‘No, no, papa; the owl-man has had such a game at play with us in the

dining-room!’ cried Helen.

‘Yes,’ said Johnnie; ‘and you know, papa, I never said my hymn to you on

a Christmas-day before. I like to-day the best of all I remember.’

The next day he was glad to find that Johnnie would, after all, have his

share of the festivities of the season. Colonel Harrington came to see

Arthur, and begged to have his little godson at a New Year’s party at

his house.

Violet was perplexed. She could not send her little, shy boy alone, yet

she did not like to let his father know that it had been a mistake to

accept the invitation. Percy came to her aid. ‘There is no such fun as

a children’s party. I wish you would smuggle me in as Johnnie’s nursery

governess.’

‘You know, Mrs. Harrington, don’t you?’ said Arthur; ‘as a general rule,

you know every one, and every one knows you.’

‘Yes, I know her. Come, Violet, can’t you get me in, in Johnnie’s train?

If you will let me take charge or him, I will keep an eye over the cake,

and you shall see how I will muffle him up to come home.’

It was too good an offer to be refused, though Violet had doubts whether

it would be perfect happiness, for Johnnie was apt to shrink from

strange children, and was unusually shy and timid. However, his spirits

had risen of late. Ever since he had found his place in his father’s

heart, the drooping unchild-like sadness had passed away, and though

still grave and thoughtful, there was a life and animation about him at

times that cheered and delighted her.

There was a great friendship between him and ‘Uncle Percy’; they took

walks together, fed the ducks in St. James’s Park, had many interesting

conversations on Brogden affairs, and Johnnie had been several times at

the rooms over the toy-shop, and was on intimate terms with old Puss.

Violet knew that he would be safe, and was willing to think it right he

should be made more of a man.

She felt her Johnnie’s value more than ever that evening, when she saw

how his father missed him. After the pleasure of seeing him ready to set

off, looking so fair and bright and delicate, Arthur flagged very much.

It had been a trying day. The experiment of a more strengthening diet

had resulted in heightened pulse and increased cough, and the medical

men had been obliged to own that though the acute inflammation had been

subdued, the original evil still remained, and that he was farther from

complete recovery than they had lately been hoping. Besides, he had sent

in his claim on Mr. Gardner, on hearing of his marriage, and the answer,

now due, did not come.

Nothing but the company of the children seemed likely to divert his

thoughts, and Helen was too much for him. She was exalted at her own

magnanimity in rejoicing that Johnnie should have the treat without

her, and was in a boisterous state that led to an edict of banishment,

vehemently resisted. It was the first time that anything had gone wrong

in Arthur’s presence, and Violet was much concerned, and fearful of

the effect, when, after the conquest had been achieved, she left Helen

sobbing in the nursery, and came down to his room.

There was not the annoyance she had dreaded; but the dejection had been

deepened, and he did not respond to the somewhat forced cheerfulness

with which she tried to speak of the generosity united in Helen with a

hasty temper. It seemed to hurt and pain him so much to have the little

girl punished, that there was nothing to be done but to try to turn away

his attention.

Those weary times were perhaps harder to bear than periods of more

evident trial and excitement. Violet, as she strove to rally her spirits

and sustain his, could not help so feeling it--and then she thought of

Helen Fotheringham, and recollected that she had been intending to read

to Arthur an affectionate letter she had received from his brother on

hearing of his illness. Arthur was greatly touched by the tone in which

he was mentioned in it, and began eagerly to talk over John’s many

proofs of affection, among which he now ranked his disregarded warnings.

‘I have not forgotten his saying I must make you happy. I little

understood him then!’

There was happiness enough in the caress that would fain have silenced

him.

‘Well! I have been thinking! Our marriage was the best and worst thing I

ever did. It was unjust to you, and as bad as possible towards them; but

that is what I can’t be as sorry for as it deserves,’ and he looked up

with a sweet smile, fading at once--‘except when I look at you and the

children, and think what is to become of you.’

‘Oh, don’t, dear Arthur! Why look forward! There has been great mercy so

far. Let us rest in it.’

‘You may; it was not your fault,’ said Arthur; ‘but how can I? I took

you in your ignorance; I let your father deceive himself about my

expectations, then, when my own people were far kinder to me than I

deserved, and I ought to have done everything myself to make up for my

imprudence, I go and let you pinch yourself, while I squander everything

on my own abominable follies! And now, here am I leaving you with all

these poor children, and nothing on earth--nothing but a huge debt? What

are you to do, I say?’

He was almost angry that she did not partake his apprehension for her

welfare.

‘This is only a casual drawback. Dr. L---- said so!’

‘That’s nothing to the purpose. My health is done for. There is nothing

before me but decline. I have felt that all along, whatever doctors may

say. And how can you expect me not to feel what I have brought on you?’

‘I am sure you need not be afraid for us. Is it not unkind to doubt your

father and John?’

‘Suppose they should die before Johnnie comes of age--suppose John

should marry!’

Oh, Arthur, I cannot suppose anything! I am only quite sure that there

is a Father who will take care of our children. I do not know how, but

I am certain we shall not be forsaken. Do not grieve for us. I am not

afraid.’

‘Not of poverty, even for the children?’

‘No!’ said Violet. ‘I know it will not come, unless it is the best thing

for them.’

He did not entirely comprehend her, but he liked to watch her face,

it looked so beautiful in its perfect trust. He could not share that

peaceful confidence for the future, the harvest of his past recklessness

was present poignant dread and anxiety for the innocent ones on whom the

penalty must fall. He relapsed into silence, and perhaps his meditations

were as much perplexed by the nine Arabic figures as those of Violet’s

convalescence had once been, only where hers were units, his were

hundreds.

She interrupted him with more of John’s letters, and the amusing detail

of the West Indian life stood her in good stead till the sounds of

return brightened his face; and Johnnie sprang into the room loaded with

treasures from a Christmas tree. Never had she seen the little fellow’s

face so merry, or heard his tongue go so fast, as he threw everything

into her lap, and then sprang about from her to his papa, showing his

prizes and presenting them. Here were some lemon-drops for papa, and

here a beautiful box for mamma, and a gutta-percha frog for Helen, and

a flag for Annie, and bon-bons for both, and for Sarah too, and a

delightful story about a little Arthur, that nobody could have but the

baby--Johnnie would keep it for him till he could read it.

‘And what have you got for yourself, Johnnie!’ said his father.

‘I have the giving it!’ said Johnnie.

‘You are your mother’s own boy, Johnnie,’ said Arthur, with a sort of

fond deep sadness, as the child mounted his footstool to put one of the

lemon-drops into his mouth, watching to be told that it was good.

He went off to the nursery to feed Sarah on sugar-plums, and dispose

the frog and banner on his sisters’ beds to delight them in the morning;

while Percy, coming in, declared that this had been the little boy’s

happiest time. He had been far too shy for enjoyment, perfectly well

behaved, but not stirring a step from his protector, only holding his

hand, and looking piteously at him if invited away; and Percy declared,

he was as much courted as a young lady in her teens. Sitting down with

him at a table surrounded by small elves, Percy had of course kept

them in a roar of laughter, throughout which Johnnie had preserved his

gravity, only once volunteering a whisper, that he wished Helen was

there; but Percy thought that when unmolested by attention, he had

seemed quietly amused. When admitted to the Christmas tree in its

glory, he had been slightly afraid of it at first, as of an unexpected

phenomenon, and had squeezed his friend’s hand very tight; but as he

perceived how things were going, his alarm had given place to silent

joyous whispers, appropriating his gifts to those at home. He had no

idea of keeping anything for himself; and Percy had distressed him by a

doubt whether the book, as a godfather’s gift, ought to be transferred.

On this Johnnie was scrupulous, and Percy had been obliged to relieve

his mind by repeating the question for him to Colonel Harrington,

whether he might give the book to his little brother. This settled,

Johnnie’s happiness had been complete, and his ecstasy during their

return, at having a present for everybody, was, said Percy, the

prettiest comment he had ever known on the blessedness of giving.

It evidently struck Arthur. At night, Violet, from her sofa, heard him

murmur to himself, ‘My boy! my unselfish boy, what will you think of

your father?’ and then stifle a groan.

The next afternoon, Johnnie, having as a preliminary inscribed his

brother’s unwieldy name all over the fly-leaf, was proceeding most

happily to read the book aloud, lying on the hearth-rug, with his heels

in the air. He read his mamma into a slumber, his papa into a deep

reverie, which resulted in his dragging himself up from his chair, by

the help of the chimney-piece, and reaching pen and writing-case from

Violet’s table.

‘Oh! papa!’ whispered Johnnie, in an injured tone, at not having been

asked to do the little service.

‘I thought it would disturb mamma less,’ returned Arthur, sinking back;

‘but you may give me the ink. And now, my dear, go on to yourself.’

‘Are you going to write, papa? That is being much better.’

‘I am going to try to write to your uncle. Johnnie, supposing you lose

me, I look to your uncle and you for care of the little ones.’

Johnnie gave a great sigh, and looked at his father, but made no answer.

Papa’s writing was a matter of curiosity, and he stood watching in

silence.

‘You must not watch me, Johnnie,’ said Arthur, presently, for whether

his son could read his writing or not, he could not bear his eyes upon

it. The boy had dropped into his place on the carpet in a moment.

It was a full confession and outpouring of his troubles. It cost him

much, for there was shame at his own folly and selfishness, and he

had to disclose extravagance that he well knew to be, in John’s eyes,

especially inexcusable. So painful was the effort, that even his fears

for his family would not alone have determined him on making it, if it

had not been for his new resolution to face the worst, and to have no

more shufflings or concealments. He could bear to tell John better than

his father, and Percy had bound him to silence towards Lord Martindale.

The whole was explained to the best of his powers, which were not at

present great. His debts, including that to Percy, he believed to exceed

ten thousand, his resources were limited to the sale of his commission,

and the improbable recovery of the debt from Gardner--his wife and

children were entirely unprovided for. ‘I can only trust to your

kindness,’ he wrote. ‘If I could see you, I could die in peace. I know

that while you live, you will never see Violet distressed. I have no

right to ask anything, but this much I will and must beg may be looked

on as my last wish. Never let the children be taken from their mother’s

charge. If they are to be better than I, it must be her doing. And

though this is more than I should dare to ask, if you can help me, do

not, when I am gone, let my boys grow up to find their father’s memory

loaded with these hateful debts, hanging round their necks like a

burden. I know Johnnie’s sense of honour would never let him rest

till they were cleared; but I cannot look at his face and think of his

hearing how I have served his mother. He does love me now, Heaven

knows, undeservedly enough. I cannot bear to think of a cloud on his

remembrance of me.’

CHAPTER 15

Either grief will not come, or if it must,

Do not forecast.

And while it cometh, it is almost past.

Away distrust,

My God hath promised, He is just.

--G. HERBERT

‘Arthur, the landlady has been to ask how much longer we shall want the

rooms!’

‘How long have we been here?’

‘We came on the 20th of April, and this is the 3rd of June. What a

difference it has made in you!’

‘And in you; Ventnor is a grand doctor.’

‘And Johnnie is really beginning to have a colour. How pleased his

grandpapa will be to see him so much stronger and more spirited. I do

not think Lord Martindale could have done anything kinder by us than

sending us here.’

‘How does the purse hold out?’

‘I have been reckoning that we could stay on three weeks more before

going to Brogden; and, if you like it, I should wish to spend our

wedding-day here,’ said Violet, in the shy diffident way in which she

was wont to proffer any request for her own gratification.

‘I had another scheme for our wedding-day. What do you say to spending

it at Wrangerton?’

She looked up in his face as if to see if he really meant it, then the

glad flush darted into her cheeks, and with a cry of joy like a child,

she almost sobbed out, ‘Oh, Arthur, Arthur! thank you.’

He looked at her, amused, and enjoying her ecstasy. ‘So you approve,

Mrs. Martindale?’

‘O, to go to mamma! to show mamma the children! Annette! home!--Johnnie

to see Helvellyn!--my sisters!--Olivia’s baby!’ cried Violet, in

incoherent exclamations, almost choked with joy.

‘My poor Violet,’ said Arthur, surprised and almost remorseful; ‘I did

not know you wished it so very much.’

‘I believe I had left off thinking about it,’ said Violet; ‘but I am so

very much obliged to you, dear Arthur--how very kind it is.’

It never occurred to her, as it did to him, that the kindness might have

come sooner. ‘I only hope you like it,’ she added, after a pause.

‘Don’t I like what makes you look as you do now?’ said he, smiling.

‘I shall enjoy looking up our old quarters. Besides,’ he added, more

gravely, ‘it is your turn now; and liking apart, I know I have not used

Mrs. Moss well, in keeping you so long from her. You must let her know

it was not your fault.’

