‘But, mamma, Helen wanted to dig up all Cousin Hugh’s little green

things.’

Violet was thus reminded that she must seek after her daughter, whom

she found revelling in mischief, and was obliged to sentence to dire

disgrace, causing general commiseration, excepting that her papa,

ignorant that it was his own fault, declared children to be the greatest

plagues in the world.

She saw him no more in private, but grieved at his moodiness all the

evening, and at bed-time watched a red spark moving to and fro in the

garden. Her heavy sigh made Theodora ask what was the matter.

‘I wish Arthur would not stay out in the dew. He has a little cough

already,’ said she, putting forward the care that would best bear

mention.

‘You used to be above caring for dews and night airs.’

‘I must for him and Johnnie!’ said Violet.

‘Ah! what do you say to your son’s prospects?’

‘I don’t suppose it will make much difference to him,’ was the dejected

answer, Violet’s eyes still following the red end of the cigar in the

darkness.

‘Well! that is contempt for wealth! Fancy what will be in his hands. I

thought you would be moralizing on the way to bring him up to use it.’

‘I have not thought of that,’ said Violet; ‘besides, it will be long

enough before he has it.’

‘What! will it not be when he is of age!’

‘No, when he comes to the title.’

‘Oh! I see. Mamma did not understand that! She thought it absolutely

left to him. How is it, then?’

‘It is put in trust till either he, or John’s son, if he should have

one, comes to the title.’

‘Then, it does you no good?’

‘Only harm,’ Violet could not help saying.

‘How harm? It might be worse for you to have it.’

‘Most likely,’ said Violet’s submissive voice. ‘But it vexes Arthur so

much!’ and the tears fell unseen.

‘Well it may!’ said Theodora. ‘One cannot say what one thinks of it NOW,

but--Poor Arthur! I was very much afraid she was going to leave it to

me. Now I wish she had.’

‘I wish so too.’

‘It was silly of me to warn her that Arthur should have his share;

but after all, I don’t regret it. I would not have had it on false

pretences. Did you hear when the will was dated?’

‘September, 18--.’

‘When Johnnie was a baby. Ah! I remember. Well, I am glad we all

forfeited it. I think it is more respectable. I only wish mamma had

come in for it, because she is the right person, and papa is a good deal

straitened. That really was a shame! Why did not she let them have it?’

‘Arthur thinks it was for fear we should be helped.’

‘No doubt,’ said Theodora. ‘Well. I wish--! It is a horrid thing to find

people worse after they are dead than one thought them. There! I have

had it out. I could not have borne to keep silence. Now, let us put the

disgusting money matter out of our heads for good and all. I did not

think you would have been distressed at such a thing, Violet.’

‘I don’t want it,’ said Violet, amid her tears. ‘It is Arthur’s

disappointment, and the knowing I brought it on him.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Theodora. ‘If I had Arthur here, I would scold him

well; and as to you, he may thank you for everything good belonging

to him. Ten million fortunes would not be worth the tip of your little

finger to him, and you know he thinks so. Without you, and with this

money, he would be undone. Now, don’t be silly! You have got your

spirits tired out, and sleep will make you a sensible woman.’

Violet was always the better for an affectionate scolding, and went

to bed, trusting that Arthur’s disappointment might wear off with the

night. But his aunt’s inheritance had been too much the hope of

his life, for him to be without a strong sense of injury, and his

embarrassments made the loss a most serious matter. He applied to his

father for an increase of allowance, but he could not have chosen a

worse time; Lord Martindale had just advanced money for the purchase of

his company, and could so ill afford to supply him as before, that but

for the sake of his family, he would have withdrawn part of his actual

income. So, all he obtained was a lecture on extravagance and neglect

of his wife and children; and thus rendered still more sullen, he became

impatient to escape from these grave looks and reproofs, and to return

to town before the disclosure of Mr. Gardner’s courtship. He made it his

pretext that Violet was unwell and overworked in the general service;

and she was, in truth, looking very ill and harassed; but he was far

more the cause than were her exertions, and it was a great mortification

to be removed from his parents and sister when, for the first time, she

found herself useful to them, and for such an ungracious reason too,

just when they were so much drawn together by the dangers they

had shared, and the children seemed to be making progress in their

grandmother’s affections. Poor Johnnie, too! it was hard to rob him of

another month of country air, just as he was gaining a little strength

and colour.

But pleading was useless; the mention of Johnnie revived the grievance,

and she was told she must not expect everything to give way to that boy

of hers; every one was ready enough to spoil him without his help.

He would not stay crammed into this small house, with the children

eternally in the way, and his father as black as thunder, with no

diversion, and obliged to sleep out in that den of a cottage, in a damp,

half-furnished room--an allegation hardly true, considering Violet’s

care to see the room aired and fitted up to suit his tastes; but he was

determined, and she had not even the consolation of supposing care for

her the true reason; the only ground she could find for reconciling

herself to the measure was, that night walks were not mending his cough,

which, though so slight that he did not acknowledge it, and no one

else perceived it, still made her uneasy. Especially Violet felt the

ingratitude of leaving Theodora in her weak, half-recovered state;

but it was almost as if he had a sort of satisfaction in returning his

father’s admonitions on the care of his wife, by making it a plea

for depriving them of her in their need, and he fixed his day without

remorse.

CHAPTER 5

E’en in sleep, pangs felt before,

Treasur’d long in memory’s store,

Bring in visions back their pain,

Melt into the heart again.

By it crost affections taught

Chastened will and sobered thought.

--AESCHYLUS.--Anstice

Arthur did not succeed in eluding Lady Elizabeth. She called the day

after the funeral, begging especially to see Mrs. Martindale. She looked

absent and abstracted, while Lord Martindale was talking to her, and

soon entreated Violet to come with her for a short drive.

No sooner were they in the carriage than she said, ‘Violet, my dear, can

you or Arthur tell me anything of this Mr. Gardner?’

‘I know very little of him personally,’ said Violet, for he was too much

an associate of her husband’s for her to be willing to expose him; ‘but

are you sure we mean the same person?’

‘Quite sure. Did you not hear that Arthur met him at Gothlands?’

‘No; I have had very little talk with him since he came back, and this

fire has put everything out of our minds.’

‘Of course it must, my dear. However, Arthur came with Mr. Herries to

dine there, and met Mr. Gardner as an old friend; so he must be the

same, and I am particularly anxious for some account of him. I must tell

you why--I know I am safe with you--but you will be very much surprised,

after all her declarations--’

‘O, Lady Elizabeth, it cannot be that.’

‘I have always been prepared for something of the sort. But what, my

dear?’ seeing her agitation, and quickly infected by it.

‘O, don’t let her,’ was all Violet could utter.

‘Tell me! what is he?--what do you know of him? They spoke of him as

once having been extravagant--’

Violet drew a long breath, and tried to speak with composure. ‘He is a

dreadful man, gambling, betting, dissipated--such a person that Arthur

never lets him come near me or the children. How could he dare think of

her?’

‘Can it be the same?’ said Lady Elizabeth, infinitely shocked, but

catching at the hope. ‘This man is Lady Fotheringham’s nephew.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Violet sadly. ‘There is no other cousin named Mark.

Why, don’t you remember all the talk about Mrs. Finch?’

So little had Lady Elizabeth heeded scandal, that she had hardly known

these stories, and had not identified them with the name of Gardner.

Still she strove to think the best. ‘Arthur will be able to tell me,’

she said; ‘but every one seems fully satisfied of his reformation--the

curate of the parish and all. I do not mean that I could bear to think

of her being attached to a person who had been to blame. Her own account

of him alarmed me enough, poor dear child, but when I hear of the

clergyman, and Theresa Marstone, and all admiring his deep feeling of

repentance--’

‘How can he be so wicked!’ exclaimed Violet.

‘You are convinced that he is not sincere?’

‘Why, of course, one does not like to say anything uncharitable; but

there is something shocking in the notion of his talking of being good.

If he did repent he would know how horrible it would be for him to marry

Emma--’

‘He does affect great humility. He declares that no one can be more

conscious of his unfitness than himself; but he was betrayed into this

confession of his sentiments--Emma’s purity and devotedness, as Theresa

writes to me, having been such powerful instruments in leading him to

a better course. If it was not for poor Emma’s fortune, one might trust

this more! Oh! Violet, I never so much was inclined to wish that her

brother had been spared!’

‘But surely--surely Emma cannot like him?’

‘I grieve to say that she and her friend have been in one of their fits

of enthusiasm. He seemed to accord with their idea of a penitent--only

longing for stricter rules than are to be found with us. From what I

have heard, I should have been much less surprised if he had become a

monk of La Trappe; in fact, I was almost afraid of it.’

‘And does not this undeceive them?’

‘No; poor Emma’s only doubt is because she cannot bear to be unstable,

and to desert the work to which she was almost pledged; but she says she

is ashamed to perceive how much the sacrifice would cost her. She adds,

that decide as she may, he concurs with her in devoting everything to

the restoration of the Priory.’

‘Poor Emma! He has debts enough to swallow two-thirds! And Miss

Marstone, what does she say?’

‘His becoming a suitor seems to have been a surprise and disappointment

to her; but if she thinks him a pupil of her own, or expects to govern

the Priory in poor Emma’s stead, she will be in his favour. No; I have

no hope from Theresa Marstone’s discretion.’

‘The rest of the family?’

‘Theresa despises the others too much to attend to them. Mr. Randall

seems to be startled at the present aspect of affairs, and asks me to

come; and I should have set off this morning, but that I thought I might

learn something from you and Arthur.’

‘Every one would tell you the same. He was expelled from the University,

and has gone on shockingly ever since, breaking his mother’s heart! Poor

Emma! after dreading every gentleman!’

‘I fear she has much to suffer. He made her think him not a marrying

man, and put her off her guard. Did you say he was agreeable?’

‘Perhaps I might think so if I knew nothing about him; but I have always

had a repugnance to him, and it is all I can do not to dislike him more

than is right. If I saw him speak to Johnnie, I think I should!’

‘And now tell me, for I ought to have every proof, if you know anything

that would convince Emma that this present repentance is assumed?’

Violet coloured excessively. ‘Arthur could tell’ she said, half choked,

and as Lady Elizabeth still waited, she was obliged to add, He was

active in the same way at the last races. I know there are things going

on still that a man who really meant to reform would have broken off.

Arthur could give you proofs.’

Violet could not bear to be more explicit. Her own secret feeling was

that Mr. Gardner was her husband’s evil genius, leading him astray, and

robbing her of his affection, and she was not far mistaken. Sneers, as

if he was under her government, were often employed to persuade him to

neglect her, and continue his ruinous courses; and if she shrunk from

Gardner, he in return held her in malicious aversion, both as a counter

influence and as a witness against him. It was the constant enmity of

light to darkness, of evil to innocence.

The whole drive was spent in conversing on this engrossing theme; Lady

Elizabeth lamenting the intimacy with Sarah Theresa, a clever, and

certainly in many respects an excellent person, but with a strong taste

for singularity and for dominion, who had cultivated Emma’s naturally

ardent and clinging nature into an exclusive worship of her; and, by

fostering all that was imaginative in her friends composition, had

led her to so exalted an estimate of their own ideal that they alike

disdained all that did not coincide with it, and spurned all mere common

sense. Emma’s bashfulness had been petted and promoted as unworldly,

till now, like the holes in the philosopher’s cloak, it was

self-satisfaction instead of humility. This made the snare peculiarly

dangerous, and her mother was so doubtful how far she would be guided,

as to take no comfort from Violet’s assurances that Mr. Gardner’s

character could be proved to be such that no woman in her senses could

think, a second time, of accepting him.

‘I cannot tell,’ said poor Lady Elizabeth; ‘they will think all wiped

out by his reform. Emma speaks already of aiding him to redeem the past.

Ah! my dear,’ in answer to a look, ‘you have not seen my poor child

of late: you do not know how much more opinionative she has become, or

rather, Theresa has made her. I wish she could have been more with you.’

‘I never was enough of a companion to her, said Violet. ‘In my best days

I was not up to her, and now, between cares and children, I grow more

dull every day.’

‘Your best days! my dear child. Why, how old are you?’

‘Almost twenty-two,’ said Violet; ‘but I have been married nearly six

years. I am come into the heat and glare of middle life. Not that I

mean to complain,’ said she, rousing her voice to cheerfulness; ‘but

household matters do not make people companions for those who have their

youthfulness, and their readings, and schemes.’

‘I wish Emma could have been drawn to take interest in your sound

practical life.’

‘If she would make a friend of Theodora!’

‘Yes, but the old childish fear of her is not gone; and Emma used to

think her rather wild and flighty, and so indeed did I; but how she is

changed! I have been much pleased with conversations with her of late.

Do you think it is owing to Mr. Hugh Martindale’s influence?’

‘In great part it is. What a blessing it is to them all to have him

here.’

‘Ah! it has been one of the things that made me most dread Theresa, that

she will not like that good man.’

‘What can she say against him?’

‘I don’t exactly understand them. They called him a thorough Anglican,

and said he did not feel the universal pulse! Now, I know it has been

unfortunate for Emma that our own vicar does not enter into these ways

of thinking; but I thought, when Mr. Hugh Martindale came into the

neighbourhood, that there would be some one to appeal to; but I believe

Theresa will trust to no one but of her own choosing.’

