm, womanly
child-love had been forced down to a far corner of her heart; but there
it was, and like the rod piercing to the hidden spring, that fragrant
gift of love touched it home, and thenceforth it was such fondling
as Violet almost feared might be spoiling, especially of Helen; who,
however unruly or exacting she might be, seemed only to endear herself
the more, and was visibly far more her grandmother’s darling than her
gentle, well-behaved brother. This new affection for the children opened
her heart to their mother, on whom she leant more than she knew. To her
she talked of all her aunt’s unwearied fondness and care, ever since she
had come into her hands an orphan in her infancy. There had been real
and entire devotion to each other on the part of the aunt and niece;
and the affection she had been able to inspire, together with the solemn
feelings towards the newly dead, gave her memory a softness that almost
enabled Violet to think of her in Lady Martindale’s point of view,
forget her harshness, and the worldly pride for her niece and her
family, to which she had sacrificed their best happiness.
It was a melancholy retrospect. Mrs. Nesbit might be said to have
perfectly succeeded in the object of her life. She had formed her
beloved niece, like the fabled image of snow, moulded by the enchanter
and animated by no will but his, and had seen her attain the summit of
her wishes, universally admired and distinguished for every talent and
grace; while still completely under her influence, and as affectionate
and devoted as ever. Could any desire be more fully attained? But there
had ever been further craving, disappointment, combats, hatred,
avarice, disgust; and with all around that could make old age happy and
honourable, it had been a querulous melancholy struggle for power, spent
in clutching at the toys that had no pleasure in them--in trying to
force worldly advantages on those who cared not for them, then revenging
their indifference as a personal insult. She had sunk into the grave
without any one having the power to regret her save that one fond,
faithful niece, the one creature she had always regarded with genuine
unselfish affection.
Lord Martindale, whose wife she had ruled, and whose children had been
made unhappy by her, could hardly help owning to himself that her death
was a relief to him; and Arthur barely made a fair show of moderate
respect, in his anxiety for the property that would free him from
embarrassment. His first inquiry was whether the will were burnt. No,
it was in the hands of a lawyer, who would bring it on the day of the
funeral. Lord Martindale might look reprovingly at Arthur’s eagerness,
but the matter was no less important to him. He had begun life with an
expenditure as large as his income could bear; and as his children
had grown up, and unprosperous times had come, he had not been able to
contract his expenses. Of late he had almost been in difficulty as to
the means of meeting the calls for the year, economy was a thing unknown
and uncomprehended by his wife; and the giving up the house in London
had been the only reduction he could accomplish. No one else in the
family had an idea of self-denial except Theodora, who, perceiving how
matters stood, had refused to have a maid of her own, and had begged him
no longer to keep a horse for her. Some change ought to be made, but
he had gone on in this unsatisfactory manner, trusting that at Mrs.
Nesbit’s death all would be straight. Her West Indian estates and
accumulation of wealth must be bequeathed either to his wife or among
his children; and in either case he would be set at ease--either
relieved from supporting Arthur, or enabled to do so without difficulty.
The funeral took place in full grandeur. Lady Martindale had made it a
special request that every one would mourn as if for her mother, and it
was just one of the occasions when pomp was needed to supply the place
of grief.
The only real mourner shut herself up in her own room, whither Theodora
begged Violet to follow her. She found her stretched on her bed,
abandoned to grief. It was the sense of orphanhood; the first time
she had come so close to death and its circumstances, and it was
overpowering sorrow; but Violet had better learnt how to deal with her,
and could venture to caress and soothe--entreat her to remember how much
was left to love her--and then listen to what Lady Martindale began as
the rehearsal of her aunt’s care to shield her from sorrow; but Violet
soon saw it was the outpouring of a pent-up grief, that had never dared
to come forth. The last time the vault had been opened it had been for
the infant she had lost, and just before for the little girls, who had
died in her absence. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘you do not know how it is all
brought back to me. It is as if your three darlings were the same I left
when we went abroad. Your sweet Helen is exactly like my precious little
Anna, whom I little thought I was never to see again! Oh, my babies!’
Violet was quite relieved to find this excessive grief was not spent on
her aunt, but that it was the long-restrained sorrow for an affliction
in which she could so much better sympathize. It had been of no avail
for Mrs. Nesbit, in mistaken kindness, and ignorance of a mother’s
heart, to prevent her from ever adverting to her darlings; it had only
debarred her from the true source of comfort, and left the wound to ache
unhealed, while her docile outward placidity was deemed oblivion. The
fear of such sorrow had often been near Violet, and she was never able
to forget on how frail a tenure she held her firstborn; and from the
bottom of her heart came her soothing sympathy, as she led her on to
dwell on the thought of those innocents, in their rest and safety. Lady
Martindale listened as if it was a new message of peace; her tears were
softer, and she dwelt fondly on little Anna’s pretty ways, speaking, and
Violet hearing, as if it had been a loss of to-day, instead of more than
thirty long years ago.