‘May I write, then? Oh, Arthur, dearest! if I could but find words to

tell you how happy you have made me!’

It was no sudden determination, for he brought a ‘Bradshaw’ out of his

pocket, with all the various railways and trains underscored in pencil

in a most knowing way, and a calculation of expenses on the cover, all

wrong--for Arthur had never done an addition sum right in his life.

Violet was to write as soon as she pleased, and fix the day and hour.

Perhaps Violet had never been so happy in her life as when, in the

afternoon, she wandered a little apart on the beach, to realize and

feed on her new treasure of delight. Arthur and the children were

felicitously dabbling in sand and sea-water, reducing the frocks to a

condition that would have been Sarah’s daily distraction, if she had not

reconciled herself to it by observing, ‘it did her heart good to see the

Colonel take to the children, though he was no more to be trusted with

them than a sea-mew; and if it was not for Master John, she believed

they would all come home some day drownded.’

As soon as the spring was sufficiently advanced, Lord Martindale had

sent the whole party to recruit by the sea-side, at their own dear

Ventnor, and there the last six weeks had been spent in the daily joy

of watching Arthur’s progress in recovery;--until now a slight degree

of weakness and languor, an occasional cough, and his greatly altered

appearance, were the only evident remains of his illness; and though she

could not feel that his health was absolutely re-established, there was

such abundant cause for hope and thankfulness, as filled her heart to

overflowing, especially when she was rejoiced by tokens of that more

blessed change within.

His spirits had returned with his health. Perhaps it was part of his

boyish nature, that his sorrow for his errors, though sincere and

earnest, did not permanently depress him, when not brought before his

mind; but rather the sense of behaving well added to his brightness.

There was nothing to conceal; the guilty consciousness was gone, and

the fear for the future was distant. His manners had a sweetness more

engaging than ever. To his wife, who had, as he recovered, suffered from

the effects of her exertions, he was most affectionately attentive, and

his children were his delight, while little Johnnie throve and expanded

into spirit and mirth, like a plant reviving in sunshine.

He had gone over Violet’s old haunts with her, and she had enjoyed

making him enter into the feelings associated with the scenes she had

visited with his brother. John was expected to return in the summer, but

even this anticipation paled in comparison with the present felicity.

That longing for her own home had been forced into such a remote cell,

that she had had no idea of its strength till now, when it was allowed

to spring up and colour everything.

She walked along the shore within sight of the cottage, where she had

been with John, too small and expensive for their present numbers and

means, and looking up at its bowery wicket, gathered up the remembrances

associated with it.

She had come thither a mere child, a wife and mother, before strength,

spirits, or judgment were equal to her tasks,--terrified at her

responsibility, perceiving her failures, sinking under the load too

early laid on her. There had she been guided to comfort,--there had

her hand been taught to clasp the rod and staff, that had led her safe

through the shadow, well-nigh of death. How would her heart have fainted

if she could have guessed what had awaited her! But these things were

past, and their memory was sweetened by thankfulness. And now, where

once stood the self-torturing, pining girl, was now the calm trustful

woman,--serene beneath the overshadowing Wings, resting on the

everlasting Arms,--relying, least of all, upon herself. Further trouble

might be in store; the clouds might return after the rain; but her peace

was not mere freedom from storms, it was the security that there was One

who would be with her and her loved ones through all, and thus could she

freely rejoice in present sunshine, without scanning each distant cloud,

or marring present bliss by future dread.

It was complete gladness. There was not a misgiving whether home might

be exactly as it stood in her memory, or in Johnnie’s imagination; and

she filled the children’s heads so much with what they were to see, that

their papa declared he had found Annie under the belief that Helvellyn

was her grandfather.

Arthur was so much charmed with seeing his wife so happy, that,

forgetting all his fears of tediousness, he partook the enjoyment of her

anticipations. He was the first, when they came in sight of a mountain,

to lift Johnnie on his knee and tell him it was Helvellyn; and mamma’s

resentment at the grievous error was one of the prettiest and merriest

things imaginable.

However, when Helvellyn actually appeared, and she felt herself really

coming home, she was silent, in anxiety and doubt. She must be very

different from the Violet who had gone away. Would her mother and

Matilda think she had improved according to her opportunities?

She could hardly reply when Arthur recognized the High-street, so much

wider in her imagination, and her heart beat as the garden wall and the

lawn were before her. At the door--yes!--it was, it was the mother for

whose embrace, she had so often longed! Timidly affectionate and hastily

nervous, she could hardly afford one moment to her daughter in her

frightened haste to greet her son-in-law, before he was ready, as he

was lifting the children out. Here, too, were Annette and Mr. Moss,

the young ladies were in the drawing-room, detained by etiquettes of

Matilda’s; but Violet hardly knew who spoke to her, the joy was to see a

baby of hers at last in her mothers arms.

She could hardly see any one but the slight worn-looking mother, whose

low, sad-toned voice awoke such endless recollections, and made her

realize that she was once more beside mamma. To look at her sisters

almost disturbed her; and it well-nigh struck her as unnatural to find

the children hanging on her.

Still more unnatural was it to be conducted up-stairs, like company, to

the best room, and to find her mother in distress and solicitude lest

things should not be comfortable, and such as they were used to. And oh!

the strangeness of seeing her little ones in her own old nursery, waited

upon by the sisters she had left as children--and by Sarah, settled in

there as if she had never been away. One part of her life or the other

must be a dream.

Dear as all the faces were, it was a relief to be silent for a little

while, as Arthur, half-asleep, rested in the large old armchair, and

she unpacked, too happy for weariness; and the clear pure mountain air

breathing in at the open window, infusing life into every vein, as she

paused to look at the purple head above the St. Erme woods, and to gaze

on the fragrant garden beneath; then turned away to call to mind

the childish faces which she had not yet learnt to trace in those

fine-looking young women.

‘Ha!’ said Arthur, rousing himself; ‘are all the pretty plaits and

braids come out again? A welcome sight.’

‘Mamma thought me altered,’ said Violet; ‘and I thought I would not look

more old than I could help; so I would not put on my cap for fear it

should distress her.’

‘Old! altered!’ said Arthur. ‘How dare you talk of such things!’

‘I can’t help it,’ said Violet, meekly.

‘Well! I believe I see what you mean,’ he said, studying her with a

gravity that was amusing. ‘There’s your youngest sister, Octavia, is not

she?’

‘Oh, is not she pretty?’

‘Whish! don’t praise yourself; she is the image of you at sixteen. Now

that I have seen her, I see you are changed; but somehow--the word that

always suited you best was lovely; and you have more of that style of

thing than even when your cheeks were pink. Not your oval face and white

skin, you know, but that--that look that is my Violet--my heart’s-ease,

that used to keep my heart up last winter. Ay! you are more to my mind!’

That little episode was the special charm of Violet’s evening--a happy

one, though there were some anxieties, and a few fond little illusions

dispelled.

It might be the dread of Arthur’s being annoyed, as she watched him

looking very pale and spiritless from fatigue, which made her perceive

that all dinner-time Matilda was overwhelming him with a torrent of

affected nonsense--or at least what Violet would have thought so in any

one but her highly-respected eldest sister; and she feared, too, that he

could not admire the girlish airs and graces which did not become that

sharpened figure and features. She had not known how much more Matilda

talked than any one else; even her father only put in a caustic remark

here and there, when Matilda WOULD know all Lord St. Erme’s and Lady

Lucy’s views and habits. Mrs. Moss was silenced whenever her low voice

tried to utter a sentence. Annette, quiet and gentle as ever, looked

drooping and subdued, and scarcely spoke, while the two fine blooming

girls, who seemed like new acquaintance, were still as mice in awe and

shyness. Caroline, the second sister, was married and settled in

Canada; and the three blanks that weddings had made only now impressed

themselves on her mind as a novelty.

After dinner, Violet felt as if she must rescue Arthur from Matilda at

any cost, and succeeded in setting her down to the piano; and to secure

his quiet, though feeling it a very presumptuous venture, she drew her

chair near her father, and set herself to talk to him. Mr. Moss

was quite amazed to find a woman--a daughter--capable of rational

conversation. She went on with the more spirit, from her pleasure in

seeing Arthur, instead of dozing under cover of the music, going to

sit by Mrs. Moss and talk to her, and though nothing was heard, their

countenances were proof enough of their interest--Mrs. Moss’s thin

mild face quite colouring up at the unwonted attention, and her eyes

glistening. In fact they were talking about Violet, and in such a strain

that Mrs. Moss that night confided to Annette, that she should never

again believe a word against Colonel Martindale.

But if the fortnight was to be like this, how was Arthur to bear it?

Violet dreaded it for him the more because he was so very good and

forbearing, not making one remark on what she knew must have struck

him. She could almost have reproached herself with selfishness in never

having thought of his want of companionship and amusement.

The night’s rest, however, made a great difference in his capacity for

entertainment, beginning from his laugh at Helen’s inquiry, ‘What was

the use of so many aunts?’ He lay on the grass in the sunshine, playing

with the children, and fast making friends with the younger aunts, who

heartily relished his fun, though they were a good deal afraid of him;

while Violet sat under the verandah, feasting her eyes upon Helvellyn,

and enjoying the talk with her sisters as much as she could, while

uneasy at the lengthened housekeeping labours that her mother was

undergoing. They were to retrace one of their memorable walks by the

river-side in the afternoon, but were prevented by the visit expected

all the morning, but deferred to that fashionable hour, of Mrs. Albert

Moss, who sailed in, resolved that the Honourable Mrs. Martindale should

find one real companion in the family.

Those fluttering silks and fringes seemed somewhat to stand on end at

finding themselves presented to a slight, simply dressed figure in a

plain straw bonnet; and the bare-legged, broad-sashed splendours of Miss

Albertine Louisa stood aghast at the brown holland gardening suits of

the London cousins.

‘In training for the Highlanders?’ was Arthur’s mischievous aside to

Octavia, setting her off into the silent frightened laugh that was his

special diversion; and he continued, as they stood half in and half out

of the window, ‘There’s Helen patronizing her! I hope she will take her

down to the sand-heap, where the children have been luxuriating all the

morning.’

‘Oh! how can you--’

‘It is my father’s great principle of education,’ said Arthur, solemnly,

‘to let them grope in the dirt. I never rested till I had seen my boy

up to the ears in mud.--But ha! what a magnificent horse! Why,’ as he

started forward to look at it, ‘I declare it is stopping here!’

‘Olivia and Mr. Hunt in the gig!’ cried Octavia. Oh, she has the baby in

her lap!’

Matilda and Mrs. Albert Moss looked at each other, shocked.

‘What will Mr. Hunt make her do next?’

‘Poor Olivia!’ said Mrs. Albert. ‘We regret the connection; but Mr. Hunt

will have his own way. You must excuse--’

It was lost. Seeing the new-comers in difficulties between baby, horse,

and gate, Arthur had sped out to open the last for them; and Violet had

sprung after him, and received the child in her arms while her sister

alighted. Here was the mesalliance of the family, too wealthy to have

been rejected, but openly disdained by Matilda, while the gentle Mrs.

Moss and Annette hardly ventured to say a good word for him. Violet’s

apprehensions had chiefly centred on him, lest his want of refinement

should make him very disagreeable to Arthur; and she almost feared to

look up as she held out her hand to him.

In a moment her mind was relieved; voice, look, and manner, all showed

that the knightly soul was in him, and that he had every quality of the

gentleman, especially the hatred of pretension, which made him retain

the title of English yeoman as an honourable distinction.

It was a pretty group of contrasts; the soldierly, high-bred, easy grace

of the pallid black-haired Colonel, with the native nobleness of bearing

of the stalwart farmer, equally tall, and his handsome ruddy face

glowing with health; and the two sisters, the one fresh, plump, and

rosy, the picture of a happy young mother, and the other slender and

dignified, with the slightly worn countenance, which, even in her most

gladsome moods, retained that pensive calmness of expression.

The baby occupied the ladies, the horse their husbands; and on hearing

what guests were in the drawing-room, Mr. Hunt, with a tell-tale ‘then,’

said he would drive on to his business at Coalworth, inviting the

Colonel to take the vacant seat.

With Arthur off her mind, Violet was free to enjoy, and soon found

that the only flaw in Olivia’s felicity was the Wrangerton fashion of

sneering at her husband, and trying to keep her up to Matilda’s measure

of gentility. Proud as she was of her ‘George,’ he had not made her bold

enough to set those censures at nought; but when she found Violet of

his way of thinking, she joyfully declared that she would never allow

herself to be again tormented by Matilda’s proprieties. How glad she was

that George had insisted; for, as she confided to Violet and Annette,

she knew that bringing the baby without a maid would be thought so

vulgar that she would have stayed at home, in spite of her desire to see

Violet; but her husband had laughed at her scruples, declaring that if

her sister could be offended by her coming in this manner, she must be a

fine lady not worth pleasing.