They had come back to the parsonage-gate, and Lady Elizabeth set Violet

down, promising to write as soon as she arrived at Gothlands; Arthur was

sauntering in the garden, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight,

came to meet her.

‘O, Arthur, Lady Elizabeth wanted to speak to you. Cannot you catch

her?’

‘I? No. Nonsense.’

‘She wanted to ask you about Mr. Gardner. Was it he whom you met at

Gothlands?’

‘Well, what of that?’

‘Poor Lady Elizabeth! Is it not shocking that he has been making an

offer to Emma?’

‘He has, has he? Well, and what is she going to do?’

‘There can be but one answer,’ said Violet. ‘Lady Elizabeth came to hear

about him.’

‘A fine chance for gossip for you.’

‘I was forced to tell her,’ said she, trying to hide the pain given

her by his contemptuous tone. ‘I would not have spoken if I could have

helped it.’

‘Ay!’ said Arthur, ‘as he says, set on a lady to talk of her husband’s

friends.’

‘But, oh! Arthur, what could I do? Think of poor Emma.’

‘Emma is a fool.’

‘Only you must not be angry with me. I would have said nothing without

cause, but when it comes to this,--and he is pretending to be reformed.’

‘Well, so he might be if you would let him.’

‘But, Arthur!’ then eagerly seizing a new hope, ‘you don’t mean that he

is really improving? Oh! has he given up those horses, and released you?

He turned petulantly away. ‘How can he? You have taken away any chance

of it now. You have done for him, and it is of no use to go on any more

about it.’

He marched off to his own abode, while she was obliged to sit down under

the verandah to compose herself before Theodora should see her.

Theodora perceived that much was amiss; but was spared much anxiety by

not being with the family, and able to watch her brother. The cottage

was completely furnished from the wreck of Martindale; but the removal

thither was deferred by her slow recovery. Though not seriously ill, she

had been longer laid up than had been anticipated in a person so healthy

and strong; the burns would not heal satisfactorily, and she was weak

and languid. It seemed as if the unsparing fatigues she had been in the

habit of undergoing; her immoderate country walks--her over late and

over early hours, had told on her frame, and rendered the effects of her

illness difficult to shake off. Or, thought Violet, those tidings might

be the secret cause, although she never referred to them, and continued

not merely patient, but full of vigour of mind, cheerful, and as

independent and enterprising as submission to orders permitted. Her

obedience to irksome rules was so ready and implicit, that Violet

marvelled, till she perceived that it was part of her system of combat

with self-will; and she took the departure of her sister in the same

manner, forbearing to harass Violet with lamentations; and when her

mother deplored it, made answer, ‘It is my fault. If I had not persuaded

Arthur out of living at Brogden, we should be staying with them.’

As to the chance of permanent disfigurement, she treated it very coolly,

listening with indifference to her mother’s frequent inquiries of the

surgeon. ‘Never mind, mamma, you and Violet will keep up the beauty of

the family till Helen comes out.’

The first time she was able to come down-stairs was the last evening

before they were to depart. One of Arthur’s sparks of kindly feeling

awoke when he beheld his once handsome, high-spirited sister, altered

and wrapped up, entering the room with an invalid step and air; and

though she tried to look about in a bright ‘degage’ manner, soon sinking

into the cushioned chair by the window with a sigh of languor. The

change was greater than he had anticipated from his brief visits to

her in her bed-room; and, recollecting the cause of the injuries, he

perceived the ingratitude of depriving her of Violet; but his contrition

came too late, for he had already exchanged his leave of absence with

another officer.

All that was in his power was to wait upon her with that engaging

attention that rendered him so good a nurse. He was his pleasantest

self, and she was so lively as to put every one else into good spirits.

It was pretty to see the universal pleasure in her recovery--the weeding

woman, going home late, and looking up at the window to see if she was

there, as Miss Helen had promised, and curtseying, hardly able to speak

for joy and grief together, when Theodora beckoned her to the window,

and asked after her children. The dumb page, too, had watched an hour

for her crossing the hall and when Arthur would have taken the tea

from him, to hand to her, he gave such a beseeching glance as was quite

irresistible, and the more affecting as Theodora’s hands were not yet in

condition to converse with him, and she was forced to constitute Johnnie

her interpreter.

It was long since any of them had spent so happy an evening; and at

night Arthur insisted on helping her up-stairs, and said, ‘I declare it

is a shame not to leave you Violet. Suppose you keep her till you are

all right again?’

‘O, thank you, Arthur; but--’ for Violet looked doubtful.

‘Why, I thought you wanted to stay, Violet?’ said Arthur.

‘If you could.’

‘Too late for that; but you must settle it between you before to-morrow

morning. Good night.’

Lady Martindale warmly pressed Violet to stay, and she found it much

worse to have personally to make the choice than to be only a piece of

property at Arthur’s disposal. She was, however, firm, saying that he

would be uncomfortable without her; and she was grateful to Theodora for

perceiving her motives, and preventing further entreaties.

‘You are right,’ said Theodora, when her mother was gone. ‘It would not

be fit to leave him with an empty house, so I must yield you up; but I

cannot bear to think of you in London.’

‘I am used to it,’ said Violet, with her patient smile.

‘And it will not be four years before we meet again. I shall try hard to

come to you in the autumn.’

‘How comfortable that would be! But you must not be uneasy about me, nor

put any one out of the way. I can get on very well, as long as I have

Johnnie.’

It was not till both had laid down to rest, and the room was dark, that

Theodora said, ‘I understand it now. Her poor sister must have brought

her into some bad foreign society, from which he could only rescue her

by marrying her.’

So abrupt was this commencement that Violet had to recollect who was

meant, and so decided was the tone, that she asked, ‘What have you

heard?’

‘Nothing fresh; have you?’

‘No. Arthur had heard nothing from Mr. Mark Gardner; and I am afraid we

shall hear no more till John answers my letter.’

‘No matter; I have found out how it must have been. Lady Fotheringham,

of whom he made a sort of mother, always liked Jane. Depend upon it,

she was anxious about the way in which poor Georgina was reported to be

going on abroad, and told Percy, when she died, to try if he could do

anything to save Jane. You see he goes to Italy, and there finds, of

course, that there is no way of fulfilling his aunt’s wishes but by

sacrificing himself.’

‘You have arranged it all most fully!’

‘See if I am not right--or, rather, you will not see; but I know that

was the way. It is his nature to be fantastically generous, as

some people would call it; and as long as he is the same Percival

Fotheringham, the rest is as nothing. I was unjust at the first moment.

Jane has a better nature, which he can develop. There is a sense of

religion to work on--a power of adaptation to those she is with, and if

what she has seen in Italy has shocked her and made her turn to him, he

may be the making of her. She is clever enough; and when she finds that

nothing but truth and honesty will succeed with him, she will learn them

at last.’

‘How glad I am you take it in this way.’

‘This quiet time has been good for me,’ said Theodora. ‘It would have

been maddening to have had no pause before waking to ordinary life.’

‘Then the fire came at the right time for you.’

‘Have you not read of men rushing into battle, hoping each shot would

strike them?’

‘O, Theodora!’

‘It did not last long. Don’t be frightened. Woman fear, and the stifling

smell, and burning feel, and the sight of the red-hot gulf, were

enough to drive it off. I shall never forget the touch of the floor in

Charles’s room! I thought of nothing but the fire. The feeling only came

back with the fainting. I remember a confused notion that I was glad to

be dying with you holding my head and papa so kind. How savage I felt

when every one would rouse me, and tell me I was better! I was in hopes

the world was all over with me; but I see I have a great deal to do

first, and the comfort of lying torpid here has been very great. I have

had time to be stunned, and to get a grasp of it and of my own mind.’

‘Dear Theodora! It is indeed sometimes a blessing to be laid up. It

brings out so much kindness. It is the easiest of all the crosses.’

‘I should not wonder if my rampant health had helped to make me the more

wayward,’ said Theodora. ‘I would not but have been ill for the sake

of the kindness from my father and mother. I was sure of you, but there

is--It has given me spirit to look out upon life.’

‘I hope there is peace at least in the look.’

‘There is. It is not worse than before, except the vanishing of a

lingering foolish hope, and that is safest. Repentance must always be

there. My life is like myself; the wounds may heal, but the marks will

remain and the freshness and glow will never return here. I am glad I

am so much altered. I should not like to be again within the pale of

attractive people.’

‘It is strange to hear you say such things so calmly.’

‘I made up my mind long ago. In following poor Georgina--or rather,

my own self-will--I threw away the bloom of life. Percy warned me that

those who reject light crosses have heavy loads imposed. I made what now

seems hardly a cross of reed, into a scourge! Oh, Violet! would that I

had done no harm but to myself by those races!’

‘Hush!’ said Violet’s smothered voice.

‘But for that,’ said Theodora, recovering steadiness of tone, ‘I should

bear everything peacefully. I was unworthy of Percy, and am better off

than I deserve. Oh, Violet! I have wished to thank you for making me

go to Baden, and promising that if I would submit, guidance would come.

There it was, the instant I really sought it. What would have become of

me if I had not been haunted by your look and your words? How many

times they saved me from accepting Lord St. Erme! And if I had, how my

self-will, and pride, and jealousy would have grown! and how wretched I

should be making him now!’

‘It is much better as it is.’

‘Yes, whatever pain I did give him by my very shameful usage, it would

have been far worse to have gone on. I was thankful that I was stopped.

Now I think I see my own life. There are my home duties; and oh! how

could I have spoken as I once did of papa! How shocking it must have

seemed to you!’

‘I do not know what it was, but it was under great provocation, and you

did not understand him then.’

‘No, you and Hugh drove me to him, and in seeing him pleased with

anything I can do for him, there is solid happiness. I have learnt to

enter into his affection and deep feeling and anxieties, and I would not

have missed these four years of reciprocity with him for anything! And

I shall get on better with mamma now. I fancy she has a different nature

after all, from what my aunt forced on her. Well, then, you know I

have long set up for a maiden aunt, and there is John, who might want

a housekeeper. Or if I am of no use to my own folks, there are the poor

always. Perhaps I may come to Emma Brandon’s priory. It would be fine

discipline to be under Mother Theresa.

This unexpected pleasantry Violet could only answer by a groan.

‘Seriously,’ continued Theodora, ‘my doubt would be whether it would be

right to turn to such a course only when one has nothing else to do. It

is a different thing from giving the energies and wishes and visions of

youth, as Emma has done. I could only offer the worn-out. But that

is speculation. There is present duty at home and in the village, and

brightness in your children, and my hopes are on John. I have used him

vilely, because he tried to teach me to take to you, and I do long

to see him and ask his pardon, and you will help me, so that he shall

believe in my sorrow, and we will be a sober old brother and sister

together.’

‘I believe he wishes for nothing more. He will feel your having worked

for him, instead of saving anything of your own.’

‘I had little to care for: my childhood had few recollections, and I had

nothing of Helen’s. It was a pleasure to work for him. Do you know, when

I saw that marble chess-table which had belonged to the parsonage, and

which Percy had left in John’s charge, a horrid feeling came that I

would not save it for Jane, and I left it. Then I remembered that was a

nasty spiteful bit of revenge, and I hated myself, and dashed in when I

really did know that it was not safe. I was altogether mad, I believe. I

felt desperate, and rather enjoyed facing danger for it. And then I

felt the heat of the fire from the gallery again, and the spout from the

fire-engine came, and the smoke was so thick that I missed my footing

with that great heavy thing, and fell down-stairs to the first landing,

and I believe that must have been what hurt my hand and side so much.’

Then as she heard Violet’s tightened breath at the thought of the

frightful peril,

‘Well for me I did not perish with these wild thoughts! I am glad I have

told you at last. I have felt as if I ought to confess it, and yet I was

ashamed. Is the thing safe?’

‘Yes, I saw it at Brogden; but oh, to think of it!’

‘I am glad it is safe; it was John’s charge, and he ought to restore it:

but you will dream of it, like poor little Johnnie, if you take it so

much to heart. I should not have told you at night. Put it out of your

head, and let us sleep in peace.’

‘Good night, dear sister. Thank you for talking to me. O, this is better

than the night we parted before.’

‘As much better as it is to have found one’s anchor than to be tossed at

the will of the waves. That was a frightful time. Thank heaven that you

made me feel for the cable! There is a dreary voyage to come, but after

all, every day we end the Creed with “The life everlasting.”’

CHAPTER 6

What have I? Shall I dare to tell?

A comfortless and hidden well,

A well of love, it may be deep,

I trust it is, and never dry.

What matter if the waters sleep

In silence and obscurity?

--WORDSWORTH

Violet experienced the trials to which she knew she was returning.

For some time past her husband’s habits had been growing less and less

domestic, and his disappointment alienated him still more. It was as

if Mrs. Nesbit had left behind her a drop of poison, that perverted and

envenomed the pride he used to take in his son, as heir to the family

honours, and made him regard the poor child almost in the light of a

rival, while he seemed to consider the others as burdens, and their

number a hardship and misfortune.