Lady Martindale opened a dressing-box, saying how relieved she had been
to find it safe, and from a secret drawer drew out a paper and showed
Violet some soft locks of chestnut hair. ‘Their papa gave me these,’ she
said. ‘My dear aunt would not let me look at them--she thought it hurt
me; but I must see if Anna’s hair is not just like Helen’s.’ And then
she begged Violet not to be alarmed at the resemblance, and kissed her
for saying she was glad of it, and had no fears on that score. She dwelt
on these reminiscences as if they were a solace of which she could never
taste enough, and did not cease talking over them till Lord Martindale
entered. Violet understood his feeling and the reserve hitherto shown
to him sufficiently to attempt breaking it down, and ventured, as
she quitted the room, to lay her hand on the little curl, and say,
‘Grandmamma thinks Helen like her little Anna.’
Seeing Arthur leaning on the balusters, looking discomposed, she went
down to him. ‘Where have you been!’ he said, rather sulkily.
‘With your mother; I hope she is growing more calm.’
‘Very absurd of her to take it so much to heart!’ said Arthur, entering
the drawing-room. ‘Have you heard about this will?’
‘No. What?’
‘Never was such a will on this earth! It ought to be brought into court!
I verily believe the old hag studied to make it a parting emanation of
malice!’
‘Oh, hush! hush!’ cried Violet, shocked.
‘It is all very well saying Hush, hush; but I should like to know what
you mean to live upon?’
‘What has she done?’
‘She has gone and left it all to that child!’
‘What child?’
‘My son--your boy John, I tell you; but, mark you, so as to do no good
to a living soul. Not a penny is he to touch till we are all dead, if we
starve meantime. She has tied it up to accumulate till my eldest son--or
John’s, if he has one--comes to the title, and much good may it do him!’
‘Poor little dear!’ said Violet, inexpressibly pained by his tone.
‘Anything but poor! It is £100,000 to begin with, and what will it
be when he gets it? Think of that doing nothing, and of us with no
dependence but the trumpery £5000 by the marriage settlements. It is
enough to drive one crazy.’
‘It is a pity,’ said Violet, frightened by his vehemence.
‘It is an end of all chance for me. When she had always taught me to
look to it! It is absolute cheating.’
‘Of late she never led us to expect anything.’
‘No; and you never took pains to stand well with her. Some people--’
‘O, Arthur, Arthur!’
‘Well, don’t be foolish! You could not help it. Her spitefulness was
past reckoning. To see her malice! She knew John and Theodora would not
let me be wronged, so she passes them over, and my mother too, for fear
it should be made up to me. Was ever man served so before? My own son,
as if to make it more aggravating!’
At an unlucky moment Johnnie ran in, and pulled his mother’s dress.
‘Mamma, may Helen dig in the bed by the garden door!’
‘Go away!’ said Arthur, impatiently. ‘We can’t have you bothering here.’
Though inattentive and indifferent to his children, he had never been
positively unkind, and the anger of his tone filled the timid child’s
eyes with tears, as he looked appealingly at his mother, and moved away,
lingering, and beginning a trembling, ‘but, mamma--’
‘Don’t stay here!’ cried Arthur, in an indiscriminating fit of anger,
striking his hand on the table. ‘Did I not order you to go this moment,
sir?’
Poor Johnnie fled, without hearing his mother’s consoling ‘I’ll come;’
which only, with her look of grief, further irritated Arthur. ‘Ay, ay!
That’s always the way. Nothing but the boy, whenever I want you.’
Violet saw defence would make it worse, and tried to give him the
attention he required; though quivering with suppressed distress for his
harshness to his poor little boy, whom she could hardly help going at
once to comfort. She hardly heard his storming on about the unhappy
will, it only seemed to her like the apple of discord, and great was the
relief when it was ended by Lord Martindale’s coming down, asking why
Johnnie was crying. She hoped this might cause Arthur some compunction,
but he only answered, gruffly, ‘He was troublesome, he is always
fretting.’
Violet found the poor little fellow with tear-glazed face trying to
suppress the still heaving sobs, and be grateful to his grandmamma, who
had brought him into her room, and was trying to console him, though
unable to discover the secret of his woe. As he sprung to his mother’s
lap, his grief broke forth afresh. His affection for his father was a
deep, distant, almost adoring worship; and the misery inflicted by those
looks and words was beyond what could be guessed, save by his mother.
He thought himself naughty, without knowing why, and could hardly be
soothed by her caresses and assurances that papa was not really angry,
but he must not interrupt another time.