Perhaps Mr. Hunt so expected to find her. He was a breeder of horses on

an extensive scale, and had knowledge enough of the transactions of Mark

Gardner and his set, not to be very solicitous of the acquaintance

of Colonel Martindale, while he dreaded that the London beauty would

irretrievably fill his little wife’s head with nonsense.

One look swept away his distrust of Mrs. Martindale; and the charm of

the Colonel’s manner had gained his heart before the drive was over. The

next day he was to send a horse for Arthur to ride to Lassonthwayte

to see his whole establishment; and Violet found she might dismiss her

fears of want of amusement for her husband.

He had sold off all his own horses, and had not ridden since his

illness, and the thought seemed to excite him like a boy. His eyes

sparkled at the sight of the noble hunter sent for him; and Violet

had seldom felt happier than as she stood with the children on the

grass-plat, hearing her sisters say how well he looked on horseback, as

he turned back to wave her an adieu, with so lover-like a gesture, and

so youthful an air, that it seemed to bring back the earliest days of

their marriage.

This quiet day, only diversified by a call from Lord St. Erme and Lady

Lucy, and by accompanying Mrs. Moss to make some visits to old friends

in the town, brought Violet to a fuller comprehension of her own family.

Her mother was what she herself might have become but for John. She

was an excellent person, very sensible, and completely a lady; but her

spirit had been broken by a caustic, sharp-tempered, neglectful husband,

and she had dragged through the world bending under her trials, not

rising above them. Her eldest daughter had been sent to a fashionable

school, and had ever since domineered over the whole family, while the

mother sank into a sort of bonne to the little ones, and a slave to her

husband. There was much love for her among her fine handsome girls, but

little honour for the patient devotion and the unfailing good sense that

judged aright, but could not act.

Annette, her chief comfort, tried to bring up her pupil Octavia to the

same esteem for her; but family example was stronger than precept, and

Annette had no weight; while even Mr. Hunt’s determination that Olivia

should show due regard to her mother, was looked on as one of his

rusticities. Poor Mrs. Moss was so unused to be treated as a person of

importance, that she could hardly understand the attention paid her,

not only by Violet, but by the Colonel; while the two young sisters, who

regarded Violet and her husband as the first of human beings, began to

discover that ‘O, it is only mamma!’ was not the most appropriate way of

speaking of her; and that when they let her go on errands, and wait on

every one, Violet usually took the office on herself.

So busy was Mrs. Moss, that Violet had very few minutes of conversation

with her, but she saw more of Annette, in whom the same meek character

was repeated, with the tendency to plaintiveness that prevented its real

superiority from taking effect. She drooped under the general disregard,

saw things amiss, but was hopeless of mending them; and for want of the

spirit of cheerfulness, had become faded, worn, and weary. Violet tried

to talk encouragingly, but she only gave melancholy smiles, and returned

to speak of the influences that were hurting Octavia.

‘Do not let us dwell on what we cannot help,’ said Violet; ‘let us do

our best, and then leave it in the best Hands, and He will bring out

good. You cannot think how much happier I have been since I knew it was

wrong to be faint-hearted.’

Before the end of the day she had seen her mother and Annette look so

much more cheerful, that the wish crossed her that she could often be at

hand.

By and by Arthur came home in the highest spirits, tossing Annie in the

air, as he met her in the passage, and declaring himself so far from

tired that he had not felt so well for a year, and that the mountain

breezes had taken the weight off his chest for good and all. He was in

perfect raptures with Lassonthwayte and with its master, had made an

engagement to bring Violet, her mother, and the children, to stay there

a week, and--‘What more do you think?’ said he.

‘Everything delightful, I see by your face,’ said Violet.

‘Why, Hunt has as pretty a little house as ever I saw in the village of

Lassonthwayte, to be let for a mere nothing, just big enough to hold us,

and the garden all over roses, and that style of thing. Now, I reckon

our allowance would go three times as far here as in London; and if I

were to sell out, the money invested in these concerns of Hunt’s would

be doubled in a year or two--at any rate, before the boys will want

schooling. If I do know anything it is of horses, you see, and we should

pay off Percy and all the rest of them, and be free again.’

‘Live near mamma and Olivia!’

‘Ah! I knew you would like it. The mountain air will bring back your

colour, and make a Hercules of Johnnie yet. I longed to have him there

to-day! We may live cheaply, you know, not get into all this town lot;

only have the girls staying with us, and give your mother a holiday now

and then. Don’t you fancy it, Mrs. Martindale?’

‘It is too delightful! I suppose we must not settle it without your

father, though.’

‘He can’t object to our living at half the cost, and getting out of

debt; I’ll talk him over when we go home. Hunt is as fine a fellow as I

ever saw, and as steady as old time.’

CHAPTER 16

And oft when in my heart I heard

Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task, in smoother paths to stray,

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

--Ode to Duty--WORDSWORTH

Lassonthwaite lost none of its charms on closer acquaintance. Mr. Hunt’s

farm stood on the slope of a hill, commanding a view of the mountains,

rising like purple clouds above the moorland, richly carpeted with the

varied colours of heath, fern, and furze, and scattered with flocks

of the white bleached mountain sheep, and herds of sturdy little black

cattle; while the valley, nearer at hand, was fringed with woods,

sheltering verdant pasture land, watered by the same clear frolicsome

stream that danced through the garden--Olivia’s garden--brilliant with

roses and other beauties, such as the great Harrison himself would

hardly have disdained.

Lord St. Erme might well call it a farm of the poets, so well

did everything accord with the hearty yeoman, and his pretty,

shepherdess-looking wife. The house was of the fine old order, large and

lofty, full of wonders in the way of gables, porches, and oriels, carved

doors and panels, in preservation that did them honour due, and the

furniture betokening that best of taste which perceives the fitness of

things. All had the free homely air of plenty and hospitality--the

open doors, the numerous well-fed men and maids, the hosts of live

creatures--horses, cows, dogs, pigs, poultry, each looking like a prize

animal boasting of its own size and beauty--and a dreadful terror to

Johnnie. He, poor little boy, was the only person to whom Lassonthwayte

was not a paradise. Helen and Annie had no fears, and were wild with

glee, embracing the dogs, climbing into dangerous places, and watching

the meals of every creature in the yard; but poor Johnnie imagined each

cow that looked at him to be a mad bull, trembled at each prancing dog,

and was miserable at the neighbourhood of the turkey-cock; while Mr.

Hunt’s attempts to force manliness on him only increased his distress

to such a degree as to make it haunt him at night. However, even this

became a source of pleasant feeling; Arthur, once so rough with him, now

understood the secret of his delicacy of nerves, and reverenced him too

much to allow him to be tormented. Even in the worst of Johnnie’s panics

at night would come smiles, as he told how papa would not let him be

forced to pat the dreadful dog, and had carried him in his arms through

the herd of cattle, though it did tire him, for, after putting him down,

he had to lean on the gate and pant. So next time the little boy would

not ask to be carried, and by the help of holding his hand, so bravely

passed the savage beasts, that his uncle pronounced that they should

make a man of him yet.

Arthur, always happier when the little fingers were in his, was

constantly talking of the good that Johnnie was to gain in the life in

the open air; and this project continually occupied them. The cottage

was a very pretty one, and most joyously did Olivia show it off to

Violet and Mrs. Moss, planning the improvements that Mr. Hunt was to

make in it, and helping Violet fix on the rooms. It seemed like the

beginning of rural felicity; and Arthur talked confidently to his wife

of so rapidly doubling his capital, that he should pay off his debts

without troubling his father, who need never be aware of their extent.

Violet did not quite like this, but Arthur argued, ‘They are my own

concerns, not his, and if I can extricate myself without help, why

should he be further plagued about me?’

She did not contest the point; it would be time enough when they were at

Brogden, but it made her rather uneasy; the concealment was a little too

like a return to former habits, and she could not but fear the very

name of horses and races. Still, in the way of business, and with George

Hunt, a man so thoroughly to be relied on, it was a different thing; and

Arthur’s mind was so changed in other matters, that she could not dream

of distrust. The scheme was present pleasure enough in itself, and they

all fed on it, though Mr. Hunt always declared that the Colonel must not

consider himself pledged till he had consulted his own family, and that

he should do nothing to the house till he had heard from him again.

Violet could not satisfy herself that Lord and Lady Martindale would

give ready consent, and when talking it over alone with her mother,

expressed her fears.

‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Moss, ‘perhaps it will be all for the best.

We cannot tell whether it might turn out well for you to be settled near

us. Colonel Martindale is used to something different, and your children

are born to another rank of life.’

‘O mamma, that could make no difference.’

‘Not, perhaps, while they were young, but by and by you would not wish

to have them feeling that we are not like their other relations. My dear

child, you need not blush to that degree!’

‘They will never feel that you are not equal to--to the grandest--the

dearest!’ said Violet, tearfully.

‘You would try not to let them, dearest, but the truth would be too

strong,’ said Mrs. Moss, smiling. ‘You know we had been content to think

poor Louisa our model of manners till you came among us again.’

‘O, mamma! at least there was Lady Lucy.’

‘And now we see you fit company for Lady Lucy, and that we are not. No,

my dear, don’t deny it; I see it in your ease with her, and it is quite

right.’

‘I don’t like to think so!’

‘I understand better now,’ said Mrs. Moss. ‘Perhaps it would have been

more advisable if there had been no intermingling of ranks, yet I can

hardly regret, when I see you, my Violet. It has raised your whole tone

of mind, but it has cut you off from us, and we cannot conceal it from

ourselves. If you do come here, you must make up your mind beforehand

not to be too intimate even with Olivia and George.’

‘I am very glad I am not to settle it,’ said Violet, with a sigh. ‘I

should be much disappointed to give it up, and yet sometimes--it will

be some consolation at least to find that you have not set your heart on

it, mamma?’

‘I have left off setting my heart on anything, my dear child, said Mrs.

Moss, with a sigh, telling of many and many a disappointment. Sincerely

religious as she was, it was out of sight, and scarcely a word was ever

breathed to her daughter of her true spring of action.

There was a feeling that she was not mistaken in thinking that too much

intercourse was not desirable. Arthur was apt to call the distance from

Wrangerton to Lassonthwayte seven miles, instead of five, and soon it

grew to nine, with a bad road and a shocking hill. This was after he had

discovered from Mr. Hunt that Lord St. Erme’s affairs had fallen into

a most unsatisfactory state, while the Messrs. Moss had been amassing a

comfortable fortune; and that every one knew that the colliery accident

was chiefly owing to Albert’s negligence, cowardice, and contempt of

orders; so that it was the general marvel that the Earl did not expose

them, and remove his affairs from their hands.

Arthur could suppose that the cause of this forbearance might be the

connection between Theodora and the Moss family; and the idea made him

feel almost guilty when in company with the Earl. Matilda, and indeed

the others, were surprised at his declining the invitations to stay at

the park; but Violet, as well as he, thought it better to lay themselves

under no further obligations; though they could not avoid receiving many

attentions. Lady Lucy feted the children, and Violet accomplished her

wish of showing Johnnie the little Madonna of Ghirlandajo.

The first sight of the rooms made Violet somewhat melancholy, as she

missed the beautiful works of art that had been a kind of education to

her eye and taste, and over which she had so often dreamt and speculated

with Annette. However, there was something nobler in the very emptiness

of their niches, and there was more appropriateness in the little

picture of the Holy Child embracing His Cross, now that it hung as

the solo ornament of the library, than when it was vis-a-vis to Venus

blindfolding Cupid, and surrounded by a bewildering variety of subjects,

profane and sacred, profanely treated. She could not help feeling that

there was a following in those steps when she saw how many luxuries

had been laid aside, and how the brother and sister, once living in

an atmosphere of morbid refinement, were now toiling away, solely

thoughtful of what might best serve their people, mind or body, and

thinking no service beneath them.

Lord St. Erme’s talent and accomplishment were no longer conducive only

to amusement or vanity, though they still were exercised; and it

was curious to see his masterly drawings hung round the schools and

reading-room, and his ready pencil illustrating his instructions, and

to hear him reading great authors to the rude audience whom he

awakened into interest. There might be more done than sober judgments

appreciated, and there were crotchets that it was easy to ridicule, but

all was on a sound footing, the work was thoroughly carried out, and the

effects were manifest. The beautiful little church rising at Coalworth

would find a glad congregation prepared to value it, both by the Earl

and by the zealous curate.