He was so impatient of interruption from them, that Violet kept them

carefully out of his way, while he was in the house, and this was seldom

for a long space of time. All the fancied trials of the first year of

her marriage seemed to have actually come upon her! She hardly saw him

from morning to night, and when he did spend an evening at home, he was

sullen and discontented, and found fault with everything. She was far

from well, but his days of solicitude were gone by, and he was too much

wrapped up in his own concerns to perceive her failure in strength,

and the effort it cost her to be cheerful. The children were her great

solace, but the toil of attending to them was almost beyond her powers,

and if it had not been for her boy, she felt as if she must have been

quite overwhelmed. Quiet, gentle, and thoughtful, he was a positive

assistance in the care of his sisters; and to read with him, hear his

remarks, watch his sweet obedience, and know herself the object of his

earnest affection, was her chief enjoyment, though even here there was

anxiety. His innocence and lovingness had something unearthly, and there

was a precocious understanding, a grave serious turn of mind, and a

want of childish mirth, which added to the fears caused by his fragile

health. Play was not nearly so pleasant to him as to sit by her, reading

or talking, or to act as her little messenger; and it was plain that he

missed fondness from his father almost as much as she did for him. To be

in the room with papa was his most earnest desire, and it saddened her

to see that little slight figure silent in the corner, the open book on

his lap, but his pale face, soft dark eyes, and parted lips, intent on

every movement of his father, till the instant a want was expressed, or

the least occasion for a service offered, there was a bound to execute

it, and the inattentive indifferent ‘thank you’ was enough to summon

up the rosy hue of delight. Would Arthur only have looked, how could he

have helped being touched? But he continued neglectful and unheeding,

while the child’s affection seemed to thrive the more under disregard.

Violet’s only satisfaction was in the absence of Mr. Gardner. She heard

constantly from Lady Elizabeth Brandon; but there was little that was

hopeful in that quarter. Emma’s heart was more entirely in the power

of her suitor than even their fears had anticipated. She had kept so

entirely aloof from gentlemen, and so suspiciously repelled the most

ordinary attention, that when once she had permitted any intimacy the

novelty gave it a double charm. He had come upon her at first as one

bowed down with sorrow for the follies of his youth, seeking only for

the means of repairing what was past, and professing that happiness was

over, and all he could hope was to evidence the depth of his repentance

by his devotion and self-sacrifice in the cause of the Church. Then,

when at unawares he allowed it to be discovered by Theresa that the

heart, supposed to be awake only to remorse, had been gained by the

earnestness and excellence of her young friend, and that in her was the

most powerful means of consoling and aiding him, when he seemed sunk in

the depths of despair at having allowed his sentiments to transpire, and

only too much humiliated by the idea of being named together with Miss

Brandon, it was impossible but that Emma’s gentle and enthusiastic

spirit should go more than half way to raise him from his despondency.

She could not believe his errors so great, after all; or even if they

were, who would not overlook them, and rejoice to have the power of

comforting such a penitent? Theresa Marstone, with a woman’s latent love

of romance, was prime confidante to both, encouraged all, and delighted

in the prospect of being supreme in the Priory, and moulding the pattern

household of the pair formed and united under her auspices.

In the midst of such a dream as this, what chance had Lady Elizabeth

of convincing the friends that their penitent, scarcely persuaded to

relinquish plans of a hermitage, was a spendthrift adventurer, seeking

to repair his extravagance with the estates of Rickworth?

Emma shed indignant tears, and protested that it was cruel to bring up

his past faults; talked of the Christian duty of forgiving the returning

sinner; and when Lady Elizabeth showed that he had very recently

been engaged in his usual courses, Theresa, with a sensible face and

reasonable voice, argued that ordinary minds could not enter into the

power of the Church’s work, and adduced many cases of equally sudden

change of life.

She did not mention whether there was always the heiress of ten thousand

a year ready as a reward.

The list of charges against Mark’s character deepened every day, and

added to poor Lady Elizabeth’s horror, but he always contrived to render

them as nothing to Emma. He had always confessed them beforehand, either

to her or to Theresa, with strong professions of sorrow, and so

softened and explained away, that they were ready to receive each

fresh accusation as an exaggeration of a fault long past, and deeply

regretted, and only admired their injured Mark the more. Lady Elizabeth

wrote to beg Violet to give her the clue which she had said Arthur

possessed to Mark’s actual present character.

In much distress Violet wrote the letter, mentioning some disgraceful

transactions which she knew to have been taking place at the very time

when the good curate believed his friend sincerely repentant. She had

heard them, not from Arthur, but from Mrs Bryanstone, who always learnt

from her brother every such piece of gossip, but still, after what had

passed, and Lady Elizabeth’s appeal direct to Arthur, she thought it

her duty to tell him before she sent the letter, and to ask if the facts

were correct.

It was a most unpleasant duty; but Arthur was not in such a mood as when

first she had mentioned the subject to him. He muttered something about

the intense folly of a woman who could believe a word out of Gardner’s

mouth; said if Emma desired to be made miserable for life she could not

take a better way; wished he had never set eyes on the fellow, and then,

grumbling at Violet’s begging him to read the letter, he cast his eye

over it, and said it was all true, and there was worse, too, if Lady

Elizabeth did but know it; but what this was he would not tell her. He

made no objection to her sending the letter, saying he supposed it

must be done, since she was asked; but it was all her doing, and Lady

Elizabeth might have gone to some one else; and inconsistently ended

with, ‘After all, what’s the use of making such an uproar about it? Such

things have happened twenty times before, and will again.’

‘Not with my poor Emma, I hope. Imagine her with such a man as that!’

‘Well! there are plenty of such couples. I wonder what would become of

the world if wives were not better than their husbands.’

Every rational person at Gothlands thought this letter conclusive; Emma

herself was shaken; but a walk in the shrubbery with Mark settled it

in her mind that his newly-formed wishes of amendment had then been

weak--he had not then seen her, he had not learnt so much as at present.

He had not been able to confess these deeds, because others, who had now

spoken, were concerned in them; but now it was a relief to be able to

tell all to his Emma! The end of it was, that Emma herself was almost

ready to press forward the marriage, so as to give him the means of

clearing himself from the debts, which, as he insinuated, were the true

cause of Colonel Martindale’s accusations. He forgave him, however,

though if all was known of his dealings with Arthur Martindale--! And

then there was a long confidential talk with Theresa Marstone, after

which she told Lady Elizabeth that, though Mr. Gardner spared Emma’s

feelings with regard to her friend, there could be no doubt that Colonel

Martindale had done much to lead him astray.

At last, as a dutiful concession, Emma resolved on a compromise, and put

him on his probation for a year. This was particularly inconvenient to

him, but he was very resigned and humble; ‘perhaps he had hoped more

from her affection, but he knew it was his penalty, and must submit.

If there was but some religious house to which he could retire for the

intermediate space; for he dreaded the effect of being sent back to the

world.’

Theresa was wrought upon to counsel haste; but Emma had principle at the

bottom of her effervescence of folly, and was too right-minded, as well

as too timid, to act in direct opposition to her mother, however she

might be led to talk. Therefore they parted, with many tears on Emma’s

part, and tender words and promises on Mark’s. Lady Elizabeth had little

hope that he would not keep them; but she took advantage of the reprieve

to conduct Emma to make visits amongst her relations--sober people,

among whom sense was more likely to flourish, and among whom Mr. Gardner

could never dare to show himself.

He went, as he told Emma, to seek for some continental convent, where

perhaps he might be received as a boarder, and glean hints for the

Priory. Ordinary minds believed that his creditors being suspicious

of the delay of his marriage with the heiress, had contributed to this

resolution.

He spent a few days in London on his way, came to call on Colonel

Martindale, and was much with him, as Violet afterwards found, though

she did not know of it at the time.

She perceived the renewal of his influence in a project of which Arthur

began to talk, of leaving the army and establishing himself at Boulogne.

Though by rigid economy and self-denial she had continued to make the

original sum apportioned to her cover all household expenses, and his

promotion had brought an increase of income, Arthur declared that, with

such a family, his means were inadequate to the requirements of his

profession, and that unless his father could assist them further,

they must reside abroad. Lord Martindale treated the threat with great

displeasure, and to Violet it was like annihilation. When thankful for

Mark Gardner’s absence, she was to be made to pursue him, probably in

order that he might continue to prey on Arthur in secret, and then, at

the year’s end, bring them as witnesses that he had abstained from open

transgression; she was to see her husband become the idling Englishman

abroad, in the society most likely to be his ruin; to have her children

exposed to the disadvantages of a foreign education--what more was

wanting to her distress? She ventured to expostulate on their account;

but Arthur laughed, and told her they would learn French for nothing;

and when she spoke of the evils of bringing up a boy in France, it was

with the look which pained her so acutely, that she was answered, ‘No

fear but that he will be looked after: he is of consequence in the

family.’

Never had the future looked so desolate; but sufficient unto the day was

the evil thereof. She had the root of peace and strength, and had long

been trained in patient trust and endurance. To pray, to strive, to

dwell on words of comfort, to bear in mind the blessings of the cross,

to turn resolutely from gloomy contemplations, and to receive thankfully

each present solace,--these were the tasks she set herself, and they

bore the fruit of consolation and hidden support. Her boy’s affection

and goodness, the beauty and high health of her little girls, and the

kindlier moments when Arthur’s better nature shone out, were balm and

refreshment, because she accepted them as gifts from the Fatherly Hand

that laid the trial upon her.

Her submissive distress so far worked on Arthur, that she heard no more

of the Boulogne scheme for the present, and she drove it out of her

mind, grateful for his silence, whether it was only from consideration

for her, or whether he had really relinquished the design, now that Mr.

Gardner was no longer near to maintain his ascendancy.

The summer was dreary at Brogden, as well as in Cadogan-place. Theodora

soon was able to call herself well, and to resume her usual avocations,

but she had not the same sense of energy and strength of body, and her

days were combats with inertness and fatigue. She did not slacken her

exertions, but they had no zest, and she suffered for them. Moreover,

she was uneasy about Arthur and his wife; and to partake her father’s

confidence was to share his many anxieties, and to be perplexed by his

cares as well as her own. With her mother there were other difficulties.

Lady Martindale had been kept so far apart from her daughter, that now

it seemed as if they could not amalgamate, and when Theodora no longer

was ill, the old habit of reserve returned. Assiduously did Theodora

wait on her, read to her, and go out with her in the carriage; but still

without becoming familiar, or being able to cheer her spirits. In truth,

after having been for years an obedient attendant on her aunt, Lady

Martindale felt the blank of the want of occupation, and thus the sense

of her loss was ever renewed. Science, literature, and accomplishments

had been her pursuits, chiefly because her aunt led her to them, and

they had been gradually dropped with Mrs. Nesbit’s interest in them. In

themselves they had no charm for her, and she turned from them now

as painfully recalling what she had lost. Dispirited, and without

employment, the natural consequence was that her health suffered, and

she became a prey to the varied torments of neuralgia, while Theodora

proved herself a better nurse than could have been expected for an

illness in which she only half believed.

Many hopes were fixed on John’s return; but this was deferred,--he

was in the midst of church building, and establishing schemes to which

absence would be fatal, and he could only promise to come home next

year, when things should be put in train. To his sister he wrote a

letter so full of warm affectionate gratitude for her exertions in his

behalf, that she was positively soothed and refreshed, and reckoned the

more on beginning with him the fraternal union so long delayed, but to

which she looked as the solace of her future life.

As to Percival Fotheringham, there was no further explanation of his

marriage. John wrote to Violet that he had not heard from him for many

months, for it was difficult to keep up a correspondence between Barbuda

and the continental towns whither he was journeying. His last letter

had spoken of a tour in Italy in contemplation, and that in which he had

communicated Lady Fotheringham’s death, mentioned some of her last

cares being for Jane and Georgina, and how she had tried to leave some

provision which might rescue the former from the necessity of following

her sister into the undesirable society she found abroad. This only

served to confirm Theodora’s conjecture.

From other sources no intelligence was gained. London was empty, and

Violet saw no one likely to know anything of his movements; and when she

heard that Mark Gardner had been in town, and eagerly inquired whether

he had been asked, she found that Arthur had forgotten the whole matter.

Lady Elizabeth finished the letter, rejoicing in his departure, by

saying--‘He confirms what I told you of the marriage of his cousin

and Mr. Fotheringham, and calls it a lucky thing for her. I had no

opportunity of hearing the particulars.’ And, finally, Mrs. Bryanstone

had heard of Miss Gardner’s marriage with one of the Fotheringhams of

Worthbourne, and only wanted Mrs. Martindale to strengthen her in the

belief that it was the dear, eccentric Crusader.

CHAPTER 7

‘Mid sombre shades of evening dim

Upon the rock so lone, so drear,

Scorning weak frame and sinking limb,

My heart grows bright and bold of cheer;

Out of the depths of stormy night

My hope looks up with cloudless eyes,

And to the one true deathless light,

Its joyful pinions swiftly rise:

Thanks to the seraph shape that beamed

Benign upon my darkened breast,

So for her service worthy deemed,

My grateful heart abounds in rest.

--FOUQUE’S Minstrel Love

‘Wrangerton, August 20th.

‘You must not be frightened, dearest Violet--Albert is safe; thanks to

that most noble-hearted, admirable Lord St. Erme, and above all, thanks

to Him who directed this dreadful stroke away from us. I hope you will

receive this before you see the newspaper. Mamma has gone up with them,

to help them to break it to poor Lady Lucy. May she be supported!