Violet wished Theodora could but see, and wondered whether she would

ever venture to make a visit at Lassonthwayte; hardly, she supposed,

before her marriage.

Lady Lucy one day asked when Miss Martindale was to be married, and on

hearing that no period could be fixed, said she was grieved to find it

so; it would be better for her brother that it should be over. Violet

ventured to express her hopes that he had at last found peace and

happiness.

‘Yes,’ said Lucy, ‘he is very busy and happy. I do not think it dwells

on his spirits, but it is the disappointment of his life, and he will

never get over it.’

‘I hope he will find some one to make him forget it.’

‘I do not think he will. No one can ever be like Miss Martindale, and I

believe he had rather cling to the former vision, though not repining.

He is quite content, and says it is a good thing to meet with a great

disappointment early in life.’

Violet doubted not of his contentment when she had looked into his adult

school, and seen how happily he was teaching a class of great boys to

write; nor when she heard him discussing prices, rents, and wages with

Mr. Hunt.

Lord St. Erme and Lady Lucy had come to an early dinner at

Lassonthwayte, thus causing great jealousy on the part of Mrs. Albert

Moss, and despair on Matilda’s, lest Olivia should do something

extremely amiss without her supervision. Little did she guess that Lucy

had been reckoning on the pleasure of meeting her dear Mrs. Moss for

once without those daughters.

After dinner, all the party were on the lawn, watching the tints on

the mountains, when Lord St. Erme, coming to walk with Mrs. Martindale,

asked her, with a smile, if she remembered that she had been the first

person who ever hinted that the Westmoreland hills might be more to him

than the Alps.

‘I have not forgotten that evening,’ he said. ‘It was then that I first

saw Mr. Fotheringham;’ and he proceeded to ask many questions about

Percy’s former appointment at Constantinople, his length of service, and

reason for giving it up, which she much enjoyed telling. He spoke too of

his books, praising them highly, and guessing which were his articles

in reviews, coming at last to that in which, as he said, he had had the

honour of being dissected.

‘Poor Lucy has hardly yet forgiven it,’ he said; ‘but it was one of the

best things that ever befell me.’

‘I wonder it did not make you too angry to heed it.’

‘Perhaps I was at first, but it was too candid to be offensive. The

arrow had no venom, and was the first independent criticism I had

met with. Nobody had cared for me enough to take me to task for my

absurdities. I am obliged to Mr. Fotheringham.’

Violet treasured this up for Percy’s benefit.

This festivity was their last in the north. Their visit at Lassonthwayte

had been lengthened from a week to a fortnight, and Lady Martindale

wrote piteous letters, entreating them to come to Brogden, where she

had made every arrangement for their comfort, even relinquishing her own

dressing-room. They bade farewell to Wrangerton, Arthur assuring Mrs.

Moss that he would soon bring Violet back again; and Mrs. Moss and

Violet agreeing that they were grateful for their happy meeting, and

would not be too sorry were the delightful vision not to be fulfilled.

At the beginning of their journey, Arthur’s talk was all of the horses

at Lassonthwayte and the friendship that would soon be struck up between

Percy and Mr. Hunt. The railway passed by the village of Worthbourne,

and he called Violet to look out at what might yet be Theodora’s home.

‘For the sake of John and Helen too,’ said Violet; while the children,

eager for anything approaching to a sight, peeped out at the window, and

exclaimed that there was a flag flying on the top of the church steeple.

‘The village wake, I suppose,’ said Arthur. ‘Ha! Helen, we will surprise

Uncle Percy by knowing all about it!’

At the halt at the Worthbourne station, he accordingly put out his head

to ask the meaning of the flag.

‘It is for the son and heir, sir. Old Sir Antony’s grandson.’

Arthur drew in his head faster than he had put it out, making mutterings

to himself that a good deal surprised the children. After their long

pleasuring, Cadogan-place looked dingy, and Violet as she went up to the

drawing-room in the gray twilight, could not help being glad that only

three months of Arthur’s sick leave had expired, and that they were

to be there for no more than one night. In spite of many precious

associations, she could not love a London house, and the Lassonthwayte

cottage seemed the prettier in remembrance.

Arthur had fetched his papers, and had been sitting thoughtful for some

time after Johnnie had gone to bed, when he suddenly looked up and said,

‘Violet, would it be a great vexation to you if we gave up this scheme?’

‘Don’t think of me. I always thought you might view it differently from

a distance.’

‘It is not that,’ said Arthur; ‘I never liked any one better than Hunt,

and it is nine if not ten miles from the town. But, Violet, I find we

are in worse plight than I thought. Here are bills that must be renewed,

and one or two things I had forgotten, and while I owe the money and

more too, I could hardly in honesty speculate with the price of my

commission.’

‘No!--oh! You could never be comfortable in doing so.’

‘If it was only Percy that was concerned, I might get him to risk it,

and then double it, and set him and Theodora going handsomely; but--No,

it is of no use to think about it. I wish it could be--’

‘You are quite right, I am sure.’

‘The thing that settles it with me is this,’ continued Arthur. ‘It is

a way of business that would throw me with the old set, and there is no

safety but in keeping clear of them. I might have been saved all this

if I had not been ass enough to put my neck into Gardner’s noose that

unlucky Derby-day. I had promised never to bet again after I married,

and this is the end of it! So I think I have no right to run into

temptation again, even for the chance of getting clear. Do you?’

‘You are quite right,’ she repeated. ‘If the money is not our own, it

would only be another sort--’

‘Of gambling. Ay! And though in those days I did not see things as I

do now, and Hunt is another sort of fellow, I fancy you had rather not

trust me, mamma?’ said he, looking with a rather sad though arch smile

into her face.

‘Dear Arthur, you know--’

‘I know I won’t trust myself,’ he answered, trying to laugh it off. ‘And

you’ll be a good child, and not cry for the cottage?’

‘Oh, no! Mamma and I both thought there might possibly be considerations

against it, especially as the girls grow up.’

‘That’s right. I could not bear giving up what you seemed to fancy.

but we will visit them when we want a mouthful of air, and Annette and

Octavia shall come and stay with us. I should like to show Octavia a

little of the world.’

‘Then, we shall go on as we are?’

‘Yes; spend as little as may be, and pay off so much a year. If we keep

no horses, that is so much clear gain.’

‘That seems the best way; but I almost fear your being well without

riding.’

‘No fear of that! I don’t want to go out, and you never do. We will take

our long walks, and, as Percy says, I will read and be rational. I mean

to begin Johnnie’s Latin as soon as we are settled in. Why, I quite look

forward to it.’

‘How delighted Johnnie will be!’

‘We shall do famously!’ repeated Arthur. ‘Nothing like home, after all.’

Violet did not think he quite knew what he undertook, and her heart sank

at the idea of a London winter, with his health and spirits failing for

want of his usual resources. He imagined himself perfectly recovered;

but when he went the next day to show himself to the doctor, the

stethoscope revealed that the damage was not so entirely removed but

that the greatest care would be necessary for some time to come. It sat

lightly on him; his spirits depended on his sensations, and he had no

fears but that a few months would remove all danger; and Violet would

say no word of misgiving. She would have felt that to remonstrate would

have been to draw him back, after his first step in the path of resolute

self-denial.

CHAPTER 17

On Sunday, Heaven’s gate stands ope,

Blessings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than hope.

--G. HERBERT

‘Five years! How little can letters convey the true state of affairs!

They can but record events--not their effects nor the insensible changes

that may have taken place. My aunt’s death I know, but not what my

mother is without her. I have heard of my father’s cares, but I have

yet to see whether he is aged or broken. And Theodora, she has had many

trials, but what can she be--tamed and refined as they tell me she is?

I wish I could have gone through London to see Arthur and Violet. There

again is the anxious question, whether his repentance is really such

as his touching letter led me to hope. One at least I trust to see

unchanged--my sweet sister, my best correspondent! Foolish it is

to cling to the hope of meeting her again, as that vision of

loveliness--that creature of affection and simplicity, that first awoke

me to a return of cheerfulness! The boy, too--my godson, my child! he

has been the dream of my solitude. At last, here is the village. How

bright its welcome, this summer evening! Old faces!--may those at home

be as unchanged. Alteration enough here! Even at this distance I see the

ruin; but how richly green the park! How fresh the trees, and the shade

of the avenue! This is home, thanks to Him who has led me safely back.

Whom do I see yonder in the avenue? A gentleman leading a pony, and a

little boy on it! Can it be?--impossible! Yet the step and manner are

just as he used to lead Violet’s horse, Surely, it must be he! I must

meet him and hear all before going up to the house, it will prepare

them. Stop here.

He was out of the carriage in a moment, and walking down the avenue,

feeling as if he only now was in the right way home; but a misgiving

crossing him as he came nearer the two figures that had attracted

him--there was less resemblance on a nearer view than in the general air

when further off.

A shout--‘Hollo, John!’ settled all doubts.

‘Arthur! is it you?’ and the brothers’ hands were locked together.

‘Here is a gentleman you know something of, and who has thought very

much of you,’ continued Arthur, proudly. ‘There, is not he like her?’ as

he tried to give a cock-up to the limp, flapping straw hat, under shade

of which Johnnie was glowing up to his curls.

‘Her very look!’ said John. ‘How is she, Arthur, and all of them?’

‘All well. Have you not been at home yet!’

‘No; I saw you here, and I could not help coming to meet you, that I

might know if all was right.’

‘You would have found no one at home, unless my mother and Violet are

come in. They are always creeping about together.’

‘Where is my father?’

‘Looking after the workmen at the farm. We left him there because it

was Johnnie’s supper-time. Why, John, what a hale, middle-aged looking

subject you are grown! Was it not wonderful sagacity in me to know you?’

‘Greater than mine,’ said John. ‘My instinct was failing as I came near.

Are you really well?’

‘Never better. Johnnie and his mamma nursed me well again, and Helvellyn

breezes blew away the remainder. When did you land?’

‘This morning. We put in at Liverpool, and I came on at once. How is my

mother? She had not been well.’

‘She was ailing all the winter, but a house full of grandchildren seems

to have cured her completely. You will stare to see her a perfect slave

to--our eldest girl,’ said Arthur, checking himself as he was about to

speak the name, and John turned to the child.

‘Well, Johnnie, and are you fond of riding?’

‘With papa holding the rein,’ and Johnnie edged closer to his father.

‘Ay! I hope your uncle did not expect a godson like your dear Coeur de

Lion, whom you have been romancing about all the way home. What is the

country your uncle has seen, and you want to see, Johnnie?’

‘Please, don’t now, papa,’ whispered Johnnie, colouring deeply.

‘Yes, yes, you shall have it out when you are better acquainted,’ said

Arthur, patting both boy and pony. ‘Well, John, is this the fellow you

expected?’

John smiled, but before he could answer, a voice from behind, shouting

to them to wait, caused him to turn, exclaiming, ‘Percy! I did not know

he was here! And Theodora!’

‘He came a day or two ago--’

Theodora blushed crimson, and all the glad words of welcome were

spoken by Percy; but he then fell into the background, taking charge of

Johnnie, while the other three walked on together, Theodora’s arm within

that of her eldest brother.

‘Thank you for your letter,’ said Arthur. ‘It did me great good.’

‘My impulse was to have set out at once on receiving yours, but I was

obliged to wait to get things into train for going on without me; and

since that there have been delays of steamers.’

‘You could not have come at a better time. We only wanted you to make us

complete--’

Arthur was interrupted by a joyous outcry of ‘Papa! papa!’ from a little

group on the other side of the road into which they were emerging.

‘Ay! and who else! Look at this fellow!’ cried he, catching from Sarah’s

arm, and holding aloft an elf, whose round mouth and eyes were all

laughter, and sturdy limbs all movement, the moment he appeared. ‘There!

have we not improved in babies since your time! And here is a round

dumpling that calls itself Anna. And that piece of mischief is

grandmamma’s girl, Aunt Theodora’s double.’

Those flashing black eyes were not the ideal John had attached to the

name which Arthur had paused to speak; but it would have been hard to be

disappointed by the bright creature, who stood on the raised foot-path,

pretending to hide her face with a bunch of tall foxgloves, and peeping

out behind them to see whether she was noticed.

‘The introduction is all on one side,’ said Percy. ‘Do you know who it

is, Helen?’

Helen stuck her chin into her neck. She would tell her surmise to no

one but Johnnie, who had persuaded Mr. Fotheringham to lift him from

horseback, where he was never at ease with any one but papa. He looked

up smiling: ‘Helen thinks it must be Uncle Martindale, because papa is

so glad.’

Helen ran away, but returned for a ride; and when the party, that had

gathered like a snow-ball, came in front of the cottage, Percy was

holding both little sisters on the pony at once, Theodora still leaning

on her eldest brother’s arm, Johnnie gravely walking on the foot-path,

studying his uncle, and Arthur, with the young Arthur pulling his

whiskers all the time, was walking forwards and backwards, round and

about his brother, somewhat in the ecstatic aimless fashion of a dog who

meets his master.

He was the first to exclaim, ‘There she is! Run on, Johnnie, tell mamma

and grandmamma whom we have here.’

The first greeting was left exclusively to Lady Martindale. When John’s

attention was again at liberty, Violet was standing by her husband,

saying, with a sweet smile of playful complaint, ‘And you have shown him

all the children and I was not there!’

‘Never mind. They will show off much better with you, you jealous woman.

What does John think to hear you scolding?’

‘Has he seen all the children?’ said Lady Martindale, taking up the

note. ‘Oh! what is Mr. Fotheringham doing with Helen and Annie? It is

very dangerous!’

And Lady Martindale hastened to watch over the little girls, who, of

course, were anything but grateful for her care, while Violet was asking

John about his voyage, and inquiring after the interests he had left in

Barbuda.

The first sight of her was a shock. The fragile roses that had dwelt

on his imagination had faded away, and she was now, indeed, a beautiful

woman,--but not the creature of smiles and tears whom he remembered.

The pensive expression, the stamp of anxiety, and the traces of

long-continued over-exertion, were visible enough to prove to him that

his fears had been fulfilled, and that she had suffered too deeply ever

to return to what she had once been.

Yet never had John so enjoyed an arrival, nor felt so thoroughly at

home, as when his father had joined them, full of quiet and heartfelt

gladness. Stiffness and formality seemed to have vanished with the state

rooms; and there was no longer the circle on company terms, for Lady

Martindale herself was almost easy, and Theodora’s words, though few,

were devoid of the sullen dignity of old times. Violet’s timidity, too,

was gone, and the agitated wistful glances she used to steal towards

her husband, had now become looks of perfect, confiding, yet fostering

affection. John saw her appealed to, consulted, and put forward as

important to each and all of the family party, as if every one of them

depended on her as he had been wont to do, while she still looked as

retiring as ever, and taken up by watching that the children behaved

well.

The occupation of the evening was the looking over plans for the new

house. Lord Martindale had them all ready, and John soon perceived that

his father’s wishes were that he should prefer those which most nearly

reproduced the original building, pulled down to please Mrs. Nesbit.

Lady Martindale had surprised them by making from memory a beautiful

sketch of the former house; and her husband, to whom each line produced

a fresh hoard of reminiscences, was almost disappointed that John’s

recollection did not go back far enough to recognize the likeness,

though he was obliged to confess that not a wall of it was standing when

he was two years old.

The general vote was, of course, that Old Martindale should be

renewed,--and it was to be begun--when?

‘When ways and means are found,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘We must talk

over that another time, John.’

John, as he bade Theodora good night, murmured thanks for the safety

of all the properties which he had been surprised to find in the room

prepared for him. Her eyes were liquid as she faltered her answer.

‘O, John, it was such a pleasure! How much you have to forgive! How

right you were, and how wrong I was!’

‘Hush! not now,’ said John, kindly.

‘Yes, now, I cannot look at you till I have said it. I have felt the

truth of every word you said, and I beg your pardon for all that has

passed.’

He pressed her hand in answer, saying, ‘It was my fault. But all is well

now, and you know how I rejoice.’

‘Everything is everybody’s fault,’ said Percy, joining him; ‘but we must

not stop to battle the point, or Mr. Hugh Martindale’s housekeeper will

be irate. Good night, Theodora.’

Percy and John were quartered at the Vicarage, and walked thither, at

first in silence, till the former said, ‘Well, what do you think of it?’

‘The best coming home I ever had, and the most surprising. I have seen

so much that is unexpected, that I don’t know how to realize it.’

‘Heartsease,’ was Percy’s brief reply.

‘Violet? You don’t mean it!’

‘The history of these years is this,’ said Percy, making an emphatic

mark on the gravel with his stick. ‘Every one else has acted, more or

less, idiotically. She has gone about softening, healing, guarding,

stirring up the saving part of each one’s disposition. If, as she avers,

you and Helen formed her, you gave a blessing to all of us.’

‘How can this be? No one has spoken of her power.’

‘It is too feminine to be recognized. When you talk to the others you

will see I am right. I will speak for myself. I verily believe that

but for her I should have been by this time an unbearable disappointed

misanthrope.’

‘A likely subject,’ said John, laughing.

‘You cannot estimate the shock our rupture gave me, nor tell how I

tried to say “don’t care,” and never saw my savage spite till her gentle

rebuke showed it to me. Her rectitude and unselfishness kept up my faith

in woman, and saved me from souring and hardening. On the other hand,

her firmness won Theodora’s respect, her softness, her affection. She

led where I drove, acted the sun where I acted Boreas; and it is she who

has restored us to each other.’

‘Highly as I esteemed Violet, I little thought to hear this! My father

wrote that he regretted Theodora’s having been left to one so little

capable of controlling her.’

‘Lord Martindale is a very good man, but he has no more discrimination

of character than my old cat!’ cried Percy. ‘I beg your pardon, John,

but the fact was patent. Mrs. Martindale is the only person who has ever

been a match for Theodora. She conquered her, made her proud to submit,

and then handed her over to the lawful authorities. If Lord Martindale

has an unrivalled daughter, he ought to know whom to thank for it.’

‘I hope he appreciates Violet.’

‘In a sort he does. He fully appreciates her in her primary vocation,

as who would not, who had watched her last winter, and who sees what she

has made her husband.’

‘Then you are satisfied about Arthur?’

‘Better than I ever thought to be.’

‘And, Percy, what is this that he tells me of your having rescued him at

your own expense?’

‘Has he told you all that?’ exclaimed Percy.

‘He wished me to know it in case of his death.’

‘I could not help it, John,’ said Percy, in apology. ‘If you had seen

her and her babies, and had to leave him in that condition on her hands,

you would have seen there was nothing for it but to throw a sop to the

hounds, so that at least they might leave him to die in peace.’

‘It saved him! But why did you object to my father’s hearing of it?’

‘Because I knew he would dislike any sense of obligation, and that he

could not conveniently pay it off. Besides, we had to keep Arthur’s

mouth shut out of consideration for the blood-vessel, so I told him to

let it rest till you should come. I fancy we have all been watching

for you as a sort of “Deus ex Machina” to clear up the last act of the

drama, though how you are to do so, I cannot conceive.’

The next day was Sunday, almost the first truly homelike Sunday of

John’s life. Not only was there the churchgoing among friends and

kindred after long separation, but the whole family walked thither

together, as John had never known them do before; and with his mother

on his arm, his little godson holding Lord Martindale’s hand, Helen

skipping between her father and mother, Theodora gentle and subdued, it

seemed as if now, for the first time, they had become a household of the

same mind.

It was one of the most brilliant days of summer--a cloudless sky of deep

blue sunshine, in which the trees seemed to bask, and the air, though

too fresh to be sultry, disposing to inaction. After the second service,

there was a lingering on the lawn, and desultory talk about the contrast

to the West Indian Sundays, and the black woolly-headed congregation

responding and singing so heartily, and so uncontrollably gay and merry.

At length, when Johnnie and Helen, who had an insatiable appetite for

picaninny stories, had been summoned to supper, John and Violet found

that the rest of their companions had dispersed, and that they were

alone.

‘I told you that Fanshawe came home with me,’ said John. ‘The new

arrangements have increased his income;’ then, as Violet looked up

eagerly and hopefully,--‘he made me a confidence, at which I see you

guess.’

‘I only hope mamma will not be anxious about the climate. I must tell

her how well it has agreed with you.’

‘I am glad that you think there are hopes for him. It has been a long

attachment, but he thought it wrong to engage her affections while he

had no prospect of being able to marry.’

‘It is what we guessed!’ said Violet. ‘Dear Annette! If he is what I

remember him, she must be happy.’

‘I can hardly speak highly enough of him. I have found him a most

valuable friend, and am sincerely glad to be connected with him; but,

tell me, is not this the sister about whom Percy made a slight mistake!’

‘Oh! do you know that story? Yes, it was dear Annette! Otherwise

I should never have known about Mr. Fanshawe. It was only a vague

preference, but it was very fortunate that it prevented any attachment

to Percy, or it would have been hard to decide what would be right.’

‘Percy was much obliged to you.’

‘He was very kind not to be angry. I could have wished it exceedingly,

but I am so glad that I did not persuade Annette, and particularly glad

of this, for she has been out of spirits, and rather wasting her bloom

at home, without much definite employment.’

‘I understand. And did you never wish that you had influenced her

otherwise?’

‘If Percy and Theodora had not been reconciled, I thought I might have

done so. It did seem a long time to go on in doubt whether I had acted

for her happiness.’

‘But you acted in faith that the straightforward path was the safest.’

‘And now I am so thankful.’ She paused, they were passing the

drawing-room, and saw Arthur lying asleep on the sofa. She stepped in

at the French window, threw a light shawl over him, and closed the door.

‘He did not sleep till daylight this morning,’ she said, returning to

John. ‘Any excitement gives him restless nights.’

‘So I feared when I saw those two red spots on his cheeks in the

evening. I know them well! But how white and thin he looks! I want to

hear what you think of him. My father considers him fully recovered. Do

you?’

Violet shook her head. ‘He is as well as could be hoped after such an

illness,’ she said; ‘and Dr. L. tells him there is no confirmed disease,

but that his chest is in a very tender state, and he must take the

utmost care. That delightful mountain air at Lassonthwayte entirely took

away his cough, and it has not returned, though he is more languid and

tired than he was in the north, but he will not allow it, his spirits

are so high.’

‘I should like you to spend the winter abroad.’

‘That cannot be. If he is able in October, he must join, and the

regiment is likely to be in London all the winter,’ said Violet, with a

sigh.

‘Then he does not mean to sell out?’

‘No, we cannot afford it. We must live as little expensively as we can,

to get clear of the difficulties. Indeed, now the horses are gone, it is

such a saving that we have paid off some bills already.’

‘Has Arthur really parted with his horses?’

‘With all of them, even that beautiful mare. I am afraid he will miss

her very much, but I cannot say a word against it, for I am sure it is

right.’

‘ALL the horses?’ repeated John. ‘What are you to do without a carriage

horse?’

‘Oh! that is nothing new. We have not had one fit for me to use, since

the old bay fell lame three years ago. That does not signify at all, for

walking with the children suits me much better.’

John was confounded. He had little notion of existence without carriages

and horses.

‘I shall have Arthur to walk with now. He promises Johnnie and me

delightful walks in the park,’ said Violet, cheerfully, ‘if he is but

well.’

‘Ah! I see you dread that winter.’

‘I do!’ came from the bottom of Violet’s heart, spoken under her breath;

then, as if regretting her admission, she smiled and said, ‘Perhaps

there is no need! He has no fears, and it will be only too pleasant to

have him at home. I don’t think about it,’ added she, replying to the

anxious eyes that sought to read her fears. ‘This summer is too happy to

be spoilt with what may be only fancies, and after the great mercies

we have received, it would be too bad to distrust and grieve over the

future. I have so often thanked you for teaching me the lesson of the

lilies.’

‘I fear you have had too much occasion to practise it.’

‘It could not be too much!’ said Violet. ‘But often I do not know what

would have become of me, if I had not been obliged, as a duty, to put

aside fretting thoughts, and been allowed to cast the shadow of the

cross on my vexations.’

His eye fell on a few bright links of gold peeping out round her

neck--‘You have THAT still. May I see it?’

She took off the chain and placed it in his hand. ‘Thanks for it, more

than ever!’ she said. ‘My friend and preacher in time of need it has

often been, and Johnnie’s too.’

‘Johnnie?’

‘Yes, you know the poor little man has had a great deal of illness. This

is the first spring he has been free from croup; and you would hardly

believe what a comfort that cross has been to him. He always feels for

the chain, that he may squeeze Aunt Helen’s cross. At one time I was

almost afraid that it was a superstition, he was such a very little

fellow; but when I talked to him, he said, “I like it because of our

Blessed Saviour. It makes me not mind the pain so much, because you said

that was like Him, and would help to make me good if I was patient.”

Then I remembered what I little understood, when you told me that the

cross was his baptismal gift to sweeten his heritage of pain.’

John was much affected. ‘Helen’s cross has indeed borne abundant fruit!’

said he.

‘I told you how even I forgot it at first in the fire, and how it was

saved by Johnnie’s habit of grasping it in his troubles.’

‘I am glad it was he!’

‘Theodora said that he alone was worthy. But I am afraid to hear such

things said of him; I am too ready without them to think too much of my

boy.’