‘The history, as far as I can toll you, is this:--The men at the

collieries have been as troublesome and insubordinate as ever, seeming

to think opposition to Lord St. Erme an assertion of their rights as

free-born Englishmen; and at last, finding it impossible to do anything

with them as long as they did not depend immediately upon himself,

he took the pits into his own hands when Mr. Shoreham went away, a

fortnight ago. It seems that Mr. Shoreham, knowing that he was going,

had let everything fall into a most neglected state, and the overlookers

brought reports to Albert that there were hardly any safety-lamps

used in the great pit, and that the galleries were so insufficiently

supported that there was great danger in continuing to work there.

However, the reports were contradictory, and after trying in vain to

settle what was to be done, Lord St. Erme rode this morning to the

collieries, to make a personal inspection, and insist on the men using

the Davy-lamp. After trying to dissuade him, Albert proposed to go down

with him; but he would not consent--he only smiled, and said there was

no need for it. It did not strike Albert till afterwards that he was

conscious of the risk, and would not allow another to share it! He was

waiting for him, not far from the shaft, when the earth seemed to give

way under his feet; there was a thundering sound, a great cry, and he

fell. When he recovered his footing, the mouth of the shaft was

gone, the scaffolding prostrate, the people around in horror and

consternation. The pit had fallen in, and there were at least twenty

men there, besides Lord St. Erme. Oh! how you will share that shuddering

thankfulness and sorrow, that we felt, when Albert galloped up to the

door and threw himself into the arm-chair, so unnerved by the shock that

he could not at first speak. Happily his wife was here, so she heard all

at once. He is gone with mamma and papa to tell the poor sister. Alas!

though we think most of her, there are many other sufferers.

‘Three, o’clock.--Albert is come back. He says Lady Lucy met them in the

hall, pale and trembling, as if she had already worked herself into an

agony of fright. She begged them to tell her at once, and stood quite

still, only now and then moaning to herself, “Oh, St. Erme! St. Erme!”

Mamma took her by the hand, and tried to speak soothingly; but she did

not seem to attend, and presently looked up, flushed and quivering,

though she had been so still before, and declared that the whole might

not have fallen; she had heard of people being dug out alive; they must

begin at once, and she would go to the spot. There is no hope, Albert

says; even if not crushed, they must have perished from the foul air,

but the poor girl has caught fast hold of the idea, and insists on going

to Coalworth at once to urge it on. They cannot prevent her, and mamma

cannot bear that she should be alone, and means to go with her. The

carriage was ordered when Albert came here! Poor thing, there was never

fonder love between a brother and sister; she hardly had a thought that

did not centre in him. It breaks my heart to think how often we have

seen them walking arm-in-arm together, and said they might be taken for

a pair of lovers.

‘Five o’clock.--Annette begs me to conclude her letter. My father has

returned home, and fetched her to Coalworth, to be with my mother, and

the poor young lady (already, I fear, Countess of St. Erme), who, he

tells us, continues buoyed up by the delusion that her brother may yet

be found alive, and is calling on all around to use the utmost exertions

for his recovery. I regret that I cannot go in Annette’s stead; but I

cannot leave home in mamma’s absence, as poor Louisa is much affected by

Albert’s peril, and in so nervous a state that she will not hear of my

quitting her for a moment. We have indeed received a lesson, that no

rank, however exalted, can protect from the strokes of Providence, or

the uncertainties of human life. But the postman calls. Adieu.

‘Your affectionate sister,

‘Matilda Moss.’

(The last moral sentiment, be it observed, readied Miss Martindale,

rendered illegible by scrawls of ink from Violet’s hand.)

‘Coalworth, August 21st.

‘Dearest Violet,--Matilda told you how I was sent for to come here. They

are working on,--relays relieving each other day and night; but no one

but poor Lady Lucy thinks there is any hope. Mr. Alder, the engineer,

says Lord St. Erme must have been in the farthest gallery, and they

cannot reach it in less than a week, so that if the other perils should

be escaped, there would be starvation. The real number lost is fourteen,

besides Lord St. Erme. It was a strange scene when I arrived at about

seven o’clock yesterday evening. The moor looking so quiet, and like

itself, with the heath and furze glowing in the setting sun, as if they

had no sympathy for us, till, when we came near the black heaps of coal,

we saw the crowd standing round,--then getting into the midst, there was

the great broken down piece of blackened soil and the black strong-armed

men working away with that life-and-death earnestness. By the ruins of

a shed that had been thrown down, there was a little group, Lady Lucy,

looking so fair and delicate, so unlike everything around, standing by

an old woman in a red cloak, whom she had placed in the chair that had

been brought for herself, the mother of one of the other sufferers.

Mamma and papa were with her; but nothing seems to comfort her so much

as going from one to the other of the women and children in the same

trouble with herself. She talks to them, and tries to get them to be

hopeful, and nurses the babies, and especially makes much of the old

woman. The younger ones look cheered when she tells them that history

which she dwells on so much, and seem as if they must believe her, but

the poor old dame has no hope, and tells her so. “‘Tis the will of God,

my lady, don’t ye take on so now. It will be all one when we come to

heaven, though I would have liked to have seen Willy again; but ‘tis the

cross the Lord sends, so don’t ye take on,” and then Lady Lucy sits down

on the ground, and looks up in her face, as if her plain words did

her more good than anything we can say, or even the clergyman, who is

constantly going from one to the other. Whenever the men come to work,

or go away, tired out, Lady Lucy thanks them from the bottom of her

heart; and a look at her serves to inspirit and force them on to

wonderful exertions. But alas! what it must end in! We are at the house

that was Mr. Shoreham’s, the nearest to the spot. It was hard work to

get poor Lady Lucy to come in last night. She stood there till long

after dark, when the stars were all out, and mamma could only get her

away by telling her, that her brother would be vexed, and that, if she

made herself ill, she would not be able to nurse him. She did not sleep

all night, and this morning she was out again with daylight, and we

were obliged to bring her out some breakfast, which she shared with the

fellow-sufferers round her, and would have taken nothing herself if

the old dame had not coaxed her, and petted her, calling her “My pretty

lady,” and going back to her lecture on its being a sin to fret at His

will. Mamma and I take turns to be with her. When I came in, she was

sitting by the old woman, reading to her the Psalms, and the good old

creature saying at the end of each, “Yes, yes, He knows what is good for

them. Glory be to Him.”

‘Aug. 22nd.--As before. They have tried if they can open a way from the

old shaft, but cannot do it with safety. Lady Lucy still the same, but

paler and more worn, I think, less hopeful; I hope, more resigned.

‘Aug. 23rd.--Poor Lucy was really tired out, and slept for two whole

hours in the heat of the noon, sitting on the ground by old Betty,

fairly overpowered. It was a touching sight; the old woman watching her

so sedulously, and all the rough people keeping such strict silence, and

driving off all that could disturb her. The pitmen look at her with

such compassionate reverence! The look and word she gives them are ten

thousand times more to them, I am sure, than the high pay they get for

every hour they work! Next Wednesday is the first day they can hope to

come to anything. This waiting is dreadful. Would that I could call it

suspense!

‘Aug. 24th, Sunday.--She has been to church this morning. I did not

think she could, but at the sound of the bell, she looked up, and the

old woman too, they seemed to understand each other without a word, and

went together. The service was almost more than one could bear, but she

was composed, except at the references in the sermon to our state of

intense anxiety, and the need of submission. At the special mention in

the Litany of those in danger, I heard from beneath her hands clasped

over her face, that low moan of “O, brother, brother!” Still I think

when the worst comes, she will bear it better and be supported.

‘Five o’clock.--THESE IS HOPE!--O Violet! We went to church again

this afternoon. The way leads past the old shaft. As we came by it in

returning, Lady Lucy stood still, and said she heard a sound. We could

hear nothing, but one of the wives said, “Yes, some one was working, and

calling down there.” I flew to the main shaft, and called Mr. Alder. He

was incredulous, but Lady Lucy insisted. A man went down, and the sound

was certain. No words can be made out. They are working to meet them.

Lucy burst into tears, and threw her arms round my neck as soon as she

heard this man’s report; but oh! thankful as we are, it is more cruel

than ever not to know who is saved, and this letter must go to-night

without waiting for more.

‘25th.--He is alive, they say, but whether he can rally is most

uncertain. All night they worked on, not till six o’clock this morning

was any possibility of communication opened. Then questions were asked,

“How many were there?” “Fifteen, all living, but one much crushed.” Oh!

the suspense, the heart-beating as those answers were sent up from the

depths of the tomb--a living tomb indeed; and how Lady Lucy pressed the

women’s hard hands, and shed her tears of joy with them. But there was

a damp to her gladness. Next message was that Lord St. Erme bad

fainted--they could not tell whether he lived--he could not hold out any

longer! Then it was that she gave way, and indeed it was too agonizing,

but the old woman seemed better able to calm her than we could. Terrible

moments indeed! and in the midst there was sent up a folded paper that

had been handed out at the small aperture on the point of a tool, when

the poor things had first been able to see the lights of their rescuers.

It was to Lady Lucy; her brother had written it on the leaf of a

pocket-book, before their single lamp went out, and had given it in

charge to one of the men when he found his strength failing. She was too

dizzy and trembling to make out the pencil, and gave it to me to read to

her. I hope I am not doing wrong, for I must tell you how beautiful and

resigned a farewell it was. He said, in case this note ever came to her,

she must not grieve at the manner of his death--it was a comfort to him

to be taken, while trying to repair the negligence of earlier years;

they were a brave determined set of men who were with him, and she must

provide for their widows and children. There was much fond thought for

her, and things to console her, and one sentence you must have--“If ever

you meet with the “hoch-beseeltes Madchen”, let her know that her knight

thanks and blesses her in his last hour for having roused him and sent

him forth to the battlefield. I would rather be here now than what I

was when she awoke me. Perhaps she will now be a friend and comforter to

you.”

‘I think those were the words. I could not help writing them. Poor Lucy

cried over the note, and we lowered down baskets of nourishment to be

handed in, but we heard only of Lord St. Erme’s continued swoon, and it

was a weary while before the opening could be widened enough to help

the sufferers out. They were exhausted, and could work no more on their

side. But for him, it seems they would have done nothing; he was the

only one who kept his presence of mind when the crash came. One lamp

was not extinguished, and he made them at once consider, while the light

lasted, whether they could help themselves. One of the hewers knew that

they were not far from this old shaft, and happily Lord St. Erme had

a little compass hung to his watch, which he used to carry in his

wanderings abroad; this decided the direction, and he set them to

work, and encouraged them to persevere most manfully. He did not work

himself--indeed, the close air oppressed him much more than it did the

pitmen, and he had little hope for his own life, however it might end,

but he sat the whole time, supporting the head of the man who was hurt,

and keeping up the resolution of the others, putting them in mind of

the only hope in their dire distress, and guiding them to prayer and

repentance, such as might fit them for life or death. “He was more than

ten preachers, and did more good than forty discourses,” said one man.

But he had much less bodily strength than they, though more energy and

fortitude, and he was scarcely sensible when the first hope of rescue

came. It seemed as if he had just kept up to sustain them till then,

and when they no longer depended on him for encouragement, he sank. The

moment came at last. He was drawn up perfectly insensible, together with

a great brawny-armed hewer, a vehement Chartist, and hitherto his great

enemy, but who now held him in his arms like a baby, so tenderly and

anxiously. As soon as he saw Lady Lucy, he called out, “Here he is,

Miss, I hope ye’ll be able to bring him to. If all lords were like he

now!” and then his wife had hold of him, quite beside herself with joy;

but he shook her off with a sort of kind rudeness, and, exhausted as he

was, would not hear of being helped to his home, till he had heard the

doctors (who were all in waiting) say that Lord St. Erme was alive.

Lady Lucy was hanging over him in a sort of agony of ecstasy, and yet of

grief; but still she looked up, and put her little white hand into the

collier’s big black one, and said, “Thank you,” and then he fairly burst

out crying, and so his wife led him away. I saw Lord St. Erme for one

moment, and never was anything more death-like, such ghastly white,

except where grimed with coal-dust. They are in his room now, trying

to restore animation. He has shown some degree of consciousness, and

pressed his sister’s hand, but all power of swallowing seems to be

gone, and the doctors are in great alarm. The others are doing well--the

people come in swarms to the door to ask for him.

‘26th.--Comfort at last. He has been getting better all night, and this

morning the doctors say all danger is over. Mamma says she can hardly

keep from tears as she watches the happy placid looks of the brother and

sister, as he lies there so pale and shadowy, and she hangs over him, as

if she could never gaze at him enough. Several of the men, who were with

him, came to inquire for him early this morning; none of them suffered

half so much as he did. I went down to speak to them, and I am glad I

did; it is beautiful to see how he has won all their hearts, and to hear

their appreciation of his conduct. They say he tended the man who

was hurt as if he had been his mother, and never uttered one word of

complaint. “He told us,” said one man, “God could hear us out of the

depth, as well as when we said our prayers in church; and whenever our

hearts were failing us, there was his voice speaking somewhat good to

cheer us up, or help us to mind that there was One who knew where we

were, and would have a care for us and our wives and children.” “Bless

him,” said another, “he has been the saving of our lives;” “Bless him;”

and they touched their hats and said Amen. I wish his sister could have

seen them!