‘It would be difficult,’ began John; then smiling, ‘perhaps I ought to

take to myself the same caution; the thought of Johnnie has been so much

to me, and now I see him he is so unlike my expectations, and yet so far

beyond them. I feel as if I wanted a larger share of him than you and

his father can afford me.’

‘I don’t think we shall be jealous,’ was the happy answer. ‘Arthur is

very proud of your admiration of Master Johnnie. You know we have always

felt as if you had a right in him.’

Percy and Theodora here returned from the park, rejoicing to find others

as tardy in going in as themselves; Arthur, awakened by the voices, came

out, and as the others hurried in, asked John what they had been talking

about.

‘Of many things,’ said John; ‘much of my godson.’

‘Ay!’ said Arthur; ‘did you not wonder how anything so good can belong

to me?’

John smiled, and said, ‘His goodness belongs to nothing here.’

‘Nay, it is no time to say that after talking to his mother,’ said

Arthur; ‘though I know what you mean, and she would not let me say so.

Well, I am glad you are come, for talks with you are the greatest treat

to her. She seemed to be gathering them up again at Ventnor, and was

always telling me of them. She declares they taught her everything good;

though that, of course, I don’t believe, you know,’ he added, smiling.

‘No; there was much in which she needed no teaching, and a few hints

here and there do not deserve what she ascribes to them.’

‘John,’ said Arthur, coming nearer to him, and speaking low, ‘she and

her boy are more perfect creatures than you can guess, without knowing

the worst of me. You warned me that I must make her happy, and you

saw how it was the first year. It has been worse since that. I have

neglected them, let them deny themselves, ruined them, been positively

harsh to that angel of a boy; and how they could love me, and be patient

with me throughout, is what I cannot understand, though--though I can

feel it.’

‘Truly,’ thought John, as Arthur hastily quitted him, ashamed of his

emotion, ‘if Violet be my scholar, she has far surpassed her teacher!

Strange that so much should have arisen apparently from my attempt to

help and cheer the poor dispirited girl, in that one visit to

Ventnor, which I deemed so rash a venture of my own comfort--useless,

self-indulgent wretch that I was. She has done the very deeds that I had

neglected. My brother and sister, even my mother and Helen’s brother,

all have come under her power of firm meekness--all, with one voice, are

ready to “rise up and call her blessed!” Nay, are not these what Helen

would have most wished to effect, and is it not her memorials that have

been the instruments of infusing that spirit into Violet? These are

among the works that follow her, or, as they sung this evening--

“For seeds are sown of glorious light,

A future harvest for the just,

And gladness for the heart that’s right

To recompense its pious trust.”’

And in gladness did he stand before the house that had been destined as

the scene of his married life, and look forth on the churchyard where

Helen slept. He was no longer solitary, since he had begun to bear the

burdens of others; for no sooner did he begin to work, than he felt that

he worked with her.

CHAPTER 18

That we, whose work commenced in tears,

May see our labours thrive,

Till finished with success, to make

Our drooping hearts revive.

Though he despond that sows his grain,

Yet, doubtless, he shall come

To bind his full-ear’d sheaves, and bring

The joyful harvest home.

--Psalm 126. New Version

Business cares soon began. Arthur consented to allow his brother to lay

his embarrassments before his father. ‘Do as you please,’ he said;

‘but make him understand that I am not asking him to help me out of the

scrape. He does all he can for me, and cannot afford more; or, if

he could, Theodora ought to be thought of first. All I wish is, that

something should be secured to Violet and the children, and that, if I

don’t get clear in my lifetime, these debts may not be left for Johnnie.

‘That you may rely on,’ said John. ‘I wish I could help you; but there

were many things at Barbuda that seemed so like fancies of my own, that

I could not ask my father to pay for them, and I have not much at my

disposal just now.’

‘It is a good one to hear you apologizing to me!’ said Arthur, laughing,

but rather sadly, as John carried off the ominous pocket-book to the

study, hoping to effect great things for his brother; and, as the best

introduction, he began by producing the letter written at Christmas.

Lord Martindale was touched by the commencement, but was presently lost

in surprise on discovering Percy’s advance.

‘Why could he not have written to me? Did he think I was not ready to

help my own son?’

‘It was necessary to act without loss of time.’

‘If it were necessary to pay down the sum, why not tell me of it,

instead of letting poor Arthur give him a bond that is worth nothing?’

‘I fancy, if he had any notion of regaining Theodora, he was unwilling

you or she should know the extent of the obligation.’

‘It is well I do know it. I thought it unsatisfactory to hear of no

profit, after all the talk there has been about his books. I feared it

was an empty trade: but this is something like. Five thousand! He is a

clever fellow after all!’

‘I hope he may soon double it,’ said John, amused at this way of

estimating Percy’s powers.

‘Well, it was a friendly act,’ continued Lord Martindale. ‘A little

misjudged in the manner, perhaps; but if you had seen the state Arthur

was in--’

‘I should have forgiven Percy?’ said John, with a slightly ironical

smile, that made his father laugh.

‘Not that I am blaming him,’ he said; ‘but it shall be paid him at

once if it comes to selling Wyelands. You know one cannot be under

an obligation of this sort to a lad whom one has seen grow up in the

village.’

‘Perhaps he wishes it to be considered as all in the family.’

‘So it is. That is the worst of it. It is so much out of what he would

have had with Theodora, and little enough there is for her. A dead loss!

Could not Arthur have had more sense, at his age, and with all those

children! What’s all this?’ reading on in dismay. ‘Seven thousand more

at least! I’ll have nothing to do with it!’

An hour after, John came out into the verandah, where Percy was reading,

and asked if he knew where Arthur was.

‘He got into a ferment of anxiety, and Violet persuaded him to walk it

off. He is gone out with Johnnie and Helen. Well, how has he fared?’

‘Not as well as I could wish. My father will not do more towards the

debts than paying you.’

‘Ho! I hope he does not think I acted very impertinently towards him?’

John laughed, and Percy continued,

‘Seriously, I believe it is the impertinence hardest to forgive, and I

shall be glad when the subject is done with. That will be so much off

Arthur’s mind.’

‘I wish more was; but I had no idea that there was so little available

money amongst us. All I can gain in his favour is, that the estate is

to be charged with five hundred pounds a year for Violet in case of his

death; and there’s his five thousand pounds for the children; but, for

the present debts, my father will only say that, perhaps he may help, if

he sees that Arthur is exerting himself to economize and pay them off.’

‘Quite as much as could reasonably be expected. The discipline will be

very good for him.’

‘If it does not kill him,’ said John, sighing. ‘My father does not

realize the shock to his health. He is in the state now that I was in

when we went abroad, and--’

‘And I firmly believe that if you had had anything to do but nurse your

cough, you would have been in much better health.’

‘But it is not only for Arthur that I am troubled. What can be worse

than economizing in London, in their position? What is to become of

Violet, without carriage, without--’

Percy laughed. ‘Without court-dresses and powdered footmen? No, no,

John. Depend upon it, as long as Violet has her husband safe at home,

she wants much fewer necessaries of life than you do.’

‘Well, I will try to believe it right. I see it cannot be otherwise.’

Arthur was not of this mind. He was grateful for his father’s

forgiveness and assistance, and doubly so for the provision for

his wife, hailing it as an unexpected and undeserved kindness. Lord

Martindale was more pleased by his manner in their interview than ever

he had been before. Still there were many difficulties: money was to

be raised; and the choice between selling, mortgaging, or cutting down

timber, seemed to go to Lord Martindale’s heart. He had taken such pride

in the well-doing of his estate! He wished to make further retrenchments

in the stable and garden arrangements; but, as he told John, he knew

not how to reduce the enormous expense of the latter without giving more

pain to Lady Martindale than he could bear to inflict.

John offered to sound her, and discover whether the notion of dismissing

Armstrong and his crew would be really so dreadful. He found that

she winced at the mention of her orchids and ferns, they recalled

the thought of her aunt’s love for them, and she had not been in the

conservatories for months. John said a word or two on the cost of

keeping them up, and the need of prudence, with a view to providing for

Arthur’s children. It was the right chord. She looked up, puzzled: her

mathematical knowledge had never descended to £.s.d.

‘Is there a difficulty? I thought my dear aunt had settled all her

property on dear little Johnnie.’

‘Yes, but only when he comes to the title; and for the others there is

absolutely nothing but Arthur’s five thousand pounds to be divided among

them all.’

‘You don’t say so, John? Poor little dears! there is scarcely more than

a thousand a-piece. Surely, there is my own property--’

‘I am sorry to say it was settled so as to go with the title. The only

chance for them is what can be saved--’

‘Save everything, then,’ exclaimed Lady Martindale. ‘I am sure I would

give up anything, if I did but know what. We have not had leaders for

a long time past, and Theodora’s dumb boy does as well as the second

footman; Standaloft left me because she could not bear to live in a

cottage; Grimes suits me very well; and I do not think I could do quite

without a maid.’

‘No, indeed, my dear mother,’ said John, smiling; ‘that is the last

thing to be thought of. All my father wished to know was, whether it

would grieve you if we gave the care of the gardens to somewhat less of

a first-rate genius?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Lady Martindale, emphatically. ‘I shall never

bear to return to those botanical pursuits. It was for her sake. Dear

little Helen and the rest must be the first consideration. Look here!

she really has a very good notion of drawing.’

John perceived that his mother was happier than she had ever been, in

waiting upon the children, and enjoying the company of Violet, whose

softness exactly suited her; while her decision was a comfortable

support to one who had all her life been trained round a stake. They

drove and walked together; and Lady Martindale, for the first time, was

on foot in the pretty lanes of her own village; she had even stopped at

cottage doors, when Violet had undertaken a message while Theodora was

out with Percy, and one evening she appeared busy with a small lilac

frock that Helen imagined herself to be making. Lady Martindale was much

too busy with the four black-eyed living blossoms to set her heart on

any griffin-headed or monkey-faced orchids; and her lord found that she

was one of those who would least be sensible of his reductions. Theodora

was continually surprised to see how much more successful than herself

Violet was in interesting her, and keeping her cheerful. Perhaps it was

owing to her own vehemence; but with the best intentions she had failed

in producing anything like the present contentment. And, somehow, Lord

and Lady Martindale seemed so much more at ease together, and to have so

much more to say to each other, that their Cousin Hugh one day observed,

it was their honeymoon.

‘I say, John,’ said Percy, one night, as they were walking to the

vicarage, ‘I wish you could find me something to do in the West Indies.’

‘I should be very sorry to export you--’

‘I must do something!’ exclaimed Percy. ‘I was thinking of emigration;

but your sister could not go in the present state of things here; and

she will not hear of my going and returning when I have built a nest for

her.’

‘No, indeed!’ said John. ‘Your powers were not given for the hewing down

of forests.’

‘Were not they?’ said Percy, stretching and clenching a hard muscular

wrist and hand.

‘“A man’s a man for a’ that!”

I tell you, John, I am wearying for want of work--hard, downright,

substantial work!’

‘Well, you have it, have you not?’

‘Pshaw! Pegasus won’t let himself out on hire. I can’t turn my sport

into my trade. When I find myself writing for the lucre of gain, the

whole spirit leaves me.’

‘That is what you have been doing for some time.’

‘No such thing. Literature was my holiday friend at first; and if she

put a gold piece or two into my pocket, it was not what I sought her

for. Then she came to my help to beguile what I thought was an interval

of waiting for the serious task of life. I wrote what I thought was

wanted. I sent it forth as my way of trying what service I could do

in my generation. But now, when I call it my profession, when I think

avowedly, what am I to get by it?--Faugh! the Muse is disgusted;

and when I go to church, I hang my head at “Lay not up to yourselves

treasures upon earth--“’

‘A fine way you found of laying them up!’

‘It proved the way to get them back.’

‘I do not understand your objection. You had laid up that sum--your fair

earning.’

‘There it was: it had accumulated without positive intention on my part;

I mean that I had of course taken my due, and not found occasion to

spend it. It is the writing solely for gain, with malice prepense

to save it,--that is the stumbling-block. I don’t feel as if I was

justified in it, nay, I cannot do it; my ideas do not flow even on

matters wont to interest me most. It was all very well when waiting on

Arthur was an object; but after he was gone, I found it out. I could not

turn to writing, and if I did, out came things I was ashamed of. No! an

able-bodied man of five-and-thirty is meant for tougher work than review

and history-mongering! I have been teaching a ragged school, helping at

any charities that needed a hand; but it seems amateur work, and I want

to be in the stream of life again!’

‘I will not say what most would--it was a pity you resigned your former

post.’