‘Five o’clock.--Mrs. Delaval is come, and there is no room nor need

for us, so we are going home. It is best, for mamma was nursing him all

night, and is tired out. He has improved much in the course of the day,

and they hope that he may soon be moved home. The pitmen want to carry

him back on his mattress on their shoulders. He has made himself king of

their hearts! He has been able to inquire after them, and Lady Lucy,

who forgets no one, has been down-stairs to see the old Betty. “Ah! my

pretty lady,” she said, “you are not sorry now that you tried to take

the Lord’s Cross patiently, and now, you see, your sorrow is turned into

joy.” And then Lady Lucy would not have it called patience, and said she

had had no submission in her, and Betty answered her, “Ah! well, you

are young yet, and He fits the burden to the shoulder.” How an adventure

like this brings out the truth of every character, as one never would

have known it otherwise. Who would have dreamt of that pattern of

saintly resignation in the Coalworth heath, or that Lady Lucy Delaval

would have found a poor old woman her truest and best comforter? and

this without the least forwardness on the old woman’s part.

‘Just going! Lady Lucy so warm-hearted and grateful--and Lord St. Erme

himself wished mamma good-bye in such a kind cordial manner, thanking

her for all she had done for his sister. I am sorry to go, so as not to

be in the way of seeing anything more of them, but it is time, for mamma

is quite overcome. So I must close up this last letter from Coalworth, a

far happier one than I thought to end with.

‘Your most affectionate,

A. M.

‘P. S.--Is he not a hero, equal to his “hoch-beseeltes Madchen”? I am

ashamed of having written to you what was never meant for other eyes,

but it will be safe with you. If you had seen how he used to waylay us,

and ask for our tidings from you after the fire, you would see I cannot

doubt who the “madchen” is. Is there no hope for him? The other affair

was so long ago, and who could help longing to have such minstrel-love

rewarded?’

That postscript did not go on to Brogden, though Annette’s betrayal of

confidence had been suffered to meet the eye of the high-souled maiden.

The accounts of Lord St. Erme continued to improve, though his recovery

was but slow. To talk the adventure over was a never-failing interest

to Lady Martindale, who, though Theodora suppressed Annette’s quotation,

was much of the opinion expressed in the postscript, and made some quiet

lamentations that Theodora had rejected him.

‘No, we were not fit for each other,’ she answered.

‘You would not say so now,’ said Lady Martindale. ‘He has done things as

great as yourself, my dear.’

‘I am fit for no one now,’ said Theodora, bluntly.

‘Ah, my dear!--But I don’t know why I should wish you to marry; I could

never do without you.’

‘That’s the most sensible thing you have said yet, mamma.’

But Theodora wished herself less necessary at home, when, in a few weeks

more, she had to gather that matters were going on well from the large

round-hand note, with nursery spelling and folding, in which Johnnie

announced that he had a little brother.

An interval of peace to Violet ensued. Arthur did not nurse her as in

old times; but he was gentle and kind, and was the more with her as the

cough, which had never been entirely removed, was renewed by a chill in

the first cold of September. All went well till the babe was a week old,

when Arthur suddenly announced his intention of asking for a fortnight’s

leave, as he was obliged to go to Boulogne on business.

Here was a fresh thunderbolt. Violet guessed that Mr. Gardner was there,

and was convinced that, whatever might be Arthur’s present designs,

he would come back having taken a house at Boulogne. He answered her

imploring look by telling her not to worry herself; he hoped to get

‘quit of the concern,’ and, at any rate, could not help going. She

suggested that his cough would bear no liberties; he said, change of air

would take it off, and scouted her entreaty that he would consult Mr.

Harding. Another morning, a kind careless farewell, he was gone!

Poor Violet drew the coverlet over her head; her heart failed her, and

she craved that her throbbing sinking weakness and feverish anxiety

might bring her to her final rest. When she glanced over the future, her

husband deteriorating, and his love closed up from her; her children

led astray by evil influences of a foreign soil; Johnnie, perhaps, only

saved by separation--Johnnie, her precious comforter; herself far from

every friend, every support, without security of church ordinances--all

looked so utterly wretched that, as her pulses beat, and every sensation

of illness was aggravated, she almost rejoiced in the danger she felt

approaching.

Nothing but her infant’s voice could have recalled her to a calmer mind,

and brought back the sense that she was bound to earth by her children.

She repented as of impatience and selfishness, called back her

resolution, and sought for soothing. It came. She had taught herself the

dominion over her mind in which she had once been so deficient. Vexing

cares and restless imaginings were driven back by echoes of hymns and

psalms and faithful promises, as she lay calm and resigned, in her

weakness and solitude, and her babe slept tranquilly in her bosom, and

Johnnie brought his books and histories of his sisters; and she could

smile in thankfulness at their loveliness of to-day, only in prayer

concerning herself for the morrow. She was content patiently to abide

the Lord.

CHAPTER 8

But one, I wis, was not at home,

Another had paid his gold away,

Another called him thriftless loone,

And bade him sharply wend his way.

--Heir of Lynne

‘He is done for. That wife of his may feel the consequence of meddling

in other folk’s concerns. Not that I care for that now, there’s metal

more attractive; but she has crossed me, and shall suffer for it.’ These

short sentences met the ear of a broad-shouldered man in a rough coat,

as, in elbowing his way through the crowd on the quay at Boulogne, he

was detained for a moment behind two persons, whose very backs had all

the aspect of the dissipated Englishman abroad. Struggling past, he

gained a side view of the face of the speaker. It was one which he

knew; but the vindictive glare in the sarcastic eyes positively made him

start, as he heard the laugh of triumph and derision, in reply to some

remark from the other.

‘Ay! and got enough to get off to Paris, where the old Finch has dropped

off his perch at last. That was all I wanted of him, and it was time

to wring him dry and have done with him. He will go off in consumption

before the year is out--’

As he spoke, the stranger turned on him an honest English face, the lips

compressed into an expression of the utmost contempt, while indignation

flashed in the penetrating gray eyes, that looked on him steadily.

His bold defiant gaze fell, quailing and scowling, he seemed to become

small, shrink away, and disappeared.

‘When scamp number two looks round for scamp number one, he is lost

in the crowd,’ muttered the traveller, half smiling; then, with a deep

breath, ‘The hard-hearted rascal! If one could only wring his neck!

Heaven help the victim! though, no doubt, pity is wasted on him.’

He ceased his reflections, to enter the steamer just starting for

Folkestone, and was soon standing on deck, keeping guard over his

luggage. The sound of a frequent cough attracted his attention, and,

looking round, he saw a tall figure wrapped in great-coats leaning on

the leeward side of the funnel.

‘Hollo! you here, Arthur! Where have you been?’

‘What, Percy? How d’ye do?’ replied a hoarse, languid voice.

‘Is Mrs. Martindale here?’

‘No.’ He was cut short by such violent cough that he was obliged to rest

his forehead on his arm; then shivering, and complaining of the cold, he

said he should go below, and moved away, rejecting Percy’s offered arm

with some impatience.

The weather was beautiful, and Percy stood for some time watching the

receding shore, and scanning, with his wonted keen gaze, the various

countenances of the passengers. He took a book from his pocket, but did

not read long; he looked out on the sea, and muttered to himself,

‘What folly now? Why won’t that name let one rest? Besides, he looked

desperately ill; I must go and see if they have made him comfortable in

that dog-hole below.’

Percy shook himself as if he was out of humour; and, with his hands in

his pockets, and a sauntering step, entered the cabin. He found Arthur

there alone, his head resting on his arms, and his frame shaken by the

suppressed cough.

‘You seem to have a terrible cold. This is a bad time to be crossing.

How long have you been abroad?’

‘Ten days.--How came you here?’

‘I am going to Worthbourne. How are all your folks!’

‘All well;’ and coughing again, he filled up a tumbler with spirits and

water, and drank it off, while Percy exclaimed:

‘Are you running crazy, to be feeding such a cough in this way?’

‘The only thing to warm one,’ said he, shuddering from head to foot.

‘Yes, warm you properly into a nice little fever and inflammation. Why,

what a hand you have! And your pulse! Here, lie down at once,’ as he

formed a couch with the help of a wrapper and bag. Arthur passively

accepted his care; but as the chill again crept through his veins, he

stretched out his hand for the cordial.

‘I won’t have it done!’ thundered Percy. ‘I will not look on and see you

killing yourself!’

‘I wish I could,’ murmured Arthur, letting his hand drop, as if unequal

to contest the point.

The conviction suddenly flashed on Percy that he was the victim! ‘You

have got yourself into a scrape’ he said.

‘Scrape! I tell you I am ruined! undone!’ exclaimed Arthur, rearing

himself up, as he burst out into passionate imprecations on Mark

Gardner, cut short by coughing.

‘You! with your wife and little children entirely depending on you! You

have allowed that scoundrel, whose baseness you knew, to dupe you to

your own destruction!’ said Percy, with slowness and severity.

Too ill and wretched to resent the reproach, Arthur sank his head with a

heavy groan, that almost disarmed Percy; then looking up, with sparkling

eyes, he exclaimed, ‘No! I did not know his baseness; I thought him a

careless scape-grace, but not much worse than he has made me. I would

as soon have believed myself capable of the treachery, the unfeeling

revenge--’ Again he was unable to say more, and struggling for

utterance, he stamped his foot against the floor, and groaned aloud with

rage and pain.

Percy persuaded him to lie down again, and could not refrain from

forcible expressions of indignation, as he recollected the sneering

exultation of Gardner’s tone of triumph over one so open-hearted and

confiding.

It was a moment when sympathy unlocked the heart, and shame was lost

in the sense of injury. Nothing more was needed to call from Arthur the

history of his wrongs, as well as he was able to tell it, eking out with

his papers the incoherent sentences which he was unable to finish, so

that Percy succeeded in collecting, from his broken narration, an idea

of the state of affairs.

The horses, kept jointly at his expense and that of Gardner, had been

the occasion of serious debts; and on Gardner’s leaving England, there

had been a pressure on Colonel Martindale that rendered him anxious to

free himself, even at the cost of his commission. Gardner, on the other

hand, had, it appeared, been desirous to have him at Boulogne, perhaps,

at first, merely as a means of subsistence during the year of probation,

and on the failure of the first attempt at bringing him thither, had

written to invite him, holding out as an inducement, that he was himself

desirous of being disembarrassed, in order that Miss Brandon might

find him clear of this entanglement, and representing that he had still

property enough to clear off his portion of the liability.

With this view Arthur had gone out to Boulogne to meet him, but had

found him dilatory in entering on business, and was drawn into taking

part in the amusements of the place; living in a state of fevered

excitement, which aggravated his indisposition and confused his

perceptions, so that he fell more completely than ever into the power

of his false friend, and was argued into relinquishing his project of

selling the horses, and into taking up larger sums for keeping them on.

In fact, the sensation that a severe cold was impending, and disgust at

the notion of being laid up in such company rendered him doubly facile;

and, in restless impatience to get away and avoid discussion, he acceded

to everything, and signed whatever Gardner pleased. Not till he was

on the point of embarking, after having gambled away most of his ready

money, did he discover that the property of which he had heard so much

was only a shadow, which had served to delude many another creditor; and

that they had made themselves responsible for a monstrous amount, for

which he was left alone to answer, while the first demand would be the

signal for a multitude of other claims. As they parted, Gardner

had finally thrown off the mask, and let him know that this was the

recompense of his wife’s stories to the Brandons. She might say what she

pleased now, it mattered not; Mark was on his way to the rich widow of

Mr. Finch, and had wanted nothing of Arthur but to obtain the means of

going to her, and to be revenged on him.

So Arthur half-expressed, and his friend understood. Save for this

bodily condition, Percy could hardly have borne with him. His reckless

self-indulgence and blind folly deserved to be left to reap their

own fruit; yet, when he beheld their victim, miserable, prostrated by

illness and despair, and cast aside with scornful cruelty, he could

not, without being as cold-hearted as Gardner himself, refrain from kind

words and suggestions of consolation. ‘Might not his father assist him?’

‘He cannot if he would. Everything is entailed, and you know how my aunt

served us. There is no ready money to be had, not even the five thousand

pounds that is the whole dependence for the poor things at home in case

of my death, which may come soon enough for aught I care. I wish it was!

I wish we were all going to the bottom together, and I was to see none

of their faces again. It would be better for Violet than this.’

Percy could say little; but, though blunt of speech, he was tender of

heart. He did all in his power for Arthur’s comfort, and when he helped

him on shore at Folkestone, recommended him to go to bed at once, and

offered to fetch Mrs. Martindale.

‘She cannot come,’ sighed Arthur; ‘she has only been confined three

weeks.’

More shame for you, had Percy almost said; but he no longer opposed

Arthur’s homeward instinct, and, finding a train ready to start, left

their luggage to its fate, and resolved not to lose sight of him till

he was safely deposited at his own house. Such care was in truth needed;

the journey was a dreadful one, the suffering increased every hour,

and when at length, in the dusk of the evening, they arrived in

Cadogan-place, he could hardly mount the stairs, even with Percy’s

assistance.

It was the first time that Violet had left her chamber, and, as the

drawing-room door opened, she was seen sitting, pale and delicate, in

her low chair by the fire, her babe on her lap, and the other three at

her feet, Johnnie presiding over his sisters, as they looked at a book

of prints.

She started up in alarm as Arthur entered, leaning on Mr. Fotheringham,

and at once seized by a paroxysm of severe cough. Percy tried to assume

a reassuring tone. ‘Here, you see, I have brought him home with one of

his bad colds. He will speak for himself presently.’

In a second she had placed the infant on the sofa, signed to Johnnie

to watch him, and drawn the arm-chair to the fire. Arthur sank into

it, throwing his arm round her for support, and resting his weary head

against her, as if he had found his refuge. Percy relieved her from

the two little girls, unclasping their frightened grasp on her dress

so gently and firmly, that, stranger though he was, Anna did not cry

on being taken in his arms, nor Helen resist his leading her out of the

room, and desiring her to take her sister up-stairs and to call their

nurse.

Returning, he found that necessity had brought strength and presence

of mind to their mother. She did not even tremble, though Arthur’s only

words were, ‘We are undone. If I die, forgive me.’ Indeed, she hardly

took in the sense of what he said; she only caressed, and tried to

relieve him, assisted by Percy, who did not leave them till he had seen

Arthur safely in charge of Mr. Harding.

He then walked away to his old lodgings in Piccadilly, where he was

recognized with ecstasy by the quondam ragged-school boy, and was gladly

welcomed by his landlady, who could not rejoice enough at the sight of

his good-humoured face.

He divided his time between friendly gossip on her family affairs as she

bustled in and out, in civility to the cat, and in railing at

himself for thinking twice of such a selfish, ne’er-do-well as Arthur

Martindale. The image of that pale young mother and her little ones

pursued him, and with it the thought of the complicated distresses

awaiting her; the knowledge of the debts that would almost beggar her,

coming in the midst of her husband’s dangerous illness.

Percy muttered to himself lines of ‘Who comes here--a Grenadier,’ made a

face, stretched himself, and called on himself to look on reasonableness

and justice. Arthur deserved no favour, because he had encumbered

himself with a helpless family, and then cruelly disregarded them.

‘What does a man deserve who leaves his wife with a child of a week

old, to run after a swindler in foreign parts--eh, puss?’ said he aloud,

viciously tweaking the old cat’s whiskers; then, as she shook her ears

and drew back, too dignified to be offended, ‘Ay, ay, while wheat and

tares grow together, the innocent must suffer for the guilty. The better

for both. One is refined, the other softened. I am the innocent sufferer

now,’ added he; ‘condole with me, pussy! That essay would have been

worth eighty pounds if it was worth a sixpence; and there’s a loss for a

striving young man! I cannot go on to Worthbourne without recovering it;

and who knows how Jane will interpret my delay? While I live I’ll never

carry another manuscript anywhere but in my pocket, and then we should

all go to the bottom together, according to poor Arthur’s friendly wish.

Ha! that’s not it sticking out of my great-coat pocket? No such good

luck-only those absurd papers of poor Arthur’s. I remember I loaded my

coat on him when we were going to land. What a business it is! Let us

overhaul them a bit.’

He became absorbed in the contemplation, only now and then giving vent

to some vituperative epithet, till he suddenly dashed his hand on the

table with a force that startled the cat from her doze.

‘Never mind, puss; you know of old

‘I care for nobody, and nobody cares for me.’

So now, good night, and there’s an end of the matter.’

The first thing he did, next morning, was to walk to Cadogan-place, to

return the papers. He had long to wait before the door was opened;

and when James at length came, it was almost crying that he said that

Colonel Martindale was very ill; he had ruptured a blood-vessel that

morning, and was in the most imminent danger.

Mr. Fotheringham could see no one--could not be of any service.

He walked across the street, looked up at the windows, mused, then

exclaimed, ‘That being the case, I had better go at once to Folkestone,

and rescue my bag from the jaws of the Custom-house.’

CHAPTER 9

She left the gleam-lit fire-place,

She came to the bedside,

Her look was like a sad embrace,

The gaze of one who can divine

A grief, and sympathize.

Sweet flower, thy children’s eyes

Are not more innocent than thine.

--M. ARNOLD--Tristram and Yseulte.

At last there was a respite. The choking, stifling flow of blood, that,

with brief intervals, had for the last two hours threatened momentary

death, had been at length checked; the eyes were closed that had roamed

in helpless affright and agony from Violet to the doctors; and the

sufferer was lying, in what his wife would fain have deemed a slumber,

but the gasping respiration and looks of distress made it but too

evident that it was the stillness of exhaustion, enhanced by dread of

renewing the bleeding by word or motion.

There could be no concealment of the exceeding danger. His lungs had

never been strong; and the slight cough, which, contrary to his usual

habits, he had neglected all the summer, had been the token of mischief,

which his recent expedition had aggravated to a fearful extent. Even

the violent bleeding had not relieved the inflammation on the chest, and

Violet had collected from the physician’s looks and words that it could

be hardly expected that he should survive the day.

Yet, through that dreadful morning, she had not failed in resolution or

composure: never once had her husband seen in her look, or heard in

her tone, aught but what might cheer and sustain him--never had

her fortitude or steadiness given way. She had not time to think of

consolation and support; but her habit of prayer and trust came to

her aid, and brought strength and support around her “in these great

waterfloods” of trouble. She was not forsaken in her hour of need.

Hitherto there had been no space for reflection; now his quiescent

state, though for the present so great a relief, brought the opportunity

of realizing his situation; but therewith arose thankfulness for the

space thus granted, and the power of praying that it might be blessed to

him whether for life or death.

In watchfulness and supplication, she sat beside him, with her babe,

much afraid that it should disturb him, and be unwelcome. However, when

some little sound made him aware of its presence, he opened his eyes,

moved his hand, as if to put back the covering that hid its face from

him, and presently signed to have it placed on the bed by his side. It

was a fine large dark boy, already so like him as to make the contrast

the more striking and painful, between the unconscious serenity of the

babe and the restless misery of the face of the father, laid low in the

strength of manhood, and with a look of wretched uneasiness, as if the

load on the mind was a worse torment than the weight on the labouring

breath. He, who usually hardly deigned a glance at his infants, now lay

gazing with inexpressible softness and sadness at the little sleeping

face; and Violet, while gratified by that look of affection, could not

help having it the more borne in on her mind, that death must be very

near. Were the well-springs of love, so long closed up, only opening

when he was about to leave his children for ever? If she could only have

heard him speak!

Presently, as if there was some sting of reproach in the impassive

features, he turned his head away abruptly, with a deep groan, and hid

his face. She took away the child, and there was another silence, which

she ventured to break now and then, by a few sentences of faith and

prayer, but without being able to perceive whether he attended. Suddenly

he started, as if thrilled in every vein, and glanced around with

terrified anxiety, of which she could not at first perceive the cause,

till she found it was the postman’s knock. He held out his hand for the

letters, and cast a hurried look at their directions. None were for

him, but there was one in his sister’s hand-writing. Violet did not feel

herself able to read it, and was laying it aside, when she saw his looks

following it. Her present world was so entirely in that room that she

had forgotten all beyond; and it only now occurred to her to say, ‘Your

father? Do you wish for him? I will write.’

‘Telegraph.’ Even this whisper brought back the cough that was anguish

and terror.

It was already so late in the day, that though thus summoned, there was

no chance of Lord Martindale’s arriving till the following evening; and

Violet’s heart sank at reckoning up the space that must elapse, more

especially when she saw the perturbed eye, the startings at each sound,

the determination to know the business of every one who came to speak to

her--evident indications that there was some anxiety on his mind which

she could not comprehend.

Thus passed the day--between visits from desponding doctors and vain

measures for reducing the inflammation. At night Mr. Harding would have

prevailed on her to go to rest, promising to keep watch in her stead;

but she only shook her head, and said she could not. She had not seen,

and had scarcely thought of, the elder children all day; but at about

eleven o’clock at night she was startled by a sound of lamentable

crying,--Johnnie’s voice in the nursery. The poor little boy’s nerves

had been so much shaken by the fire at Martindale, that he had become

subject to night alarms, which sometimes showed their effect for the

whole subsequent day; and his mother stole away on hearing his cry,

leaving Arthur in Mr. Harding’s charge, and hoping not to be missed.

Sarah was standing over Johnnie, half-coaxing, half-scolding while he

sat up in his little crib, shivering and sobbing, with chattering teeth,

and terrified exclamations about papa all over blood, lying dead under

the burning windows.

‘There now, you have brought your poor mamma up!’ said Sarah,

indignantly.

‘Mamma, mamma!’ and the cold trembling little creature clasped itself

upon her neck and bosom, still repeating the dreadful words. She carried

him to the fire, warmed him on her lap, caressed and soothed him, as his

understanding awoke, telling him that papa was safe in his own room,--he

was ill, very ill, and Johnnie must pray for him; but oh! he was alive,

safe in his own bed. But as Johnnie nestled to her, repeating, ‘Say it

again, mamma, I was so frightened! I can’t get it out of my head. Oh! is

papa safe?’ there would come the thought that, with morning, the child

might have to hear that he was fatherless.

This dread, and the desire to efface the impression of the terrible

dream, induced her, when he had obediently struggled for composure, to

tell him that, on condition of perfect stillness, he might come down

with her, and have a little glimpse of papa. Wrapping him up, she

took him in by the open dressing-room door, to which Arthur’s back

was turned, trusting to escape observation. But nothing eluded those

fever-lighted eyes, and they instantly fell upon the little trembling

figure, the quivering face and earnest gaze.

‘I hope we have not disturbed you,’ apologized Violet; ‘we hoped you

would not hear us. Poor Johnnie woke up crying so much at your being

ill, that I ventured to bring him to have one look at you, for fear he

should not go to sleep again.’

She need not have feared. Even while she spoke Arthur held out

his hands, with a countenance that caused Johnnie, with a stifled

exclamation of ‘Papa! papa!’ to spring on the bed, and there he lay,

folded closely to his father’s breast.

It was but for a moment. Violet had to lift the child hastily away,

to be carried off by Sarah, that he might not witness the terrible

suffering caused by the exertion and emotion; and yet, when this was

passed, she could not repent of what she had done, for one great grief

had thus been spared to herself and her boy.

She knew that to discover his son’s ardent affection must be a poignant

reproach for his neglect and jealousy, and she grieved at once for him

and with him; but she could not understand half the feelings of bitter

anguish that she perceived in his countenance and gestures. She did

not know of his expectation that each ring of the bell might bring the

creditors’ claims to heap disgrace upon him, nor how painful were the

thoughts of her and of the children, totally unprovided for, without

claim during his father’s lifetime, even on his own scanty portion as

a younger son. He could only cast them on the mercy of his father and

brother; and what right had he to expect anything from them, after his

abuse of their kindness and forbearance? He thought of his neglect of

his patient devoted wife, whom he was leaving, with her little ones, to

struggle with poverty and dependence; he thought of his children growing

up to know him only as the improvident selfish father, who had doomed

them to difficulties, and without one tender word or kind look to

grace his memory. No wonder he turned, unable to brook the sight of his

unconscious babe; and that, when with morning little steps and voices

sounded above, such a look of misery came over his face, that Violet

hastened to order the children down to the dining-room, out of hearing.

Ere long, however, from the other room, appropriated to the baby, a face

peeped in, and Johnnie sprang to her side with earnest whispers: ‘Mamma,

may I not say my prayers with you! I will not wake papa, but I can’t

bear it without!’ and the tears were in his eyes.

Violet’s glance convinced her that this would be anything but

disturbing, and she consented. Johnnie thought his father asleep, but

she saw him watching the boy, as he stood with clasped hands, and eyes

in fixed steadfast gaze, repeating the Creed, so gravely and distinctly,

that not one of the whispering accents was lost. Looking upwards, as if

pursuing some thought far away, Johnnie said, ‘Amen’; and then knelt,

breathing forth his innocent petitions, with their mention of father,

mother, sisters, and little brother; and therewith a large teardrop

gathered in the eyes fixed on him--but she would not seem to notice, and

bent her head over the boy, who, when his daily form was finished, knelt

on, and pressed her arm. ‘Mamma,’ he whispered, very low indeed, ‘may I

say something for papa?’ and on her assent, ‘O God! make dear, dear papa

better, if it be Thy heavenly will, and let it be Thy heavenly will.’

Arthur’s face was hidden; she only saw his fingers holding up the

covering with a quivering grasp. Johnnie rose up quite simply, and

letting him continue in the belief that his father slept, she allowed

him to go noiselessly away, after she had held him fast in her arms,

able to feel, even now, the comfort and blessing of her child.

Some little time had passed before Arthur looked up; then gazing round,

as if seeking something, he said, ‘Where is he?’

‘Johnnie? He is gone, he did not know you were awake. Shall I send for

him?’

‘For all.’

They came; but he was made to feel that he had disregarded them too

long. They had never been familiarized with him; seldom saw him, and

were kept under restraint in his presence; and there was no intimacy to

counteract the fright inspired by his present appearance. Ghastly pale,

with a hectic spot on each cheek, with eyes unnaturally bright and

dilated, and a quantity of black hair and whiskers, he was indeed a

formidable object to the little girls; and Violet was more grieved than

surprised when Annie screamed with affright, and had to be carried away

instantly; and Helen backed, with her hands behind her, resisting all

entreaties and remonstrance, and unheeding his outstretched hand. The

child was of so determined and wilful a nature, that Violet dreaded

an outbreak if she were too much pressed, and was forced to let her

go--though much grieved, both for the distress that it gave Arthur, and

for the thought of how his daughter might remember it by and by.