‘No pity at all. That has made a pair of good folks very happy. If I had

kept certain hasty judgments to myself, I should not have been laid on

the shelf. It is no more than I deserve, and no doubt it is good for me

to be humbled and set aside; but work I will get of some kind! I

looked in at a great factory the other day, and longed to apply for a

superintendent’s place, only I thought it might not be congruous with an

Honourable for a wife.’

‘You don’t mean to give up writing?’

‘No, to make it my play. I feel like little Annie, when she called

herself puss without a corner. I have serious thoughts of the law. Heigh

ho! Good night.’

John grieved over the disappointed tone so unusual in the buoyant Percy,

and revolved various devices for finding employment for him; but was

obliged to own that a man of his age, whatever his powers, when once

set aside from the active world, finds it difficult to make for himself

another career. It accounted to John for the degree of depression which

he detected in Theodora’s manner, which, at all times rather grave, did

not often light up into animation, and never into her quaint moods of

eccentric determination; she was helpful and kind, but submissive and

indifferent to what passed around her.

In fact, Theodora felt the disappointment of which Percy complained,

more uniformly than he did himself. He thought no more of it when

conversation was going on, when a service was to be done to any living

creature, or when he was playing with the children; but the sense of his

vexation always hung upon her; perhaps the more because she felt that

her own former conduct deserved no happiness, and that his future was

involved in hers. She tried to be patient, but she could not be gay.

Her scheme had been for Percy to take a farm, but he answered that he

had lived too much abroad, and in towns, to make agriculture succeed in

England. In the colonies perhaps,--but her involuntary exclamation of

dismay at the idea of letting him go alone, had made him at once abandon

the project. When, however, she saw how enforced idleness preyed on him,

and with how little spirit he turned to his literary pursuits, she began

to think it her duty to persuade him to go; and to this she had on this

very night, with a great effort, made up her mind.

‘There is space in his composition for more happiness than depends on

me,’ said she to Violet. ‘Exertion, hope, trust in me will make him

happy; and he shall not waste his life in loitering here for my sake.’

‘Dear Theodora, I fear it will cost you a great deal.’

‘Never mind,’ said Theodora; ‘I am more at peace than I have been for

years. Percy has suffered enough through me already.’

Violet looked up affectionately at her fine countenance, and gave one

of the mute caresses that Theodora liked from her, though she could have

borne them from no one else.

Theodora smiled, sighed, and then, shaking off the dejected tone, said,

‘Well, I suppose you will have a letter from Wrangerton to tell you it

is settled. I wonder if you will go to the wedding. Oh! Violet, if

you had had one particle of selfishness or pettiness, how many unhappy

people you would have made!’

Violet’s last letter from home had announced that Mr. Fanshawe had come

to stay with Mr. Jones, and she was watching eagerly for the next

news. She went down-stairs quickly, in the morning, to seek for her own

letters among the array spread on the sideboard.

Percy was alone in the room, standing by the window. He started at her

entrance, and hardly gave time for a good morning, before he asked where

Theodora was.

‘I think she is not come in. I have not seen her.’

He made a step to the door as if to go and meet her.

‘There is nothing wrong, I hope.’

‘I hope not! I hope there is no mistake. Look here.’

He held up, with an agitated grasp, a long envelope with the mighty

words, ‘On her Majesty’s service;’ and before Violet’s eyes he laid a

letter offering him a diplomatic appointment in Italy.

‘The very thing above all others I would have chosen. Capital salary!

Excellent house! I was staying there a week with the fellow who had it

before. A garden of gardens. Orange walks,--fountains,--a view of the

Apennines and Mediterranean at once. It is perfection. But what can have

led any one to pitch upon me?’

Arthur had come down in the midst, and leant over his rejoicing wife

to read the letter, while Percy vehemently shook his hand, exclaiming,

‘There! See! There’s the good time come! Did you ever see the like,

Arthur! But how on earth could they have chosen me? I know nothing of

this man--he knows nothing of me.’

‘Such compliments to your abilities and classical discoveries,’ said

Violet.

‘Much good they would do without interest! I would give twenty pounds to

know who has got me this.’

‘Ha! said Arthur, looking at the signature. ‘Did not he marry some of

the Delaval connection?’

‘Yes,’ said Violet; ‘Lady Mary--Lord St. Erme’s aunt. He was Lord St.

Erme’s guardian.’

‘Then that is what it is,’ said Arthur, sententiously. ‘Did you not tell

me that St. Erme had been examining you about Percy?’

‘Yes, he asked me about his writings, and how long he had been at

Constantinople,’ said Violet, rather shyly, almost sorry that her

surprise had penetrated and proclaimed what the Earl no doubt meant

to be a secret, especially when she saw that Percy’s exultation was

completely damped. There was no time for answer, for others were

entering, and with a gesture to enforce silence, he pocketed the papers,

and said nothing on the subject all breakfast-time. Even while Violet

regaled herself with Annette’s happy letter, she had anxious eyes and

thoughts for the other sister, now scarcely less to her than Annette.

She called off the children from dancing round Uncle Percy after

breakfast, and watched him walk off with Theodora to the side arcade in

the avenue that always had especial charms for them.

‘Theodora, here is something for you to decide.’

‘Why, Percy!’ as she read, ‘this is the very thing! What! Is it not a

good appointment? Why do you hesitate?’

‘It is an excellent appointment, but this is the doubt. Do you see that

name? There can be no question that this is owing to Lord St. Erme.’

‘I see!’ said Theodora, blushing deeply.

‘I wish to be guided entirely by your feeling.’

They walked the whole length of the avenue and turned again before she

spoke. At last she said--‘Lord St. Erme is a generous person, and should

be dealt with generously. I have given him pain by my pride and caprice,

and I had rather give him no more. No doubt it is his greatest pleasure

to make us happy, and I think he ought to be allowed to have it. But let

it be as you please.’

‘I expected you to speak in this way. You think that he does not deserve

to be wounded by my refusing this because it comes from him.’

‘That is my feeling, but if you do not like--I believe you do not.

Refuse it, then.’

‘To say I like the obligation would not be true; but I know it is right

that I should conquer the foolish feeling. After all, it is public work

that I am to do, and it would be wrong and absurd to refuse it, because

it is he who has brought my name forward.’

‘You take it, then?’

‘Yes, standing reproved, and I might almost say punished, for my past

disdain of this generous man.’

‘If you say so, what must I?’

Percy resolved that, after consulting Lord Martindale, he would at once

set off for London, to signify his acceptance, and make the necessary

inquiries. Theodora asked whether he meant to appear conscious of the

influence exerted in his favour. ‘I will see whether it was directly

employed; if so, it would be paltry to seem to appear unconscious. I had

rather show that I appreciate his feeling, and if I feel an obligation,

acknowledge it.

‘I wonder, Theodora,’ said Arthur, ‘that you allow him to go. He is

so fond of giving away whatever any one cries for, that you will find

yourself made over to St. Erme.’

In three days’ time Percy returned; Theodora went with Arthur and Violet

to meet him at the station.

‘Well!’ said he, as they drove off, ‘he is a very fine fellow, after

all! I don’t know what is to be done for him! I wish we could find a

Theodora for him.’

‘I told you so, Theodora!’ cried Arthur. ‘He has presented you.’

‘There were two words to that bargain!’ said Percy. ‘He must be content

to wait for Helen.’

‘So instead of my sister, you dispose of my daughter,’ said Arthur.

‘Poor little Helen!’ said Violet. ‘Imagine the age he will be when she

is eighteen!’

‘He will never grow old!’ said Percy. ‘He has the poet’s gift of

perpetual youth, the spring of life and fancy that keeps men young. He

has not grown a day older since this time five years. I found he had

taken a great deal of trouble about me, recommended me strenuously,

brought forward my papers on foreign policy, and been at much pains

to confute that report that was afloat against me. He treated my

appointment as a personal favour; and he is a man of weight now. You

were right, Theodora; it would have been abominable to sulk in

our corner, because we had behaved ill ourselves, and to meet such

noble-spirited kindness as an offence.’

‘I am very glad that you feel it so,’ returned Theodora.

‘Now that I have seen him I do so completely. And another thing I

have to thank you for, Violet, that you saved me from laying it on any

thicker in that criticism of his poetry.’

‘I told you how he said that you had done him a great deal of good.’

‘A signal instance--almost a single instance of candour. But there is

a nobility of mind in him above small resentments and jealousies. Ay!

there never will be anybody fit for him but Helen!’

‘And Helen brought up to be much better than her aunt,’ said Theodora.

‘It won’t be my mother’s fault if she is,’ said Arthur. ‘I was

determined yesterday to see what she would succeed in making her do, and

I declare the sprite drove her about like a slave--“Grandmamma, fetch me

this,” “grandmamma, you must do that,” till at last she brought my poor

mother down on her knees, stooping under the table to personate an old

cow in the stall.’

‘Oh! Arthur! Arthur, how could you?’ exclaimed Violet. ‘What were you

about to let it go on?’

‘Lying on the sofa, setting a good example,’ said Percy.

‘No, no, I did not go that length,’ said Arthur. ‘I was incog. in

the next room; but it was too good to interrupt. Besides, Helen has

succeeded to my aunt’s vacant throne, and my mother is never so hurt

as when Violet interferes with any of her vagaries. The other day, when

Violet carried her off roaring at not being allowed to turn grandmamma’s

work-box inside out, her ladyship made a formal remonstrance to me on

letting the poor child’s spirit be broken by strictness.’

‘I hope you told her that some spirits would be glad to have been broken

long ago,’ said Theodora.

‘I only told her I had perfect faith in Violet’s management.’

Percy was wanted speedily to set off for his new situation, and

the question of the marriage became difficult. His income was fully

sufficient, but Theodora had many scruples about leaving her mother,

whom the last winter had proved to be unfit to be left without

companionship. They doubted and consulted, and agreed that they must be

self-denying; but John came to their relief. He shrank with a sort of

horror from permitting such a sacrifice as his own had been; held that

it would be positively wrong to let their union be delayed any longer,

and found his father of the same opinion, though not knowing how Lady

Martindale would bear the loss. Perhaps his habit of flinching from

saying to her what he expected her to dislike, had been one cause of

Mrs. Nesbit’s supremacy.

John, therefore, undertook to open her eyes to the necessity of

relinquishing her daughter, intending to offer himself as her companion

and attendant, ready henceforth to devote himself to her comfort, as the

means of setting free those who still had a fair prospect.

As usual, Lady Martindale’s reluctance had been overrated. John found

that she had never calculated on anything but Theodora’s marrying at

once; she only observed that she supposed it could not be helped, and

she was glad her dear aunt was spared the sight.

‘And you will not miss her so much when I am at home.’

‘You, my dear; I am never so happy as when you are here; but I do not

depend on you. I should like you to spend this winter abroad, and then

we must have you in Parliament again.’

‘If I were sure that you would be comfortable,’ said John; ‘but

otherwise I could not think of leaving you.’

‘I was thinking,’ said Lady Martindale, with the slowness of one little

wont to originate a scheme, ‘how pleasant it would be, if we could keep

Arthur and Violet always with us. I cannot bear to part with the dear

children, and I am sure they will all be ill again if they go back to

London.’

‘To live with us! exclaimed John. ‘Really, mother, you have found the

best plan of all. Nothing could be better!’

‘Do you think your father would approve?’ said Lady Martindale, eagerly.

‘Let us propose it to him,’ said John, and without further delay he

begged him to join the conference. The plan was so excellent that it

only seemed strange that it had occurred to no one before, combining the

advantages of giving Arthur’s health a better chance; of country air for

the children, and of economy. Lord Martindale looked very well pleased,

though still a little doubtful, as he pondered, whether there might not

be some unseen objection, and to give himself time to think, repeated,

in answer to their solicitations, that it was a most important step.

‘For instance,’ said he, as if glad to have recollected one argument

on the side of caution, ‘you see, if they live here, we are in a manner

treating Johnnie as the acknowledged heir.’

‘Exactly so,’ replied John; ‘and it will be the better for him, and for

the people. For my part--’

They were interrupted by Arthur’s walking in from the garden. Lady

Martindale, too eager to heed that her lord would fain not broach

the question till his deliberations were mature, rose up at once,

exclaiming, ‘Arthur my dear, I am glad you are come. We wish, when

Theodora leaves us, that you and your dear wife and children should come

and live at home always with us. Will you, my dear?’ Arthur looked from

one to the other in amaze.

‘It is a subject for consideration,’ began Lord Martindale. ‘I would not

act hastily, without knowing the sentiments of all concerned.’

‘If you mean mine,’ said John, ‘I will finish what I was saying,--that,

for my part, a home is all that I can ever want; and that for Arthur

to afford me a share in his, and in his children’s hearts, would be the

greatest earthly happiness that I can desire.’