They supposed that Johnnie had gone with his sisters, but at the end of

half an hour became aware that he had ever since been standing, almost

hidden by the curtain, satisfied with merely being in the room. The fair

face, so delicately tinted, the dark shady eyes, lovingly and pensively

fixed on his father, and the expression, half mournful, half awe-struck,

were a touching sight in so young a child, and Arthur seemed so to feel

it. He signed to him to come near; and with a flush, between joy and

fear, the little boy was instantly at his side. One hot hand enfolded

the small soft cool one, the other pressed fondly on the light silken

waves of hair. After thus holding him for some moments, he tried to

speak, in whispering breathless gasps of a word at a time.

‘You’ll comfort her!’ and he looked towards his mother, ‘You’ll take

care of the others--will you?’

‘If I can. God takes care of us,’ said Johnnie, wistfully, as if

striving to understand, as he felt the pressure redoubled on hand and

head, as if to burn in what was uttered with such difficulty and danger.

‘Tell your grandfather I trust you all to him. He must forgive. Say so

to him. You’ll be a better son to him than I. When you know all, don’t

remember it against me.’

He could say no more, it had brought on a fit of coughing and

breathlessness, through which he scarcely struggled. Silence was more

than ever enforced; but throughout the day the oppression was on the

increase, especially towards the evening, when he became excited by

the expectation of his father’s arrival. He sat, pillowed high up, each

respiration an effort that spread a burning crimson over his face, while

eye and ear were nervously alert.

‘Arthur is very ill, and begs to see you,’ was the telegraphic message

that filled the cottage at Brogden with consternation. Lady Martindale

was too unwell to leave home, but Theodora was thankful to her father

for deciding that her presence was necessary for Violet’s sake; indeed,

as they travelled in doubt and suspense, and she was continually

reminded of that hurried journey when her unchastened temper had been

the torment of herself and of her brother, she felt it an undeserved

privilege to be allowed to go to him at all. Instead of schemes of being

important, there was a crashing sense of an impending blow; she hardly

had the power to think or speculate in what form, or how heavily it

might fall. She had only room for anxiety to get forward.

They arrived; she hurried up the stairs, only catching James’s words,

declaring his master no better.

She saw in the twilight a slight bending form, coming down, holding by

the balusters. Violet was in her arms, clasping her with a trembling,

almost convulsive tightness, without speaking.

‘O, Violet, what is it? Is he so very ill?’

Lord Martindale hastened up at the same moment, and Violet recovering,

in a few words, spoken very low, but clearly, told of his condition,

adding, ‘He has been watching for you all this time, he heard you come,

and wants you directly, but don’t let him speak.’

She hung on Theodora’s arm, and guided them up, as if hardly able to

stand. She opened the outer room door, and there (while the nurse had

taken her place) sat Johnnie on the rug, with the baby lying across his

lap, and his arms clasped tenderly round it. It was restless, and he

looked up to his mother, who bent down and took it in her arms, while

Lord Martindale passed on. Theodora stood appalled and overawed. This

was beyond even her fears.

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Violet, who had sunk into a chair.

‘O, Violet, when?--how!--’

But a look of horror came over Violet; she started up, almost threw the

infant into Theodora’s arms, and vanished into the other room. ‘Oh! what

is it! What is the matter?’ exclaimed Theodora.

‘The cough, the blood,’ said Johnnie, in a low voice; and turning away

with a suppressed sob he threw himself down, and hid his face on a

chair. She was in an agony to pass that closed door, but the baby was

fretting and kept her prisoner.

After some minutes had thus passed, her father appeared, and would have

gone on without seeing her, but she detained him by an imploring cry and

gasp, and entreated to hear what had happened.

‘The blood-vessel again--I must send for Harding.’

‘Shall I tell James to go?’ inquired a little quiet voice, as Johnnie

lifted up his flushed face.

‘Do so, my dear;’ and as the little boy left the room, his grandfather

added, with the calmness of hopelessness, ‘Poor child! it is of no use,

it must soon be over now;’ and he was returning, when Theodora again

held him fast--‘Papa! papa! I must see him, let me come!’

‘Not yet,’ said her father; ‘the sight of a fresh person might hasten

it. If there is any chance, we must do nothing hazardous. I will call

you when they give up hope.’

Theodora was forced to relinquish her hold, for the baby screamed

outright, and required all her efforts to hush its cries that they

might not add fresh distress to the sick room. It seemed to make her own

misery of suspense beyond measure unendurable, to be obliged to control

herself so as to quiet the little creature by gentle movements, and to

have its ever-renewed wailings filling her ears, when her whole soul

hung on the sounds she could catch from the inner room. No one came to

relieve her; only Johnnie returned, listened for a moment at the door,

and dropped into his former position, and presently Mr. Harding passed

rapidly through the room.

Long, long she waited ere the door once more opened. Her father came

forth. Was it the summons? But he stopped her move towards the room.

‘Not yet; the bleeding is checked.’

Then as Mr. Harding followed, they went out of the room in consultation,

and almost the next moment Violet herself glided in, touched Johnnie’s

head, and said, ‘Papa is better, darling;’ then took the baby from

Theodora, saying, ‘Thank you, you shall see him soon; she was again

gone, Johnnie creeping after, whither Theodora would have given worlds

to follow.

After another interval, he returned with a message that mamma begged

Aunt Theodora to be so kind as to go and make tea for grandpapa; she

thought dear papa was breathing a little more easily, but he must be

quite quiet now.

Obeying the sentence of banishment, she found her father sending off a

hasty express to give more positive information at home. ‘We must

leave them to themselves a little while,’ he said. ‘There must be no

excitement till he has had time to rally. I thought he had better not

see me at first.’

‘Is he worse than John has been?’

‘Far worse. I never saw John in this immediate danger.’

‘Did this attack begin directly after you came?’

‘It was the effort of speaking. He WOULD try to say something about

racing debts--Gardner, papers in his coat-pocket, and there broke down,

coughed, and the bleeding came on. There is something on his mind,

poor--’

Theodora made a sign to remind him of Johnnie’s presence; but the child

came forward. ‘Grandpapa, he told me to tell you something,’ and, with

eyes bent on the ground, the little fellow repeated the words like a

lesson by rote.

Lord Martindale was much overcome; he took his grandson on his knee, and

pressed him to his breast without being able to speak, then, as if to

recover composure by proceeding to business, he sent him to ask James

for the coat last worn by his papa, and bring the papers in the pocket.

Then with more agitation he continued, ‘Yes, yes, that was what poor

Arthur’s eyes were saying all the time. I could only promise to settle

everything and take care of her; and there was she, poor thing, with a

face like a martyr, supporting his head, never giving way, speaking now

and then so calmly and soothingly, when I could not have said a word. I

do believe she is almost an angel!’ said Lord Martindale, with a burst

of strong emotion. ‘Take care of her! She will not want that long! at

this rate. Harding tells me he is very anxious about her: she is not by

any means recovered, yet he was forced to let her sit up all last night,

and she has been on her feet this whole day! What is to become of her

and these poor children? It is enough to break one’s heart!’

Here Johnnie came back. ‘Grandpapa, we cannot find any papers. James has

looked in all the clothes papa wore when he came home, and he did not

bring home his portmanteau.’

‘Come home! Where had he been?’

‘I don’t know. He was away a long time.’

Lord Martindale started, and repeated the words in amaze. Theodora

better judged of a child’s ‘long time,’ and asked whether it meant a day

or a week. ‘Was it since the baby was born that he went?’

‘Baby was a week old. He was gone one--two Sundays, and he came back all

on a sudden the day before yesterday, coughing so much that he could not

speak, and the gentleman told mamma all about it.’

‘What gentleman, Johnnie? Was it Mr. Gardner?’

‘O no; this was a good-natured gentleman.’

‘Mr. Herries, or Captain Fitzhugh?’

‘No, it was a long name, and some one I never saw before; but I think it

was the man that belongs to the owl.’

‘What can the child mean?’ asked Lord Martindale.

Johnnie mounted a chair, and embraced his little stuffed owl.

‘The man that gave me this.’

‘Percy’s Athenian owl!’ cried Theodora.

‘Was Fotheringham the name?’ said Lord Martindale.

‘Yes, it was the name like Aunt Helen’s,’ said Johnnie.

‘Has he been here since?’

‘He called to inquire yesterday morning. I am not sure,’ said the exact

little boy, ‘but I think he said he met papa in the steamer.’

It seemed mystery on mystery, and James could only confirm his young

master’s statement. After the little boy had answered all the questions

in his power he slid down from his grandfather’s knee, saying that it

was bed-time, and wished them good night in a grave, sorrowful, yet

childlike manner, that went to their hearts. He returned, in a short

time, with a message that mamma thought papa a little better and ready

to see them. Theodora went up first; Johnnie led her to the door, and

then went away, while Violet said, almost inaudibly,

‘Here is Theodora come to see you.’

Prepared as Theodora was, she was startled by the bloodlessness of the

face, and the hand that lay without movement on the coverlet, while the

gaze of the great black eyes met her with an almost spectral effect; and

the stillness was only broken by the painful heaving of the chest,

which seemed to shake even the bed-curtains. But for Violet’s looks and

gesture, Theodora would not have dared to go up to him, take his hand,

and, on finding it feebly return her pressure, bend over and kiss his

forehead.

‘His breath is certainly relieved, and there is less fever,’ repeated

Violet; but to Theodora this seemed to make it only more shocking.

If this was better, what must it not have been? Her tongue positively

refused to speak, and she only stood looking from her brother to his

wife, who reclined, sunk back in her chair beside him, looking utterly

spent and worn out, her cheeks perfectly white, her eyes half-closed,

her whole frame as if all strength and energy were gone. That terrible

hour had completely exhausted her powers; and when Theodora had

recollected herself, and summoned Lord Martindale, who undertook the

night watch, Violet had not voice to speak; she only hoarsely whispered

a few directions, and gave a sickly submissive smile as her thanks.

For one moment she revived, as she smoothed Arthur’s bed, moistened his

lips, and pressed her face to his; then she allowed Theodora almost

to lift her away, and support her into the next room, where Sarah was

waiting. Even thought and anxiety seemed to be gone; she sat where

they placed her, and when they began to undress her, put her hand

mechanically to her dress, missed the fastening, and let it drop with

a vacant smile that almost overcame Theodora. They laid her in bed,

and she dropped asleep, like an infant, the instant her head was on the

pillow. Theodora thought it cruel to arouse her to take nourishment; but

Sarah was peremptory, and vigorously administered the spoonfuls, which

she swallowed in the same unconscious manner. She was only roused a

little by a sound from the baby: ‘Give him to me, he will be quieter

so;’ and Sarah held him to her, she took him in her arms, and was

instantly sunk in the same dead slumber.

‘My pretty lamb!’ mourned the cold stern servant, as she arranged her

coverings; ‘this is the sorest brash we have had together yet, and I

doubt whether ye’ll win through with it. May He temper the blast that

sends it.’

Gazing at her for a few seconds, she raised her hand to dry some large

tears; and as if only now conscious of Miss Martindale’s presence,

curtsied, saying, in her usual manner, ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. There

is the room next the nursery made ready for you.’

‘I could not go, Sarah, thank you. Go to your children; I will take care

of her. Pray go.’

‘I will, thank you, ma’am. We will have need of all our strength before

we have done.’

‘How has she been before this?’

‘About as well as usual at first, ma’am, till he threw her back with

going off into they foreign parts, where he has been and as good as

catched his death, and would have died if Mr. Fotheringham had not

brought him home.’

‘What! has he been abroad, Sarah?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I was holding the baby when he says to Missus he was going

to Bully, or Boulong--’

‘Boulogne--’

‘Yes, Bullying, or some such place; and bullied him they have; stripped

him even of his very portmanteau, with his eight new shirts in it, that

they have! Well, Missus, she says his cold would be worse, and he said

it only wanted a change, and she need never fret, for he meant to get

quit of the whole concern. But for that, I would have up and told him he

didn’t ought to go, and that he must stay at home and mind her, but then

I thought, if he did get rid of them nasty horses, and that there Mr.

Gardner, with his great nasturtions on his face, it would be a blessed

day. But I ought to have known how it would be: he is too innocent for

them; and they have never been content till they have been and got

his very clothes, and given him his death, and broke the heart of the

bestest and most loving-heartedest lady as ever lived. That they have!’

Having eased her mind by this tirade, Sarah mended the fire, put every

comfort in Miss Martindale’s reach, advised her to lie down by her

mistress, and walked off.

Theodora felt giddy and confounded with the shocks of that day. It was

not till she had stretched herself beside Violet that she could collect

her perceptions of the state of affairs; and oh! what wretchedness! Her

darling brother, round whom the old passionate ardour of affection

now clung again, lying at death’s door; his wife sinking under her

exertions;--these were the least of the sorrows, though each cough

seemed to rend her heart, and that sleeping mother was like a part of

her life. The misery was in that mystery--nay, in the certainty, that

up to the last moment of health Arthur had been engaged in his reckless,

selfish courses! If he were repentant, there was neither space nor power

to express it, far less for reparation. He was snatched at once from

thoughtless pleasure and disregard of religion--nay, even of the common

charities of home! And to fasten the guilt to herself were those few

half-uttered words--races, debts, Gardner!

‘If you once loosen the tie of home, he will go back to courses and

companions that have done him harm enough already.’ ‘Beware of Mark

Gardner!’ ‘Whatever comes of these races, it is your doing, not mine.’

Those warnings flashed before her eyes like letters of fire, and she

turned her face to the pillow as it were to hide from them, as well as

to stifle the groans that could not have been wrung from her by bodily

pain. ‘Oh, my sin has found me out! I thought I had been punished,

but these are the very dregs! His blood is on my head! My brother! my

brother! whom I loved above all! He was learning to love his home and

children; she was weaning him from those pursuits! What might he not

have been? I led him away! When he shrank from the temptation, I dragged

him to it! I gave him back to the tempter! I, who thought I loved him--I

did the devil’s work! Oh! this is the heavier weight! Why should it

crush others with the only guilty one? Oh! have mercy, have mercy on

him! Let me bear all! Take me instead! Let me not have slain his soul!’

It was anguish beyond the power of words. She could not lie still; she

knelt on the floor, and there the flood of despair fell on her more

overwhelmingly; and crouching, almost cast on the ground, she poured out

incoherent entreaties for mercy, for space for his repentance, for his

forgiveness. That agony of distracted prayer must have lasted a long

time. Some sound in her brother’s room alarmed her, and in starting she

shook the table. Her father came to ask if anything was the matter; told

her that Arthur was quiet, and begged her to lie down. It was a relief

to have something to obey, and she moved back. The light gleamed on

something bright. It was the setting of Helen’s cross! ‘Ah! I was not

worthy to save it; that was for Johnnie’s innocent hand! I may not call

this my cross, but my rod!’ Then came one thought: ‘I came not for the

righteous, but to call sinners to repentance.’ Therewith hot tears rose

up. ‘With Him there is infinite mercy and redemption.’ Some power of

hope revived, that Mercy might give time to repent, accept the heartfelt

grief that might exist, though not manifested to man! The hope, the

motive, and comfort in praying, had gleamed across her again; and not

with utter despair could she beseech that the sins she had almost caused

might be so repented of as to receive the pardon sufficient for all

iniquity.

CHAPTER 10

Thus have I seen a temper wild

In yokes of strong affection bound

Unto a spirit meek and mild,

Till chains of good were on him found.

He, struggling in his deep distress,

As in some dream of loneliness,

Hath found it was an angel guest.

--Thoughts in Past Years

Five days had passed, and no material change had taken place. There was

no serious recurrence of bleeding, but the inflammation did not abate,

and the suffering was grievous, though Arthur was so much enfeebled

that he could not struggle under it. His extreme debility made his body

passive, but it was painfully evident that his mind was as anxious and

ill at ease as ever. There was the same distrustful watch to see every

letter, and know all that passed; the constant strain of every faculty,

all in absolute silence, so that his nurses, especially Theodora, felt

as if it would be a positive personal relief to them if those eyes would

be closed for one minute.

What would they have given to know what passed in that sleepless mind?

But anything that could lead to speaking or agitation was forbidden;

even, to the great grief of Theodora, the admission of the clergyman

of the parish. Lord Martindale agreed with the doctors that it was too

great a risk, and Violet allowed them to decide, whispering to Theodora

that she thought he heeded Johnnie’s prayers more than anything read

with a direct view to himself. The cause of his anxiety remained in

doubt. Lord Martindale had consulted Violet, but she knew nothing of

any papers. She was aware that his accounts were mixed up with Mr.

Gardner’s, and believed he had gone to Boulogne to settle them; and she

conjectured that he had found himself more deeply involved than he had

expected. She remembered his having said something of being undone, and

his words to Johnnie seemed to bear the same interpretation.

Mr. Fotheringham’s apparition was also a mystery; so strange was it

that, after bringing Arthur home in such a state, he should offer no

further assistance. James was desired to ask him to come in, if he

should call to inquire; but he did not appear, and the father and sister

began to have vague apprehensions, which they would not for the world

have avowed to each other, that there must be worse than folly, for what

save disgrace would have kept Percy from aiding John’s brother in his

distress? Each morning rose on them with dread of what the day might

bring forth, not merely from the disease within, but from the world

without; each postman’s knock was listened to with alarm, caught from

poor Arthur.

His wife was of course spared much of this. That worst fear could not

occur to her; she had no room for any thought but for him as he was in

the sight of Heaven, and each hour that his life was prolonged was to

her a boon and a blessing. She trusted that there was true sorrow for

the past--not merely dread of the consequences, as she traced the

shades upon his face, while he listened to the hymns that she encouraged

Johnnie to repeat. In that clear, sweet enunciation, and simple,

reverent manner, they evidently had a great effect. He listened for the

first time with his heart, and the caresses, at which Johnnie glowed

with pleasure as a high favour, were, she knew, given with a species of

wondering veneration. It was Johnnie’s presence that most soothed him;

his distressing, careworn expression passed away at the first sight of

the innocent, pensive face, and returned not while the child was before

him, bending over a book, or watching the baby, or delighted at having

some small service to perform. Johnnie, on his side, was never so well

satisfied as in the room, and nothing but Violet’s fears for his health

prevented the chief part of his time from being spent there.

Her own strength was just sufficient for the day. She could sit by

Arthur’s side, comprehend his wishes by his face, and do more to relieve

and sustain him than all the rest; and, though she looked wretchedly

weak and worn, her power of doing all that was needed, and looking upon

him with comforting refreshing smiles, did not desert her. The night

watch she was forced to leave to be divided between his father and

sister, with the assistance alternately of Sarah and the regular nurse,

and she was too much exhausted when she went to bed, for Theodora to

venture on disturbing her by an unnecessary word.

Theodora’s longing was to be continually with her brother, but this

could only be for a few hours at night; and then the sight of his

suffering, and the difficulty of understanding his restlessness of

mind, made her so wretched, that it took all the force of her strong

resolution to conceal her unhappiness; and she marvelled the more at the

calmness with which the feeble frame of Violet endured the same scene.

The day was still more trying to her, for her task was the care of the

children, and little Helen was so entirely a copy of her own untamed

self, as to be a burdensome charge for a desponding heart and sinking

spirits.

On the fifth morning the doctors perceived a shade of improvement; but

to his attendants Arthur appeared worse, from being less passive and

returning more to the struggle and manifestation of oppression and

suffering. He made attempts at questions, insisting on being assured

that no letter nor call had been kept from him; he even sent for the

cards that had been left, and examined them, and he wanted to renew the

conversation with his father; but Lord Martindale silenced him at

once, and left the room. He looked so much disappointed that Violet was

grieved, and thought, in spite of the doctors, that it might have

been better to have run the risk of letting him speak, for the sake of

setting his mind at rest.

Lord Martindale, however, saw so much peril in permitting a word to be

uttered, that he deemed it safer to absent himself, and went out to try

to trace out Mr. Fotheringham, and ask whether he could throw any light

on Arthur’s trouble.

The children were out of doors, and Theodora was profiting by the

interval of quiet to write to her mother, when she heard James announce,

‘Mr. Fotheringham.’

She looked up, then down. Her first thought was of her brother; the next

brought the whole flood of remembrances, and she could not meet his eye.

He advanced, but there was no friendly greeting. As to a stranger, he

said, ‘I hope Colonel Martindale is better?’

Could it be himself? She gave a hasty glance. It was; he chose to disown

her; to meet her without even a hand held out! Rallying her fortitude,

she made answer, ‘Thank you; we hope--’

She got no further--her hand was grasped. ‘Theodora! I did not know

you.’

She had forgotten her altered looks! Relieved, she smiled, and said,

‘Yes, I am a strange figure. They think Arthur a little better to-day,

thank you.’

‘How has it been?’

He listened to the details with eagerness, that dismissed from her mind

the sickening apprehension of his knowing of any hidden evil; then,

saying he was pressed for time, begged her to ask Mrs. Martindale to let

him speak to her on a matter of such importance that he must venture on

disturbing her.

Theodora beckoned to Violet at the door, hoping to elude Arthur’s

notice; but any attempt at secrecy made him more distrustful, and

the name had hardly been whispered before she was startled by

hearing--‘Bring him here.’

Much frightened, the wife and sister expostulated, thus making him more

determined; he almost rose on his elbow to enforce his wishes, and at

last said, ‘You do me more harm by preventing it.’

Violet felt the same; and in fear and trembling begged Theodora to call

Percy. She knew herself to be responsible for the danger, but saw the

impossibility of preventing the interview without still greater risk.

Indeed, while Theodora delayed Percy with cautions, impatience, and the

fear of being disappointed, were colouring each sunken cheek with a spot

of burning red, the hands were shaking uncontrollably, and the breath

was shorter than ever, so that she was on the point of going to hasten

the visitor, when he knocked at the door.

She signed to him at once to turn to Arthur, who held out his hand, and

met his greeting with an anxious, imploring gaze, as if to ask whether,

after all, he brought him hope.

‘Well,’ said Percy, cheerfully, ‘I think it is settled.’

Arthur relaxed that painful tension of feature, and lay back on his

pillows, with a relieved though inquiring look.

‘Begging your pardon for being meddlesome,’ continued Percy, ‘I thought

I saw a way of being even with that scoundrel. Your papers had got into

my pocket, and, as I had nothing else to do, I looked them over after

parting with you, and saw a way out of the difficulty. I was coming in

the morning to return them and propound my plan, but finding that you

could not be seen, I ventured to take it on myself at once, for fear he

should get out of reach.’

He paused, but Arthur’s eyes asked on.

‘I had reason to think him gone to Paris. I followed him thither, and

found he was making up to Mrs. Finch. I let him know that I was aware of

this villainy, and of a good deal more of the same kind, and threatened

that, unless he came in to my terms, I would expose the whole to his

cousin, and let her know that he is at this moment engaged to Miss

Brandon. She is ready to swallow a good deal, but that would have been

too much, and he knew it. He yielded, and gave me his authority to break

up the affair.’

As Arthur was still attentive and anxious, Percy went on to explain that

he had next gone to the man who kept the horses, and by offers of ready

money and careful inspection of his bills, had reduced his charge to

a less immoderate amount. The money had been advanced for a portion of

Arthur’s share of the debts, and a purchaser was ready for the horses,

whose price would clear off the rest; so that nothing more was wanted

but Arthur’s authority for the completion of the sale, which would free

him from all present danger of pressure upon that score.

‘Supposing you do not disavow me, said Percy, ‘I must ask pardon for

going such lengths without permission.’

A clutch of the hand was the answer, and Percy then showed him the

accounts only waiting for his signature.

The money advanced was nearer five thousand pounds than four; and

Arthur, pointing to the amount, inquired, by look and gesture, ‘Where

does it come from?’

‘Never mind; it was honestly come by. It is a lot that has accumulated

out of publishing money, and was always bothering me with railway

shares. It will do as well in your keeping.’

‘It is throwing it into a gulf.’

‘In your father’s, then. I will take care of myself, and speak when I

want it. Don’t trouble your father about it till he sees his way.’

‘I must give you my bond.’

‘As you please, but there is no hurry.’

Arthur, however, was bent on giving his signature at once, and, as he

looked towards his wife and child, said, ‘For their sakes, thank you.’

‘I did it for their sakes,’ said Percy, gruffly, perhaps to check

Arthur’s agitation; but as if repenting of what sounded harsh, he took

the infant in his arms, saying to Violet, ‘You have a fine fellow here!

Eyes and forehead--his father all over!’

Arthur held out his hand eagerly. ‘Let him be your godson--make him like

any one but me.’

Percy took two turns in the room before he could answer. ‘My godson, by

all means, and thank you; but you will have the making of him yourself.

You are much better than I expected.’

Arthur shook his head; but Violet, with a look, sufficient reward for

anything, said, ‘It is you that are making him better.’

He replied by inquiries about the christening. The baby was a day less

than four weeks old, and Violet was anxious to have him baptized; so

that it was arranged that it should take place immediately on Percy’s

return from Worthbourne, whither he was to proceed that same afternoon,

having hitherto been delayed by Arthur’s affairs. This settled, he took

leave. Arthur fervently pressed his hand, and, as Violet adjusted the

pillows, sank his head among them as if courting rest, raising his eyes

once more to his ‘friend in need,’ and saying, ‘I shall sleep now.’

Violet only hoped that Mr. Fotheringham understood what inexpressible

gratitude was conveyed in those words, only to be appreciated after

watching those six wakeful, straining days and nights.

Meantime, Theodora waited in fear, too great at first to leave space for

other thoughts; but as time past, other memories returned. On coming to

summon Percy she had found him standing before the little stuffed owl,

and she could not but wonder what thoughts it might have excited, until

suddenly the recollection of Jane dissipated her visions with so violent

a revulsion that she was shocked at herself, and perceived that there

was a victory to be achieved.

‘It shall be at once,’ said she. ‘I WILL mention her. To be silent would

show consciousness. Once done, it is over. It is easier with my altered

looks. I am another woman now.’

She heard him coming down, and almost hoped to be spared the meeting,

but, after a moment’s pause, he entered.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope I have done him no harm. I think better of him

now than when I came home. He looks to me as if the worst was over.’

They were the first words of hope, and spoken in that hearty, cheery

voice, they almost overset her weakened spirits, and the struggle with

tears would not let her answer.

‘You have had a most trying time,’ said he, in the kind way that stirred

up every old association; but that other thought made her guarded, and

she coldly hurried out the words--

‘Yes; this is the first time my father has been out. He went in search

of you, to ask how you met poor Arthur, who has been able to give no

account of himself.’