‘I am sure’--said Arthur, in a voice which, to their surprise, was

broken by a sob--‘I am sure, John--you have every right. You have made

my home what it is.’

‘Then he consents!’ exclaimed Lady Martindale; ‘I shall have Violet

always with me, and Helen.’

‘Thank you, thank you, mother; but--’ His eye was on his father.

‘Your mother does not know what she is asking of you, Arthur,’ said Lord

Martindale. ‘I would not have you engage yourself without consideration.

Such arrangements as these must not be made to be broken. For myself, it

is only the extreme pleasure the project gives me that makes me balance,

lest I should overlook any objection. To have your dear Violet for the

daughter of our old age, and your children round us, would, as John

says, leave us nothing to wish.’

Arthur could only tremulously repeat his ‘Thank you,’ but there was a

hesitation that alarmed his mother. ‘Your father wishes it, too,’ she

eagerly entreated.

‘Do not press him, Anna,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘I would not have him

decide hastily. It is asking a great deal of him to propose his giving

up his profession and his establishment.’

‘It is not that,’ said Arthur, turning gratefully to his father. ‘I

should be glad to give up the army and live at home--there is nothing

I should like better; but the point is, that I must know what Violet

thinks of it.’

‘Right! Of course, she must be consulted,’ said Lord Martindale.

‘You see,’ said Arthur, speaking fast, as if conscious that he appeared

ungracious, ‘it seems hard that she should have no house of her own, to

receive her family in. I had promised she should have her sisters with

her this winter, and I do not quite like to ask her to give it up.’

‘When the house is finished, and we have room,’ began Lady Martindale,

‘the Miss Mosses shall be most welcome.’

‘Thank you, thank you,’ repeated Arthur. ‘But besides, I do not know how

she will feel about the children. If we are to be here, it must be on

condition that she has the entire management of them to herself.’

‘Certainly,’ again said his father. She has them in excellent training,

and it would be entirely contrary to my principles to interfere.’

‘Then, you see how it is,’ said Arthur. ‘I am quite willing. I know it

is what I do not deserve, and I am more obliged than I can say; but all

must depend upon Violet.’

He was going in quest of her, when the Rickworth carriage stopped at the

gate and prevented him. Poor Lady Martindale, when she had sent her note

of invitation to Lady Elizabeth and Emma to spend a long day at Brogden,

she little imagined how long the day would be to her suspense. She could

not even talk it over with any one but John, and he did not feel secure

of Violet’s willingness. He said that, at one time, she had been very

shy and uncomfortable at Martindale, and that he feared there was reason

in what Arthur said about the children. He suspected that Arthur thought

that she would not like the scheme, and supposed that he knew best.

‘Cannot you try to prevail with her, dear John? You have great

influence.’

‘I should not think it proper to persuade her. I trust to her judgment

to see what is best, and should be sorry to distress her by putting

forward my own wishes.’

This conversation took place while the younger ladies were walking in

the garden with Lady Elizabeth and her daughter. It was the first time

that Emma had been persuaded to come from home, and though she could not

be more quiet than formerly, there was less peculiarity in her manner.

She positively entered into the general conversation, and showed

interest in the farming talk between her mother and Lord Martindale;

but the children were her chief resource. And, though affectionate

and almost craving pardon from Violet,--drawing out from her every

particular about the little ones, and asking much about Arthur’s health,

and Theodora’s prospects,--she left a veil over the matters that had so

deeply concerned herself.

It was from Lady Elizabeth that the sisters heard what they wished to

know; and Theodora, on her side, imparted the information which Percy

had brought from London. He had been trying whether it were possible

to obtain payment of Mr. Gardner’s heavy debts to Arthur, but had been

forced to relinquish the hope. So many creditors had claims on him

that, ample as was the fortune which Mrs. Finch’s affection had placed

entirely in his power, there was little probability that he would ever

venture to return to England. No notice had been taken of the demands

repeatedly sent in, and Percy had learnt that he was dissipating his

wife’s property very fast upon the Continent; so that it was likely

that, in a few years, Mr. Finch’s hoards would be completely gone.

Report also spoke of his rewarding his wife’s affection with neglect

and unkindness; and her sister, Mrs. Fotheringham, declared that, having

acted against warning, Georgina must take the consequences, and could

expect no assistance from Worthbourne.

Mournfully Theodora spoke. It was a saddening thought in the midst

of her happiness, and it pressed the more heavily upon her from the

consciousness, that she had been looked up to by Georgina, and had, in

her pride and self-will, forfeited the chance of exerting any beneficial

influence. She perceived the contrast between the effect of her own

character on others, and that of Violet, and could by no means feel

herself guiltless of her poor playmate’s sad history. Still she

cherished a secret hope that it might yet be permitted to her to meet

her again, and in the time of trouble to be of service to her.

This, of course, was not for Lady Elizabeth’s ears, but enough was told

her to make her again marvel over her daughter’s past infatuation, and

express her thankfulness for the escape.

Emma’s mind was gradually becoming tranquillized, though it had suffered

another severe shock from the tidings, that Theresa Marstone had

actually become a member of the Roman Catholic Church. A few months ago,

such intelligence might have unsettled Emma’s principles, as well as

caused her deep grief; but the conviction of the undutiful and uncandid

part which Miss Marstone had led her to act, had shaken her belief in

her friend’s infallibility; and in the safe and wholesome atmosphere of

her home, there had been a gradual disenchantment. She saw Sarah Theresa

in a true light, as a person of excellent intentions, and of many right

principles, but entirely unconscious of her own foibles, namely, an

overweening estimate of self and of her own opinions, and a love of

excitement and dominion. These, growing more confirmed with her

years, had resulted in the desertion of her mother-church, under the

expectation that elsewhere she might find that ideal which existed only

in her own imagination; and Emma had been obliged to acknowledge, that

had her work at the Priory been hastily begun, according to her wishes,

four years ago, little could have resulted but mischief from such a

coadjutor.

Emma’s sense of folly and instability made her ready to submit to

another five years’ probation; but to her surprise, her mother, whom

Miss Marstone had taught her to imagine averse to anything out of the

ordinary routine, was quite ready to promote her plans, and in fact did

much to turn her mind into that channel.

The orphans were doubled in numbers, and Emma spent much time in

attending to them, an old woman had been rescued from the Union, and

lodged in an adjoining room, as a ‘granny’ to the little girls, giving

the whole quite a family air; a homeless governess, in feeble health,

was on a visit, which Emma hoped would be prolonged indefinitely, if

she could be persuaded to believe herself useful to the orphans. The

inhabitants of the house were fast outstripping their space in the

parish church, and might soon be numerous enough to necessitate the

restoration of the ruin for their lodging. An architect had been

commissioned to prepare plans for the rebuilding of the chapel at once,

and Lady Elizabeth was on the watch for a chaplain. Thus matters were

actually in train for the fulfilment of Emma’s aspiration, spoken so

long ago, that ‘Sunday might come back to Rickworth Priory.’ Little had

she then imagined that she should see its accomplishment commence with

so heavy a heart, and enter on her own share of the toil with so little

of hope and joy. Alas! they had been wasted in the dreamy wanderings

whither she had been led by blind confidence in her self-chosen guide;

and youthfulness and mirth had been lost in her rude awakening and

recall, lost never to return. Yet in time the calmer joy of ‘patient

continuance in well-doing’ would surely arise upon her, and while

working for her Master, His hand would lighten her load.

So Violet felt comforted with regard to Emma; and as she stood at the

garden-gate with her sister-in-law in the clear, lovely summer night,

watching the carriage drive off, smiled as she said, ‘How well all

has turned out! How strange to remember last time I parted with Lady

Elizabeth at Brogden, when I was almost equally anxious about Emma,

about you and Percy, and about our own affairs--to say nothing of the

dreariness for Annette!’

‘When the sky is darkest the stars come out,’ said Theodora. ‘Yes, the

tide in the affairs of men has set most happily in our favour of late;

though I don’t see our own way yet. John and my father both say, that

our marriage must be at once; and I have not made out which is the

worst, to desert my mother or to have my own way.’

‘Which is your own way?’ said Violet, archly.

‘That is what provokes me! I don’t know.’

‘And which is Percy’s?’

‘Whichever mine is, which makes it all the worse. Violet! I wish Helen

could be put into the hot-house, and made a woman of at once. Only,

then, if Lord St. Erme is to have her, it would be equally troublesome.’

‘My dears, pray come in!’ said Lady Martindale, in the porch. ‘You do

not know how late it is.’

Her ladyship was in an unusual hurry to make them wish good night, and

come up-stairs. She followed Violet to her room, and in one moment had

begun:

‘Violet, my dear, has Arthur told you?’

‘He has told me nothing. What is it?’

‘We all think, now Theodora is going to leave us, that it would be the

best way for you all to come and live at home with us. Lord Martindale

wishes it, and John, and every one. Will you, my dear?’

‘How very kind!’ exclaimed Violet. ‘What does Arthur say?’

‘Arthur says he is willing, but that it must depend on what you like.’

Then, perhaps taking Violet’s bewildered looks for reluctance, ‘I am

afraid, my dear, I have not always been as affectionate as you deserved,

and have not always tried to make you comfortable.’

‘Oh! no, no! Don’t say so!’

‘It was before I rightly knew you; and indeed it shall never be so

again. We are so comfortable now together; do not let us break it up

again, and take the poor dear children away to grow pale in London. You

shall have all you wish; I will never do anything you don’t like with

the children; and all your family shall come and stay whenever you

please; only don’t go away, dear Violet--I cannot spare you.’

‘Oh! don’t, dear grandmamma! This is too much,’ said Violet, almost

crying. ‘You are so very kind. Oh! I should be so glad for Arthur to

be spared the London winter! How happy the children will be! Thank you,

indeed.’

‘You do consent, then!’ cried Lady Martindale, triumphantly. ‘John

thought we had not made you happy enough!’

‘John should know better! It is the greatest relief--if Arthur likes it,

I mean.’

‘Then you do stay. You will be, as Lord Martindale says, the daughter of

our old age--our own dear child!’

‘Will I?’ Violet threw her arms round Lady Martindale’s neck, and shed

tears of joy.

Lady Martindale held her in her arms, and murmured caressing words.

Arthur’s step approached. His mother opened the door and met him. ‘She

consents! Dear, dear Violet consents! Now we shall be happy.’

Arthur smiled, looked at his wife, understood her face, and replied to

his mother with a warm kiss, a thank you, and good night. She went away

in perfect satisfaction.

Your last, greatest victory, Violet,’ said he. ‘You have got at her

heart at last, and taught her to use it. But, do you like this plan?’

‘Like it? It is too delightful! If you knew how I have been dreading

that winter in London for your chest!’

‘And saying nothing?’

‘Because I thought there was nothing else to be done; but this--’

‘Ay! I have told my father that, if we stay here, I hope he will lessen

my allowance. Even then, I can pay off something every year of the

debts that will be left after what would be cleared by the price of my

commission.’

‘Oh, yes; we shall have scarcely any expense at all.’

‘Don’t agree to it, though, because you think I like it, if you do not.

Consider how you will get on with grandmamma and the children. She makes

promises; but as to trusting her not to spoil Helen--’

‘She does not spoil her half as much as her papa does,’ said Violet,

with a saucy smile. ‘I’m not afraid. It is all love, you know, and

grandmamma is very kind to me, even when Helen is in disgrace. If we can

only be steady with her, I am sure another person to love her can do

her no harm in the end. And, oh! think of the children growing up in the

free happy country.’

‘Ay, my father and John spoke of that,’ said Arthur. ‘John wishes it

very much. He says that all he could desire in this world is a share in

our home and in our children’s hearts.’

‘I don’t know how it is that every one is so kind. Oh! it is too much!

it overflows!’ Violet leant against her husband, shedding tears of

happiness.

‘You silly little thing!’ he said, fondling her: ‘don’t you know why?

You have won all their hearts.’

‘I never meant to’--half sobbed Violet.

‘No, you only meant to go on in your own sweet, modest way of kindness

and goodness; but you have done it, you see. You have won every one of

them over; and what is more, gained pardon for me, for your sake. No,

don’t struggle against my saying so, for it is only the truth. It was

bad enough in me to marry you, innocent, unknowing child as you were;

but you turned it all to good. When I heard that lesson on Sunday, about

the husband and the believing wife, I thought it was meant for you and

me; for if ever now I do come to good, it is owing to no one but you and

that boy.’

‘O, Arthur, I cannot bear such sayings. Would you--would you dislike

only just kneeling down with me, that we may give thanks for all this

happiness! Oh! what seemed like thorns and crosses have all turned into

blessings!’